My son is called a "scrum half" (I think). I guess that's good. He does a lot of running, shouting directions, and getting thrown to the turf like a rag doll. There was no blood shed on our team, for which I was grateful. The other side did have a broken nose and an ambulance ride, but they took it very well and since their team shirts were red it wasn't too visually disturbing. While dodging a large party of wasps of the flying variety, I did get a chance to talk to some of the players from the previous game who attempted to bring me up to speed on what was going on. The best I can say about rugby is that it is less confusing than cricket and it moves faster than football.
It was a mistake to talk to the very nice lady selling candy and coffee to raise money for the team. She was selling muffins, too, but the wasps discovered those first and after watching them parade back and forth over the muffin tops in sugar-induced frenzy, they weren't selling very well. She was a mom who lived an hour and a half away from the school and came to every home game. Strike 1: She made me feel guilty. Then she told me about how many times her son (also a scrum half, but for the "A" team) had had stitches, broken bones, and trips to the emergency room. Strike 2: She gave me no motherly comfort at all and something brand new about which to worry. Then, when she learned that we would be bringing our little scrum back to school next weekend she offered to copy her book of rules for the game so that I could understand it better. Strike 3: I've got homework???
We actually did have a lovely time. The weather cooperated. The sun shone. The kids in the stands were delightful and apparently knew my son by name since they shouted it fairly regularly. Nobody on either side lost consciousness, to my complete amazement. And not one swear word did I hear from parents, players, coaches, or student fans. I did, however, utter a few myself "sotto voce" when my kid got sacked, but I was dainty and quiet about it. I think.