After almost two years of hard running for the HBS squad, first as a prop, now as a hooker, I finally scored my first try last Sunday during the four team round robin. I immediately came to, bounced up, yelled an expletive in excitement, and looked for partners in celebration. There wasn’t a huge ruckus at the time from my teammates, and due to the rather large crowd, I refrained from performing the traditional de-virgining act normally required of first time scorers by stripping down and circling the pitch in the buff. Instead, after the match I made the mistake boasted proudly to a couple of our elders that I had indeed finally scored a try. Wrath ensued at the after match drink-up.
On the perfectly sunny Sunday, in the hallowed basement of our friend and mentor, Tommy Doyle, where we revel in song and drink and camaraderie, where tradition is passed from year to year, and where the walls honor us with its secrets of rugger’s past, I came to understand the true taste of wrath.
The teams had just finished a perfectly P.C. rendition of “Jesus Can’t Play Rugby”, on Easter Day mind you, and I was summoned to the front. “Sillllller” “Sillllller”, “get your arse up here!” The group of 60 or 70 hushed and heads spun around looking for this “Siller.”
Elders were at the front holding up a shoe. Not a shoe, a cleat. Not a cleat, an old, worn, muddy, gigantic boot, still steaming in heat from the pitch.
Sitting in my booth, sandwiched between two girls, enjoying my cool beverage and sitting smitten after scarfing a cheeseburger and fries, I wasn’t exactly prepared for the scene. I must have been in denial. I must have thought, at the very least I would have the opportunity to use my own, rather clean, fungus free boot.
That was not the case. I looked up front and big grins filled the faces of my sentencers. I wedged out of the booth and wobbled up to the front. Time slowed down. I focused on the boot in hand and saw mud and grass slowly cake off and parachute to the ground. Two cold beers were handed to the executioner, who began to fill the shoe.
The entire group chanted slowly at first, then louder, “Shoot the Boot”, “Shoot the Boot.” I looked at my fate, and then at the audience. The faces of girls in the audience scowled. The men cheered loudly.
I coyed a tough guy smile. I took the full boot in hand. The shoe size was 14. The owner was new to the club. He was big. He was hairy. He looked like that of a beast from a Tolken novel. He stood next to the sentencer, the executioner, and I, and he smiled.
I began to drink, to drink as fast as I could. The beer-foot concoction tasted sweet and bitter, with a sour odor reminding me the whole time of what I was doing. I spilled some and heard boo’s. I closed my eyes and finished the liquid. I shot the boot.
I had an immediate sore throat. I walked over to the owner and whispered to him to lie to me and say that he had no foot fungus. I walked back to my booth and overheard one guy from another team say, “that’s why you pitch the ball back to another guy right before you score..” Wuss. Rugger for life.
