Memoirs of a Rugby-Playing Man by Jay Atkinson is not your ordinary memoir – at least not here in the US. In England there are plenty of memoirs of famous ruggers but here in the US? I don’t know if there is even one – either famous ruggers or memoirs about them. Regardless, Atkinson surely has the credentials and the longevity in the sport to be an expert voice on it.
A friend of mine – someone I faced on the rugby pitch many times over the years and with whom I share a love of the sport – gave me this book for the holidays and I read it quickly and with great enjoyment. I especially enjoyed the perspective of a hooker (a position in the scrum that is responsible for “hooking” the ball back to his teammates when the ball is sent into the scrum. It’s a brutal position simply because of the physics of the scrum (all the pressure of eight players pressing into the shoulders and necks of the front three players and the front row center player is the hooker). I played rugby for 13 years and for all but maybe four or five games played with the backs at wing, fullback, or center. I played 2nd row once (my ears wouldn’t allow me to do it a second time) scrum-half once (now that was fun even if I was terrible) and flanker two or three times. I say this because as a back I especially enjoyed the peek into what it was like to be in the front row and hook.
But what does all this mean? It means Mr. Atkinson had a tough sale to make about a sport that is not real popular here in the US. And he sold it anyway. It helps that he’s published a few novels, some of which have been successful critically and sales-wise (I’m going on record to say that I’ll be reading one of his novels this year …)
What I was amazed at was how heartfelt the memoir is. Now hear me out. Heartfelt and rugby don’t necessarily go together but let me see if I can explain. Atkinson’s book wades through drinking, partying, and sex scenes (there’s one in particular with a naked hand-standing acrobat… ) one after the other for most of the first two-thirds of the book – which is a lot of what rugby is about – mayhem – but it is a bit of an onslaught. Still it is not a sport for the faint hearted and does linger in alcoholic mayhem post play. I think I’m too attached to that word, mayhem. But war stories like this can be tiresome after a while. What’s the point? How do they build the overall story of this man’s life? In a novel wouldn’t some of them be cut to make sure the narrative moved forward?
Atkinson’s story snuck up on me. The backbone of the rugby life laced with stories of his family and his writing is what did it for me. His relationship with his father and with the writer Harry Crews (his teacher) became the emotional thread that built and peaked the narrative in the third act. It made his story a coming of age story that resonated with me deeply. It gave the memoir shape, it gave it form.
It also reminded me of what a writer friend told me once when critiquing my “rugby” novel a long long time ago (it was a novel that never sold but got me my first agent), “Put in all the rugby language and don’t worry if people don’t understand exactly what it means. Fuck ’em.” What I see in Atkinson’s use of the language of rugby – which by the way is the same language that Andrew Smith so skillfully uses in his book Winger – which has its main character play rugby – is how beautiful language can be when it’s unique to an activity – even when it’s brutal. It is language that even if not understood in a direct word for word translation tells a story with texture and depth.
Oh. And what about that kick-ass cover? I remember one game almost drowning in a good foot of water and mud on a flooded field in Bayonne New Jersey…
Rugby world cup has come and gone. New Zealand reigns as world champs and France as a close second, Australia is third, and the Welsh are fourth. I watched the game at McCormicks standing at the bar. A friend of mine tried to meet me there but it was so crowded – we were literally wall to wall people with no personal space at all – that he stood a few feet from me and neither of us saw each other. The game started at 4am and I’d arrived to a packed house at 2:45am.
But I watched the game.
I knew early on that France would be a contender. As a friend said of France, they usually have one good game in them during world cup and the final was their good game. It was a nail-biter going down to the last second of the game, final 8-7 – a one point differential. New Zealand did not play their usual free flowing game of attack attack attack and scored their only try off their scrum – second rower who got his first rugby try in the world cup – maybe even ever. Second rows don’t see opportunities like that too often. But their defense was incredible. The French threw every attack they had at the all blacks and the all blacks resisted heroically.
The bar on 3rd avenue was packed with French fans singing the French national anthem and other songs I can’t even name. There were a few of us NZ fans and mostly we just shouted back at them. I had a Guinness and it was grand. When I asked the bartender for coffee at half-time (about 5am EST) he just laughed at me. The place was filled with smoke – even though it’s illegal in NYC inside, anywhere. Even the bartender smoked.
I am passionate about rugby. It is one of the most beautiful, harsh, brutal, challenging sports of all time. It is war on the pitch. I played 16 years (check out my 10 Things (#5) page for my list of injuries) and enjoyed its many aspects as a player and now most definitely enjoy them as a spectator. In the final at least four players on each side had to leave with injuries ranging from blood time-outs (cuts across the face) to concussions, to what could have been a busted knee but is probably ligament damage. When the final whistle blew it was incredible to watch the all blacks celebrate their second world cup victory – only their second. This time they didn’t choke the way they have in past world cups. The number one ranked team in the world finally proved to the world that they truly were number one.
What does this have to do with writing?
Nothing and everything.
The first good novel I wrote (I wrote one before but that was definitely my practice novel just to show myself that I could do it) was called Local Anesthetic and had the game of rugby as a main character. I love that book. It got me my first agent but was never shopped around much (long story about a bad agent relationship) and never picked up by a publisher. I still look at it longingly some days and wonder…