Seeing The Elephant

Column #2 (Originally published in Rugby, Vol. 21, No. 10, November 13, 1995)
By: Joe Lunievicz

It's been two months and I'm already haunted by dreams of season's past. They gnaw at me at night while I try to sleep - make my hands itch, my mind wander into the desolate plains of rugby madness. It's the fallow time, the healing time between spring and fall seasons. I wonder what it's going to be like to see the elephant again.

When was the last time you saw the elephant? When was the last time you saw one-hundred-eighty pounds of fast twitch rugby muscle and bone bearing down on you with the white ball in its hands, cleats slicing into the earth like twin pistons, and eyes fixed on a place some two feet beyond the center of your chest?

I've heard some players and coaches say that rugby is in the process of becoming. It's becoming a non-contact sport. That's the way it's supposed to be. Somehow I don't believe it. Call me a heretic. During the Civil War the men in blue and gray called their first time being fired at, seeing the elephant. You see, people had heard about elephants back then but not many had actually seen one. They were creatures of the mind, not of the touch, taste and smell. And when you finally did see one, you were never quite prepared for just how big it really was. So the question was when the bayonets were lowered and the minie balls ploughed holes into your neighbor, who'd run in fear and who'd stay in line and fight. I think about that, usually around now, when I'm getting restless and my hands are beginning to itch.

Hit and be hit's the motto.

Sometimes the elephant seems so big it just scares the shit out of me. Sometimes it sits on my chest like a two thousand pound pachyderm of fear (I had to look that word up in the thesaurus). I've seen it in other people's eyes, that numb look, like the living dead, right before a game starts. Players wander on their side of the pitch, not looking at the other team. They stretch, sprint from touch-line to touch-line, try to suppress the butterflies in their stomachs, pat each other on the back, say to each other, "Come on, let's stomp on 'em. Let's win today."

I've seen the elephant beat people down, squash 'em whole. You know what I mean. You know when that happens. You chase the ball but don't pick it up. You hesitate to tackle, lay into the maul, run without pace. I've even looked in the mirror and seen it in my own eyes.

So now, I'm thinking about walking onto the pitch on a Saturday in September and I'm glad it's not March, with the cold icing my balls like a vice (I just love playing in March), my teeth chattering. It's not March, it's September and I can smell the rain coming (at least I think that I can) and my teeth are chattering and the butterflies are flapping their wings and I'm smiling some kind of shit-eating-grin, waiting to see the elephant again.

Take a walk with me through the elephant graveyard. It's filled with the decaying bones of seasons past.

These are the things I think about. Interesting questions to ponder as fireflies crash and burn on the summer pitch, sandwiches grow moldy beards in the refrigerator, and people start to take their religion seriously.

Remember, next time you see the elephant and it sits on your chest, kick it the fuck off. Hell, it's only a game anyway.