From the Sidelines

Ruggerfest 2011 was the most painful rugby has ever been.  As I've said many times before (because it makes me strangely proud of myself), at my last tournament in college I broke my ankle and had to have it repaired with steel screws and plates.  Then there was the broken nose this season in Virginia Beach.  I've sustained a concussion, a dislocated shoulder, and more bruises and knocks to the skull than I can remember (not that the two are related).  So what could possibly have happened during Ruggerfest to make things so unimaginably painful?

I had to watch.

Watching games as a bench warmer is one thing.  You know that barring an incredibly close game, you'll get at least a little bit of playing time when the coach is confident the game is either won or lost.  There are the butterflies bouncing in your stomach as you stare longingly at the coach as she looks up and down the bench as she decides who she'll play next.  There is the excitement that at any moment Lis may suffer a catastrophic injury and though you've been the last to go in all season long, Merf might finally realize the star that you are and put you in as the sixth man.  Oh wait.  This was supposed to be hypothetical.  ANYWAY.

This last weekend was so much different, and so much harder than I imagined it would be.  I got a sense of this at practice the week before, which I attended to participate in the non-contact drills and learn from watching my teammates and their mad skillz.  Two other players were sidelined at the Virginia Beach tournament (see picture) and we all were frustrated at our lack of participation in the fun (read: tacking and scrumming) part of rugby.

After practice I thought I was emotionally prepared for the weekend.  But then we started winning.  Our first game we was the closest, and then we proceeded to school the other teams, three in one day.  I was suddenly a rugby girlfriend instead of a rugby player (yeah, I'm dating someone on my team...what are you going to do about it?!?!), and I didn't know what to do with myself.  So, I started being helpful.  I ran to get ice, I carried tape and extra jerseys, and brought water onto the field, I cracked jokes on the sidelines.  It passed the time, but I was sad. 

But I guess that's what it means to really be part of a team.  Even when you can't play, you go to cheer them on.  Even when you're not a part of the action, you do everything you can to support those who are.  So though I wasn't emotionally prepared for an early end to the season, I am proud of my teammates for going out with a bang.  And I kind of like being a rugby girlfriend too.  Now time to start training for the triathlon!

Just Like Riding a Bike

After three weeks of waiting patiently, I finally got on my new bike!  The long road to the joy of a triathlon bike began when my old high school basketball coach sent an e-mail asking me if I'd like to buy her bike, as she was upgrading to a super sweet carbon fiber model.  Knowing nothing about bikes except that I needed one for the triathlon, and that we are about the same height, I went for it.

Mom picked the bike up from Courtney and drove it out here like the fabulous drop everything and do favors for her kids woman she is.  In an effort to prevent the evil suburban Pennsylvania thieves from stealing it from the hotel, however, she took it out of the car and lost a piece.  Hence the bike spent a week at REI waiting for a new bearing and getting a nice tune-up.

When we dropped it off at the store, it became abundantly clear that this was going to be a bit too much bike for me.  The sweet old man at the bike shop looked me up and down and asked "Have you ever ridden a bike like THAT?" 

Shit.

Luckily my bike tutor/friend Megan was returning from a trip to Africa the next weekend and promised to take me accessory shopping and give me a bike lesson.  When she saw that bike she said "Wow.  Ok.  We'll make this work.  Those are the hard pedals."

Shit.

But we bought shoes, attached the cleats, got a helmet, and made a date for bike lesson number one.  She joined me in the parking lot this afternoon, and step by step taught me how to put on my shoes.  I'm not joking.  There's steps to putting ON the shoes.  But because she's such a good teacher, I was able to clip into the pedals and ride without falling down!  I rode around the whole apartment complex (comparable to a city block or two), and even leaned down onto the fancy "areo-bars" and went SUPOR fast (for me) until I got scared and pumped the breaks.

Then I decided it was time to take pictures.  Guess what.  I fell down.

Well, at least I got that out of the way.  And I landed on my rugby bruise, so no harm done.  Next week we leave the parking lot!

Dedication

Two-thirds of the way through last night's rugby practice, I realized I was freezing and that it had begun to rain.  I have no idea how long it had been raining, or how cold it really was.  We were standing in a circle, coach Pam's head surrounded by a halo of Thursday night lights perfectly highlighting each individual raindrop, steam rising off our heads and bodies.  And it occurred to me.  This was ridiculous.  There I was with a group of about 20 women, most of whom are flirting with middle age.  We were throwing each other into the mud and tearing up the field at 9:00 on a frigid Thursday night.  We all had to go to work the next day and pretend like our muscles weren't aching, our joints weren't creaking, and our eyelids weren't drooping with exhaustion.  (This doesn't even take into account the "Maryland Fun Club" some folks attended following practice.)  I was struck by the absurdity of our audacity to play this most violent of sports, but I was also moved by the dedication each of us have to our team.

This highlights a lesson I learned this week.  I was also shocked to realize the depth of the importance I place on improving my mental and physical state through exercise and being a part of a team.

During last weekend's match I tweaked my back and the pain had been getting steadily worse throughout the week.  I was terrified because the pain was similar to the summer of 2009 in which I was diagnosed with a bulging disk and told by a super-comforting doctor that I would probably always be in pain.  He was wrong -- the pain dissipated as I lost weight.  Yet here, at my life's fittest, it came rushing back.  During running club on Monday I made it 3/4 of a mile before I walked.  I was trying to "listen to my body," a skill that for me needs work.  At practice the following night I bowed out of several drills due to the pain.  Wednesday I ran a mile and a half before breaking down, physically and mentally.

Running buddy Matt was up ahead with running buddy Chelsea.  She took off faster to make an appointment, and Matt turned around to join me.  At this moment the pain in my lower back was intensifying with each pounding step, and all I could think was that either rugby or running was going to have to go.  There I was, half way through our 3-mile loop around the spooky old detention center and through a beautiful field, and I was beginning to think this injury would prevent me from reaching my rugby and triathlon goals.  While poor Matt looked on I began to walk, and to cry.  We talked about options, giving up one sport or the other temporarily, or pushing through the pain to risk further injury but to keep playing with the team.  He asked, "What hurts worst?  Your body, your head, or your heart."

In that split second I came to the conclusion that I was less worried about the pain and injury that I was about losing this new athlete identity.  My life has become increasingly positive as a result of athletics, and I would be heartbroken if I couldn't continue.

Luckily, Matt convinced me to try to find a physical therapist before I threw in the towel.  So I called around and got a good referral from a friend.  I swear to you, this woman she recommended works miracles.  She laughed at how misaligned my body was, from my feet up through my neck.  Then she got to work.  Two sessions (and a boat load of cash) later, my back pain is almost gone, my joints are looser, and my surgically repaired ankle has massively improved range of motion.  I'll be back next Tuesday...

Most importantly, I feel whole again, knowing I can keep pushing towards my goals.  Afterall, SATURDAY'S A RUGBY DAY!!!

Battle Scars

My ankle, part metal since 2001.

Whenever I tell people I play rugby their first reaction is disbelief.  "Tough sport," they say.  "Why would you play RUGBY?"  And the answer is simple.  I play rugby because I can.  I play rugby because women aren't supposed to hit, to slam each other to the ground, to run fast, to throw elbows or stiff arms.  But in rugby, I can do all these things.  I must do all these things.  And I play rugby because it's fun.

A Maryland Stinger's bruise from last weekend's match.

Sometimes, though, rugby equals pain.  But in rugby we see breaks, bruises, and blood as proof of our strength, courage, and dedication.  Our battle scars become status symbols.  Hell, sometimes I think we wear clothing cut just so others can evaluate the color palette of our bruises or the length and depth of our scars.  Those marks mean we have struggled, we have taken a hit, and we have survived to score another try, to support another scrum, and to win another match. That's why I play rugby.  

And maybe a tiny part of me plays rugby just to piss off my mom...