Callin' It Like It Is - RUGBY: THE DAY I GOT TURNED INTO LAWN FURNITURE

Buddy says, ?Colin, you?d be great at rugby.

Big, strong, mean lookin? - perfect.?

Yeah, okay genius.

All I needed was cleats.

So I buy these death shoes with steel knobs on the bottom - like cleavers strapped to your feet.

They don?t look like sports gear, they look like tools for cuttin? up roadkill.

Show up early to practice, sittin? there like the rookie champ.

Coach rolls in and decides it?s cardio time.

Nine fuckin? laps.

NINE.

Then push-ups, sit-ups, more laps. I?m sweatin? grease and wheezin? like a busted lawnmower, and I still don?t know a single damn rule.

Game time.

Whistle blows.

Ball lands in my hands.

Boom - brain goes blank.

All those rules?

Gone.

Out the fuckin? window.

Next thing I see, four rhinos in shorts charging at me, ready to tear me a new asshole.

My brain?s screamin? ?RUN!? but my body?s like, ?Run where, dipshit?!?

Some guy yells ?PASS IT!? so I panic-launch that ball straight into the stratosphere.

NASA?s probably trackin? it right now.

Meanwhile, I get stomped, dragged, stripped, and folded like dirty laundry.

???

Shirt up over my head, shorts and underwear around my knees, ass in the air, cheek bleeding, arm jammed somewhere it shouldn?t be.

I?m lyin? there whimperin? like a dumped schoolgirl.

Those weren?t men hittin? me - they were fuckin? wild animals with anger issues.

Needless to say, I never went back.

Rugby ain?t for big strong guys.

Rugby?s for crazy bastards who like recreational homicide.

Next time someone says ?you?d be good at it,? I?m bringin? my cleats and kickin? them square in the sac.