Jersey #9: Kentucky's Journey

As I explained in my profile, I am an english major, and on rare but gratifying occassions I am able to mix my love of rugby with my studies in english. One such occassion occured last year when I took a Personal Essay class. On the first day I was told we would need to come up with a day, event, or moment in time which had been important to us enough to write a short essay about. I knew immediately what I would write...

This is an essay about the last game I played on the U19 GNT United Kingdom Tour 2004. I may not remember all the details, but I remember this:


Wings


“I’ve always wanted to fly…” I whispered to myself as I traced the outline of the Eagle with my finger, watching as my battered hand slowly made its way over each stitch of white thread, then across the bold blue letters spelling out “USA RUGBY”. The words and logo were stitched onto the left side of my jersey, right above my heart, so I could feel the pounding inside my chest as I sat against the wall thinking back to a time when I knew so desperately what I wanted out of life, and not a clue how to get there.

I closed my eyes and cradled my forehead in my hands. I could see myself there, just a kid staring out the window of my grade school classroom, watching as a jet soared past. I wished I could just beam myself up into the sky – to be a pilot, an astronaut, even a bird – anything that would get me into the air. As that fantasy took hold of my early life, I had already made plans to join the Air Force. For me, defending my country from the cockpit of a jet, traveling at the limits of man’s imagination, was a dream I salivated for. But that was a long time ago. Today I was 19, and there was no Air Force, no jet, no dream.

I lifted my head from my hands and studied the red, white and blue bandage that was wrapped around my thigh, relieving pressure from a knee that would buckle in pain without it. Bruises of every color were splotched about my legs, while my hands were a collaboration of scrapes, cleat marks, and the telltale signs of more than a few previously broken fingers. The contrast of my sparkly red, white and blue nail polish and inspirational words written in Sharpie reading, “LEAD” and “COWBOY UP” made my otherwise hideous hands appear comical.

Three weeks of devastatingly hard work had molded those hands, and led directly to this moment. On the inaugural overseas tour of the U19 Girl’s National Team, we had battled Wales and lost; clashed with Canada and tied. Now poised to take on our biggest challenge yet, the English, we were told there was no chance – we would be destroyed, embarrassed, and sent home to America with nothing of Britain but the soil between our cleats. Yet for us, embarrassment was not a possibility. We were the USA – The Eagles – and though we were scared, we were ready.

Thinking back, I’m certain that if an outsider had entered those doors he could have smelled the anxiety. Yet we were so saturated in our angst that it was no longer detectable to us. Only the pungent odor of a burning ointment we liked to call “Devil’s Spit” and the occasional waft of a stench escaping our cleat bags was evident. Nervous clinks of metal against pavement echoed from the cinderblock walls as players tapped out apprehension with their cleats. The sound of my own boots was likely to be leading this symphony of clicks, as no one’s stomach could have been filled with more butterflies than my own. Just nine short months ago I had scarcely even heard of rugby, and suddenly I found myself among the fifteen best young players in the country. Not only that, but I was to lead them at the position of scrumhalf – a quarterback of sorts on a rugby team. Despite my lack of experience, it would be my duty to direct my teammates, make crucial decisions, and distribute the ball across the field. If I didn’t know what I was doing, I would sure as hell have to figure it out soon.

These were my thoughts as we donned our country’s colors the on the 3rd of July 2004, 228 years after our nation first celebrated its independence from the British. I was reminded that we Americans would once again be challenging our English brethren for respect – albeit in a very different arena – and I would be the one to lead them into battle. I looked again at the Eagle resting over my heart, its wings outstretched and talons ready as if coming in for the kill…I took a deep breath.


The thick silence of pre-game thoughts was broken when we were abruptly called together by our coaches. Our head coach, Karl Barth, looked irritated, “Looks like they aren’t gonna do the National Anthems…apparently they don’t have the speakers set up or something…” he explained, his voice trailing off as he muttered some indecipherable obscenities to himself, clearly displeased with the unpreparedness of our hosts. Groans and whispers quickly filled the locker room as we looked over to the flag on our left, disappointed that we wouldn’t be able to stand with our hands to our hearts one final time before going home.

Our disappointment, however, would quickly turn to surprise and a slight uneasiness as it was agreed upon by our coaches that we would sing the anthem ourselves, right there in the locker room. Panicked glances sliced through the air from player to player, none daring to dispute the decision, but each unsure if she even knew the words, let alone would be able to sing them. Nevertheless, we stood there together, shoulder to shoulder, some with their right hand clutched proudly over their heart, others with their arms tucked politely behind their backs. All eyes faced straight ahead, firmly locked on the stars and stripes we had pinned across the wall. As we waited for the cue to sing, I prepared myself for a butchering of notes, took one final breath, and fell into chorus with the others. We sang timidly at first, “Oooh say can you seeee…” clearly unsure if our own voices would do justice to such an important song, on such an important day. Slowly, the noise rose. As each note became louder and clearer than the last, there was a feeling in the air that something special was taking place. There were no longer many voices but one, and the fear of mangling words and notes of such a difficult song had somehow transformed itself into the pride of belting out our National Anthem. In that moment, it seemed as though we were singing to a thousand people – as well we could have, the voices were so strong. As we came to the end, “for the land of the free and the home of the brave” became more than just words, but rather an unspoken pact to play not only for ourselves, but for our country. A few tears escaped the eyes of our coaches as we put our hands together in a hot circle of skin, sweat, and pride. Our captain counted off:


“USA on three…one, two, three…U-S-A!!!!!” At that, I found my place in line as we burst through the door, across some pavement, then glided in formation over the grass to meet the English, the wings of Eagles shining brightly from our chests…

Yes, I’d always wanted to fly.