From the time he was in kindergarten I took great pride in the fact that my older son never had a broken bone. He played violin, but even this didn't get him beaten up in middle school, because he also had a black belt in karate. And he was so good at violin that he made money playing at the weddings of various teachers. He played baseball, soccer, and basketball, and did a fine job at every sport. There were five stitches in his forehead when he walked into a tree at age three, but other than that not one emergency room visit did we make. He never played hockey or football. We didn't "forbid" it, but we certainly never steered him in that direction either. He is now in his second year of college and still has not had one broken bone. But I know now that it is a matter of time. My son has discovered rugby.
It's probably our fault. We used to take him and his brother to England to visit friends fairly often when they were little. The only thing I know about rugby is that I like the shirts that L.L.Bean makes by that name. My friends now inform me that it is basically football with no padding. Great. I understand that the equivalent of a touchdown in rugby is called a "try", and that he was responsible for one this past weekend. I get a weekly text to let me know that he survived the game and the level of his bruising. He started on some safe position off in a corner somewhere, probably the "left field" of rugby, but was so enthusiastic that he is now in the thick of it. They are going to break my baby, I know they are.
He is almost twenty, and although I share this with you, I don't worry him much with my worries. Of course, he will read this and then he'll know, but he won't be surprised. We know each other pretty well. The plan is to go pick him up at school in October for his fall break and bring him home for a week or so. But we'll have to wait for him to finish his home game. That's right. I have to watch him get pummeled. So we'll drive through the autumn glory, watch the game (I should look up the rules first, huh?) and then pick him up. I just hope it won't be with a squeegee!
It's probably our fault. We used to take him and his brother to England to visit friends fairly often when they were little. The only thing I know about rugby is that I like the shirts that L.L.Bean makes by that name. My friends now inform me that it is basically football with no padding. Great. I understand that the equivalent of a touchdown in rugby is called a "try", and that he was responsible for one this past weekend. I get a weekly text to let me know that he survived the game and the level of his bruising. He started on some safe position off in a corner somewhere, probably the "left field" of rugby, but was so enthusiastic that he is now in the thick of it. They are going to break my baby, I know they are.
He is almost twenty, and although I share this with you, I don't worry him much with my worries. Of course, he will read this and then he'll know, but he won't be surprised. We know each other pretty well. The plan is to go pick him up at school in October for his fall break and bring him home for a week or so. But we'll have to wait for him to finish his home game. That's right. I have to watch him get pummeled. So we'll drive through the autumn glory, watch the game (I should look up the rules first, huh?) and then pick him up. I just hope it won't be with a squeegee!
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