It was an unusual weekend in that I watched two sporting events on television. It is true that in my younger years, the Ewing/Oakley years if you will, I watched sports on television quite a bit. And then, well, the Knicks became unrecognizable and brought forth no necessary nostalgia. Sports on television were limited to the Olympics, the occasional late night world's strongest man, and the Superbowl - which we spend with Matt and his awesome friends every year (is it bad that I think my body is giving off a distinct fried chicken smell today?).
And the Superbowl this year was, I guess, good. I didn't notice that Christina Aguillera doesn't know the words to our national anthem, but I did notice that Fergie can't even sing. As for team alliances, I was reminded that the quarterback for the Steelers most likely committed a felony against a woman, if not by the letter of the law, certainly by the spirit, therefore rendering me a cheesehead for the day. Beer was quaffed, aforementioned chicken consumed. Good times.
But there was something distinctly unsatisfying about the game itself. I mean, it went on a very long time and the only salient details I remember today are that I should definitely eat more doritos, drink more Pepsi Max, and that the future member of the sex offender registry kept throwing the ball to the opposing team. And I blame this entirely on the sporting event I watched the day before.
France vs. Scotland in the Six Nations rugby tourney.
Which owned. Utterly.
I can easily trace my affection for the sport of rugby to the many Saturdays I spent in college watching devoted partner play it. Your dads might remember me as the girl on the sidelines in heels and a skirt - because I'm all about team morale. I also lived next door to rugby players, frequently killed brain cells with them, and stepped over their fetid uniforms on the way to the loo. Other than one homecoming game, I don't think I ever watched my college team play football because I was a fan of the rugby. And you should be too. Rugby is like football if football was awesome. And here are some of my reasons why:
the game clock pretty much doesn't stop unless someone is being taken from the field. That means for 80 minutes there's just a game to watch. It's fast paced considering the amount of time spent in Roman-style orgy pileups, and there's a lot of back and forth making it interesting. Also, without padding, helmets, and frequent pauses to thank jeebus for stuff, it's really really manly. And this is good for the ladies because rugby players (and I'll admit bias here) are seriously hot. I mean their bodies. Their faces I don't much notice because I am actively entranced by their thighs and calves. Which are on delightful display due to short shorts - not 1970s basketball short, but short. And the legs on these guys are unbelievable: sturdy tree trunks of legs. But, wait, it's not all hot and bothered fantasy on the field. These guys can run and they have to do it a lot. I can appreciate the punt return for a touchdown, but that guy who scored it hadn't really been running all that much for the previous 10 minutes of the football game. The runners in a rugby game run all the time. Even the big guys. And they run fast.
And for fans of MMA, ice hockey, and bum fighting, there is a lot of seriously excellent violence to be had on the rugby pitch. You pretty much get to kick the heads of the opposing team's players on a regular basis, and stomp on their ribs with your cleats. These things do not incur penalties, much like baseball players don't get penalized for frequent spitting. For fans of soccer (are there any?), it's like soccer only with hitting, punching, and, one more thing, oh yeah, action.
So Superbowl XLV, you just didn't measure up on the entertainment scale, even as we heckled sir-what-do-you-mean-no-means-no at every opportunity. The camaraderie and heavy dog petting (Chica, I love you), clearly outshone what was on tv. But as for you, Six Nations Rugby, we have a date next Saturday.
