Rubber Legs

Column #7 (Originally published in Rugby, Vol. 22, No. 5, June 17, 1996)
By: Joe Lunievicz

Gravedigger passed me the ball and I dropped it. It hit me in the hands. The coach blew the whistle and stopped the play. It was Thursday night practice and we were all sweating and sucking in gasps of air, sounding like a field full of locusts.

"Rubber legs and stone hands," the coach said. "See what happens when you get married?"

The other players laughed.

I figured maybe I was still having withdrawal symptoms.

I first noticed these symptoms at noon on my wedding day, over two weeks before. I had been married all of fifteen minutes and the food was being served. People were congratulating me. There were kisses, hugs and handshakes all around mixing with perfume and the smell of violets and roses. I went over to Garreth's and Warren's table. They were the only two rugby players, besides myself, in attendance and they were there with their wives.

I stood next to Garreth and said quietly, "It's twelve o'clock."

And Garreth said, "Yeah."

And I said, "They're just getting on the field now."

And Garreth said, "Yeah."

"My hands are itching," I said and pointed to my watch. Warren saw me and nodded as if he knew exactly what I was talking about.

It was the last Saturday in March. I'm telling you - I did try to book a Sunday - any Sunday - but Sundays around Easter are hard to get. Karen even agreed to try for a Sunday, saying so innocently, "Some of our friends are Jewish and Sunday will keep us away from the Sabbath and any transportation problems they might have."

"Right," I said, "the transportation thing could be a problem." I could feel a nervous fluttering in my stomach, slight nausea, and dizziness disappear. I couldn't remember exactly when they had appeared but it was good when they were gone. Then I found out that every Sunday was booked and I saw a missed game in my not too distant future. I felt my heart skip a beat. But, I thought nervously, it's only one game - right?

Then Karen said, "... and you're not playing before we get married."

Gulp.

If I only hadn't told her about that guy last fall who broke his leg playing in a game the day before he got married. "Leg cast, crutches, marriage vows - what an idiot," I had said. I could hear my words echoing back to me as if I'd said them yesterday.

"How about I miss the game on the Saturday we get married?" I said and smiled.

"You can't play for three weeks before the wedding," she countered.

"The week before and the wedding day," I said.

"And no practice."

"I can practice - but I won't do any tackle practice."

"How are you going to do that?"

"I'll opt out."

"You'll opt out?"

I was lucky. She agreed and she even said I could play the following Saturday if we got back from the honeymoon in time. I don't know why she's so good to me.

At one o'clock on my wedding day I came around to Garreth's and Warren's table again - a shit-eating grin on my face. "It's one o'clock," I said.

Garreth agreed.

Warren nodded.

"It's one o'clock," I said again.

"Kick-off," Garreth said.

"If you leave now, you could still make the B-game," I said to Garreth.

"We have another wedding to go to this evening," he said, "so it really doesn't matter."

"Then I don't feel so bad anymore," I said. I could see him looking past me, his eyes glazed, as if the pack was pounding across the dance floor, rucking and rolling, bringing the ball his way. A thick vein began to pulse in a crooked line down his forehead. I touched my forehead in the same place and found a similar line there.

So when I dropped the ball again at practice (I really have sure hands - really) and the comments flared up like explosives on the fourth of July I just stared at the sky and enjoyed their illumination.

By the way, the honeymoon was perfect and - I didn't miss playing at all.