Shew Thyself a Man
Rugby. Toil and Triumph.
My friend was in the hospital with a broken nose, a fractured eye-socket, and a missing tooth. Why? He is a rugby player.
Last week, I went to a rugby match. It was here in St. Andrews on our fields, and all of 30 fans came. There were less fans than a middle school football game. But this was college, first team, scholarship players.
I met rugby previously this semester when I went to Edinburgh to watch the oldest rivalry in the sport. I watched my first full match and fell in love with the sports fluidity and manly merits. I was also drawn to the purity of the sport. There is no NIL here. No TV broadcast. No commercial breaks. Just good old fashioned smash mouth rugby.
I’ve made a few friends on the rugby team from my dorm, very kind South African fellows. I asked the morning of this match against the University of Birmingham, “Who’s favored?” My friend didn’t know. None of them ever know heading into a game. It’s different here from college football back home, where everyone and their grandma knows who’s favored to the half point. To the players here, it doesn’t matter a wink who’s favored; they just want to go out there to hit somebody. Who cares who’s supposed to win? They’ll go out and fight their hardest and when the dust settles they’ll have either won or lost.
Watching a rugby match in person, I was stunned by its brutality. With no padding, men fully launch into each other like rams. Its straining, grappling, and absolutely bone crushing hits has a strangely inspiring barbarity. Football fans know there is nothing like the perfect tackle. There is an unmatched thrill watching one man meet another at full speed, immediately halting his momentum, whiplashing limbs, and burying him into the mud. Rugby, with its fluidity and fast pace, brings more frequent artful collisions than in our football.
My friend was injured in a play that looked like any other, except he and a teammate were slow to get up. I must have missed the friendly fire, head-to-head hit. Trainers got my friend onto the sideline, his nose bleeding. I only later heard the chilling assessment. Not only did he break his nose and fracture his eye socket, but the trainers had to pull one of his teeth out of his teammate’s head. The two injured safely on the sideline, two more men ran out to take their place and play resumed.
This is the game. That was rugby. Danger is not the sport’s vice; it is its virtue.
To play the game one must be strong – strong of body and spirit. Fear must be conquered, and courage must prevail. It takes courage to see your foe lowering, crouching, and springing towards you but to plow ahead through him. It takes courage to see what’s coming and, refusing to shrink, spring to meet it.
To play the game one must sacrifice. You must sacrifice your own comfort, safety, and security not only for your team, but for the Goal. All must strive for the Goal. If one falls, another must push on in his place. To give up would void the sacrifice of the injured. All must strain, sweat, and strive for victory.
In short, to play this sport, it takes a man. It takes one with the manly virtues of courage and strength. The game of life is the same.
Let the dying words of King David to his son Solomon ring in our ears, “be thou strong therefore, and shew thyself a man” (1 Kings 2:2). In life, you will get knocked down. But you must rise from the mud. You will meet struggle and toil and strife. It will spring towards you, but you must spring to meet it. Again and again.
If you want to be safe and comfortable, you had better stay on the sideline.
Victory only comes through great toil. Glory only comes by running great risk.
When my friend recovers, he will get back out onto the field. Why? He is a man.
A Deplorable.
