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| Top 3 Tour Stories of 1998 | ||||||||||||||||||||
| 2nd Runner up | 1st Runner up | |||||||||||||||||||
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We had won 3 matches that day and were on our way to playing in the finals with 2 more wins on Sunday. Unfortuneatly several players at the same time, had announced they had prior commitments and would not be able to play on Sunday. Sunday game and PACs B side team, who were the team's representation at the Baltimore Rites of Spring Rugby tournament, were 3 men down. They arrived from Washington with plenty of time before the match, but with only 12 players, 5 of which were props. The tight five were all props, and only 3 backs. The Rochester Club we were to play in the first round allowed the game to precede and crazy as it sounded, PAC actually won the game down 3 men. That placed PAC in a heated match with the cross town Nemisis, Washington RFC. Washington, still a little bitter about PAC knocking their club out of the National Championship playoffs the week prior, sent in their A side to gain some pride back. PAC, realizing they needed a full squad asked 3 of the Rochester boys to join their number short club and almost pulled off an upset losing in the last minutes of the game. The match, which was under protest from the Washington Coach (because PAC picked up some whores for the game)was a great game and a might cheers go out to the Dirty Dozen. |
This story is from the Trelawney's Army site which was the May site of the month....check out our links page to visit their site. Embrocation by Graham Hawkey "We are playing away on Saturday. Anyone not prepared to travel will be dropped. Meet the team coach at the clubhouse at 10.30." A typically puzzling statement from the selection committee! Is the time a.m. or p.m.? Does "coach" refer to our robust and unreliable trainer or to the robust and unreliable transport normally supplied by the club secretary's best friend (who always says "That's the best we'll let you have, after last time!")? Neither coach is likely to be there on time. So the stars come out at night, claiming they thought it was an evening fixture, and agree to be dropped for the game they didn't play in; and the athlete who calls himself "coach" swears later, on his reputation, that he assumed "coach meant charabanc". Some of the players who attend at 10.30 a.m. on the Saturday morning suddenly realise that their selection for the first XV is not based on merit, as they had been told, but is actually because the fixture is in North Devon. It seems that quite a few regulars have seriously-ill close relatives and so cannot be expected to travel that far... But, as our travelling spectator (who has an old girlfriend near the coach's destination) tells us, "It's always nice to know the club has strength in depth." Many clubs assemble early to arrive early. This futile logic apparently allows them time to focus on the task they must face. Our team are, and probably will remain, more functional, more challenged by their experiences. What if the coach breaks down again? So we leave early. In the changing room superstition creeps in: matters have gone too well so far -- the coach made it and we have fifteen players. Most sportsmen have a superstition and for rugby players it's an addiction to the aroma of sweat, embrocation, and vaseline (like the smell of a horse after a steeplechase) of the pre-match changing room. No team can function without that "bouquet" (as the top French players call it). Each of our players is a finely-honed athlete. Also, it's a known fact that even the lowest team in the lowest league collectively has more talent, weight, and muscle than the whole lot put together on the centre court at Wimbledon. Never tell these fine men that there is not the same smell in the ladies' changing rooms at Wimbledon as there is their changing facility -- you won't be believed or trusted again. Today the feeling creeps up slowly. What is it that's missing? The team's accountant has brought spare shorts and socks. He likes to do that -- he says it makes him feel needed. There are no noticeable absences of kit. Security on disembarking from the coach was good: it's locked and the driver knows the consequences if one can of beer goes missing from the stockpile under the back seat; the team's publican counted them personally and knows his profit on that lot. It dawns horribly -- Nemesis. There is no liniment! That greatest of all comforts to the athlete. The captain rages; all could be lost. "For William Webb's sake where's the linny!" The changing room has lost its camaraderie. That sweet scent is missing, and all that remains is the smell of the people who have been here before, the damp breeze blocks, and the hooker's socks. Our captain, selected for the job and his place in the firsts because of his leadership skills, has a flashback of struggling in the seconds. "Haven't any of you miserable bastards got any liniment?" We now know how fear presents itself in positions of responsibility. Superstition has replaced the usual pre-match speech, the coherence is gone. "Well, it doesn't really matter now, does it? I suppose we have a chance of beating them." Collectively we start to estimate the weight of the absent trainer and the absence of liniment he caused. What length of rope and height of drop is required to snap the neck of the man humanely? A man who looks like a prop speaks up. "I had a bad back in Greece a month ago and they gave me this. It's very good, sort of chilli temperature. I think it's liniment." A red tube is produced and Rick Stein, the prop, is right. It's certainly Greek. A pecking order is established on the lines of number of 1st XV appearances, a queue forms; this is not a large tube. The open flanker and the substitute centre jump the queue, something to do with glory. Thighs, calves, and other bits are massaged with the magic lotion and the attitude in the room changes to normal pre-match confidence. The open flanker read an article once about a test pilot called Trubshaw who would ritually urinate against the tyre of the plane he was about to fly, the theory being that the bladder can burst on crash impact, with fatal results. A lot of crashing is always anticipated by our flanker, and therefore he's adopted a similar ritual -- out of insecurity and a confusion about the relative size of the problem. The immediate problem for the part of the flanker involved in the ritual is, however, not one of size (some members of the team are envious) but of sensitivity. A warning to the rest of the team in the changing room can be heard as a garbled screeching from the urinals next door. Investigation by the captain and other interested members saves a few, but not all, from a fate worse than captaining the third XV. There is something both amusing and frightening about watching a grown man with his future family prospects in the sink, using copious amounts of cold water in trying to cool a fire which won't be extinguished too quickly. "Christ, oh Christ, the liniment! Oh God! Mum!" are not inspirational pre-match comments. They have small influence on the referee's insistent banging on the changing room door, and demands that the team get out onto the pitch. It's an unusual sight to witness a cross between yellow fever and the black death manifesting itself as a new disease which might be called the red plague. Everyone who's touched the lotion is noticeable as a victim. The product works its way into the grease applied to abrasion points. Reddening skin, especially around the ears, and scratching denotes the victims. The opposition front row becomes infected and seem to lose their meanness. As rumours of the plague spread across the pitch, the opposition fear contact with the flanker and the replacement centre. The game levels out to a draw. The showers afterwards are interesting. Nudity exposes attitudes. As the reddening diminishes around the ears and thighs of others, the flanker's pride and joy fails to recover its normal colour. The natural humour associated with rugby disasters manifests itself in vulgar comment. Asking Rick Stein the ingredients of the red plague tube illicits no information other than "It's as much Greek to me as it is to you". Envoi: The prop went on to fame and fortune by perfecting ingredients, the trainer escaped death, and the flanker returned to normality within a month or two. However, it is said that his popularity with girls took a little longer to recover. Note for exiles: Nowadays, Rick Stein is a well-known TV chef. He owns the internationally renowned fish restaurant at Padstow (book your table six months in advance) | |||||||||||||||||||
| Greatest Tour Story of 1998 | ||||||||||||||||||||
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Ottawa 1998 "I have never seen so many naked women!" I could have left it at that but, there was more to it. I arrived packing quite a buzz on Freiday evening when Tony, a former Ottawa Indian Prop, met me at the club house. After a beer and some chat, he volunteered to drive me to Ottawa to pick up some beer, Cuban cigars, and other handy items for the weekend (the Barbie Chair). While picking up some staples of a rugby tour, we stopped by a friend of Tony's to give him a ride back to the fields. As we pulled up, I recognized this tall skinny rugger. I got out of the vehicle and we recalled a a weekend almost 4 years before in Missoula, MT. We both had spent a weekend drinking and playing rugby at the Missoula Maggotfest. I had traded Greg for his grand poobah hat (big blue furry hat with horns often seen on the Flintstones). I had worn that hat for nearly 3 years, until it was stolen at the 1997 Maggotfest. We got back to the pitch, and what a glorious sight it was. Being from the United States, I was not used of seeing such professional accomodations. Greg offered to share his tent with me, which allowed me to avoid sleeping in my rented van. I had picked a van thinking it would make a great tent, unfortuneatly, the seats could not be removed, leaving me a tight seated flag ship of the Hertz rental fleet in the parking lot. This vehicle was covered from front to back with Hertz logos, a flaw that I agreed to accept for a meager 10% off the total cost. We walked into the club house and met several ruggers and the rest of the night was a mix of ale in my 1/2 yard glass, copenhagen, slurred French, and several women. Rugby songs filled the night and Old Glory hung from the Shippensburg campsite with pride. It was a Friday of Rugby dreams. Saturday arrived, much too quicklyas Greg and I made a dash for the zippers on the tent. Out Nylon home had gained the humidity factor of a zip lock bag in the Mississippi Delta and we were in dire need of air. We found our supplies and wandered over to the shower rooms. I perused an issue of hustler while I took my early morning, pregame, pre-tourney dump. The showers stunk of sulpher, but the hot water washed away the night's party. I cracked my first beer of Saturday and realized it was game day. I wondered around looking for the sorry lads I would play with, when low and behold there they were. I had been set up by the Scotty, the Tournament Marshall, to whore with a club out of Toronto. The Aurora RFC wore royal blue and looked to be in about as good of condition as I. They arrived at the hotel at 4:30 AM. The bus trip, whcih would normally last 4 hours, pushed 9 hours with a mix of women and men drinking, pissing, and puking. Marcelle, the hooker, seemed still intoxicated as I arrived. The rest of the team lacked much of the spunk needed to win, but afterall I had arrived to have a good time. We lost the first two games, quite handedly. I realized I had not played my type of rugby, so I finished two New Castle Brown Ales, and we went out of the pitch and blew away our opponent. The team looked good and we all celebrated drinking at the club house bar. The players bought me several rounds as payment for my whoring duties and we shared rugby stories, until their women's team wisked them away, back to their hotels for a night out on Ottawa's Disco district. They would miss all the nudity I would see, with the exception of the bald 8 man, who would be quoted as saying, "I woke up between two naked girls who equaled my age." The party went from quiet rugby songs in the bar to loud rugby songs in the fields, to naked women in the hot tubs, to loud rugby songs in the club house, to lude, crude, and totally nude coed rugby on the pitch. The night seemed to last forever with party after party, when I finally found myself face down in my sleeping bag listening to Greg talking in his sleep. According to wittnesses, police reports, and several abused sheep from a neighboring farm, the nights episodes followed like this: 10. Well over 20 naked women in hot tubs. some wav files with the pictures click here 9. Two men's teams elephant walked into club house and stood around mingling with Joe Public. 8. One Ottawa Scottish player zulued around club house knocking over many bottles of beer. 7. First annual Crude, rude, and totally nude coed rugby game. 6. Greg made out with a 17 year old girl. (He didn't know her age at the time.) 5. American Whore, to remain nameless, danced naked on bar table. 4. One above said table came crashing to the floor with several empties. 3. Greg makes out with another 17 year old girl. (again...forgot to check her ID). 2. American Whore, much to the enjoyment to the women ruggers in the bar, loses his voice. 1. Drunken female rugger, while stripping to Father Abraham, falls face first into rock fire ring, while taking off her shirt. She rolled out of fire, but then noticed that she has knocked out her front two teeth. The mood suddenly loses some of its appeal to see her naked, except from one American Whore that starts yelling...."Show us your tits, show us your tits." The next day I awoke with quite a hangover. I drank a few beers, watched some rugby, made some crucial rugby trades, and started on my way back to Washington, DC. Great tourney....great fun.....great people....I will see you all next year. | ||||||||||||||||||||
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