The Many Faces of 7s

Rugby is pursuing the Olympic Dream. This dream begins now. Building our youth 7s base from an early age in the U.S. is the key to success.



All in a Day's Work

                                                                        
       I glance at my prepaid nokia phone. The time reads 5:02pm. The sun's long rays begin to reach over the ubiquitous green landscape. This place is novel. The lush hills that seem to roll on endlessly have fixed my gaze for the better part of the day. I wonder what lies beyond them. I put my shovel back in the corner of the garage and gather some rubbish from the cold cement floor. I make my way from the half constructed house back to the street. A green Ford Telstar stationwagon awaits my arrival. I remove my boots, muddied by the pure New Zealand earth, and place them in the back of the wagon. I am exhausted but content.  I am making my way 6,000 miles from my home. The work day is finally over. My mind, consumed with hunger, entertains the odd combinations of food I could conjure up with the sparse selection I have at home. Still, after a ten hour day of labor, the most important task, and my reason for being in this strange land, awaits completion. The thought of more physical exertion rests heavy on my mind. I ignite the trusty Ford wagon and begin the 20 minute journey from Mosgiel back to Ravensbourne. I leisurely slide the clutch into 4th, then 5th and zoom onto the motorway, leaving the sleepy town of Mosgiel and a hard day's labor behind me. Driving on New Zealand roads gives me an odd sense of purpose, like driving here is part of some grander scheme. Maybe it is New Zealand's aesthetic beauty that feigns this consummate feeling? Or, maybe this where I belong? My eyes wander between the striking colors in my peripherals and the grey motorway ahead. Before I know it, I've made my way back into the bustling city of Dunedin. The modest nokia indicates it is 5:28pm.

        Finally, I've reached the humble dwelling I call home. I exit the vehicle and notice the slight, yet palpable change in the cool air. The gentle sway of the ocean echoes just behind our old brick home. I make my way through the decorated glass door and I find my travel companion resting comfortably on the couch adorned in dog hair. "What's up? You know we've got to leave soon? How was your day?" I rapidly fire questions he seems to have no answer to. His face is a pale blank slate. The mental and physical drain of working all day on the docks has evidently taken its toll. The final task of our day ominously looms in the very near future. Our jobs are not glamorous. Our home is unimpressive to say the least(some might say worse things than that). At times, these factors make our situation thankless. While we dread the task ahead it is the one reason our situation is bearable.

     I grab an apple from the pantry and generously apply heaps of peanut butter over its encasing. My dining habits probably resemble a Neanderthal or a more devolved version of the beings we are now. Given our time constraints and my voracious appetite I fully embrace this grotesque behavior. I toss my enervated friend an apple. "Eat this. It'll get your blood sugar up." He ungraciously takes a bite. "We should get our stuff on. We gotta be there in 5 minutes." After our meager feast we unenthusiastically canter to our quarters teeming with the fresh bite of kiwi winter air. I think to myself, "What a concept it would be if more of New Zealand utilized the wonders of insulation and central heating? That would be sweet." I put on the warmest athletic attire I can muster from a maelstrom of apparel. Most of my clothing lies negligently strewn about the freezing hard wood floor. With each sock slipped over my foot I begin to anticipate the task ahead.

     Dean and I exit the frosted glass door and enter the Ford wagon. He takes the wheel. We make our way down the windy road resting atop the dark blue waters of the Otago Harbor. We signal left and wait for an opening in traffic to make the tricky U-turn-esque maneuver into our destination. We successfully make the maneuver, lightly brushing some hedges to our right, and head down the poorly paved road. Bright lights illuminate darkly clad figures trotting around the ground to my right. Oval shaped balls are torpedoed and kicked around. I feel a new type of energy building. The physical toll of a ten hour work day begins to seem insignificant. Once again I am surrounded by green. This is a motif I rather enjoy. The words "Harbour RFC" rests in the shadows on top of the building we prepare to enter.

     We walk in the entry way littered with cleat formed shards of New Zealand earth. I breathe in the genuine aromas of mud and sweat that circulate the building. This is the smell of my sport. These familiar stimuli continuously build my excitement. We receive warm greetings from friendly faces. We all have different backgrounds, jobs, and stories but we are all here for the same the reason. While a few are professionals and most are amateurs, we all share a childlike passion and enthusiasm for sport. Dean and I trod past the walking wounded of the medical room and enter the changing room. I place my bag underneath the bench and remove my cleats. I tightly pull the laces of my worn Adidas predators as I have done so many times before. I tie a double knot and firmly press the cleat pattern against the hard cement wiggling my toes. I am excited. While I've been dreading this moment for the past few hours this is truly what I have been waiting for all day. I slap Dean on the shoulder and launch out of the clubhouse into the wintery Dunedin night. I brush shoulders with a body on the way out and reply, "Sorry mate!" My pace quickens as I leap from the cement onto the soggy pitch.  I feel my studs sink into the soft New Zealand mud. My energy levels are now soaring. The toils of hard labor no longer burden my thoughts or body. I burst into a quick sprint cutting left, then right. I pick up an old ball and gallop with it in my grasp. I am grateful to be in this place despite all else. It is my sanctuary 6,000 miles from home. I reside in a vigilant state of peace, only paying attention to the sensation of the ball in my hand.  I block out of the trivialities of my day. I forget my less than idyllic living situation. Nothing else matters but rugby. "Yep!, ball!", I call to my left. I zip a tight spiral pass to a teammate. Feeling the rugby ball roll off my fingers is like unwrapping a long awaited gift. He passes it right back and I feel the ball's tiny grip dots swirl into my hands. This is what I want. This is why I am in New Zealand. There's no place I'd rather be.