Jersey #9: Kentucky's Journey

So what do you get for buying a "military grade" drop-resistant, spill-resistant, built-like-a-mother-fing-tank of a laptop???

Well...one that breaks, of course. To be fair, the actual laptop didn't break. In fact, since I've probably knocked it off of my coffee table a billion times and spilled more than one giant glass of water all over the keys, I can attest that it is, indeed, a sturdy piece of hardware. However, one little glitch in the design: On one of those drops, my tank of a laptop must have landed squarly on the little charger plug that plugs into the side, which in turn must have broken the little connector thing inside of the plug-in hole that allows my laptop to be charged. For a while, I've simply managed to jiggle the cord until it was charging, and then would try my best not to move it so that the battery would stay full. Unfortunately, the jiggle method refused to hold out any longer. Yesterday, I watched in helpless horror as my little electronic friend counted down its last bits of battery power, unable to be recharged....*sigh*

I took it to Best Buy today and spent a hefty sum for it to be sent off to service land, not to return for many weeks....at least three - maybe five, said the man. Ughh. Right now I'm using the "office center" of my apartment complex, but to get here I have to either get in my car and drive an annoying block and a half, or risk my ass walking across the three inches of ice that cover every surface in Cedar Falls, Iowa. I am SO ready for spring. SO READY.

Luckily, I have one bright spot left in my world for the week - I'M GOING TO MEMPHIS THIS WEEKEND!!!! This kid = waaay excited.

Not only am I making a brief return to my beloved South, but I'll be playing rugby. And not only will I be playing rugby, but it will be WARM there!!!! YESSSSSS.... South, Sun, and Scrums - definitely a great way to spend a weekend. I'll have to dust off my cowboy hats and rebel flag belt buckle, and ripped up jeans. And I'll have to make a point to listen to some Elvis music and talk to my Kentucky buddies and my grandma to prepare my voice for the accent shift - although, I'm fairly certain I'll need no prep time..

Anyhow, on the rugby side of things I can't wait to get out there and see how the changes in my training will translate to the field - I guess you could say I'm expecting big things from myself. I can be my own worst enemy sometimes, so I'll to remember to take it each play at a time, and not to get discouraged if I feel a little rusty at first. However, I'll have my fave flyhalf for the weekend, so if that doesn't get me excited, nothing will. A great flyhalf can turn an errant pass into a spectacular play, and what #9 couldn't use that kind of help from time to time??



Well, I had better get off of here and trudge back over the frozen tundra to my apartment. I may not get to write again before I leave due to the inconvenience of no longer having the internet constantly at my fingertips. Hopefully I'll be able to figure out some laptop solution soon. At any rate, I'll be sure to give a full report some Tennessee rugby upon my return.

Cheers!

Here's the deal - I'm Catholic. And apparently, Catholics do this thing called lent. You know, that thing where on one random tuesday girls in Louisiana show their boobs for beads, followed the next day by some weird ritual where ppl run around with black stuff on their foreheads and propose to "give up" something until Easter. Well, call me a bad Catholic, but I've never given up anything. My parents seem to always give up a food - one year it was ice cream, one year popcorn...stuff like that. My friends - even my non-Catholic friends - always seemed to find something to give up as well.

Normally, I balked at the idea because I thought the whole concept of their "sacrifice" was kind of cheesy. I mean, c'mon - popcorn? And the whole idea that you can't eat meat on fridays, but then churches filled with fatties chow down on delicious fried fish instead...is that REALLY a sacrifice? And I bet all the fish are swimming around wondering..."okay, so I'm not a plant. But apparently I'm not an animal either!?!". Catholics of the world, I have an announcement to make: FISH IS MEAT!!! They are swimming, breathing, little creatures. They look like animals, they act like animals, and when you kill them, cook them, and eat them, they TASTE like animals. Fish is meat, so you can't give up "meat" and eat fish instead. Have a get-together with macaroni salad and PB&J sandwiches if you want - but don't have fish and say you are giving up "meat". Maybe say you're giving up "land animals" if that makes you feel better...but seriously - Fish is meat. Amen.


Now that I've gotten that off my chest, I would like to get to my real point. Having finally gotten over my bitterness of the fish issue, I decided that this year I would actually attempt to give up something. But what? I haven't been drinking at all, and if I do, it would be after our alumni game which is pretty much the funnest thing in the world...so that's a no go. I already don't drink pop, the only sweets I have serve as my once a week treat.............okay - foods and beverages seem to be off the table. Someone last night suggested that instead of giving something up perhaps I should "add" something - like volunteer time...but I really don't have much time as it is...

So then I got to thinking - what is it that takes up my time that I don't ABSOLUTELY need. The dreaded answer - Television. Especially on the weekends, that sucker draws me in and suctions my ass to the couch for hours on end. It's also the main reason that I don't get my reading done for classes, and a contributer to staying up too late at night.......but I LOVE tv. I mean, Real World, ESPN, Fox News, Late Shows, Dr. Phil, Man vs. Wild, the History Channel....it's just all so amazing. And sometimes, you just need some background noise, you know? Yet, mi amor for television proves that it is the perfect sacricial lamb for this lenten season, and I'm betting giving it up will free up a lot of extra time for things like reading, cleaning, writing, and spending time with Brutus. Yes. It is decided - tv (or at least most of it) must go.

Here is my official proposal which has gone into effect as of this morning: I am allowed one show per week - Grey's Anatomy. To prevent myself from being tempted to watch other things, I am actually returning my digital cable box today (subscription $50 a month) and downgrading to the $12 per month basic cable (22 crappy channels). HOWEVER - I just ordered Setanta Sports on the ITVN internet-based channel subscription thing which should arrive in a couple of days. I will allow myself to watch as much rugby as desired, because hey, that's educational!!!

So basically, I'm not giving up tv, I'm giving up cable. If I succeed in only watching that one show per week - so 1 hour of cable television - that's probably down from about 45+ hours per week. Add in a few hours per week of rugby games, and I'll still have about 40 hours of time that will now be entirely free of the boob tube. What will I do with that time?? Hmmm.....blog maybe?? haha...hopefully I'll read and spend more time with my puppy. Time will tell....

At any rate - good luck with all your lenten sacrifices and whatnot. I'll let you know how the new anti-cable Kentucky is doing in a few days...


And P.S......Fish Is Meat - spread the word.

Our first Prez turns 275 today, so I just thought I'd give him a shout-out. George Washington was a pretty cool guy, helping us win the Revolutionary War and all...we owe a lot to all those who have risked their lives so that we can live ours so comfortably. And mad props to a guy who rejected the idea of being a king of America so that he could be the first President of the United States.

Way to go, GW - and Happy Birthday!!

Alright...so not really. But today was pretty shatty. Let me rant...


Since we're speaking of puppies, let me just say that the fact that I have one is causing real problems in my rental life. Actually, the puppy isn't a problem, but my stupidity is. I was convinced by some friends that I could keep my dog in this house she wanted us to live in. She told me the landlord was really old and wouldn't notice, and for whatever reason, I believed her. Then when we went to sign the lease, he very clearly told us no pets, but I was told to keep my mouth shut and for some God-awful reason I succumbed to peer pressure and signed the stupid paper anyways.

WELL...I then proceeded to freak out, and told her there was no way we could keep a "secret dog" for however many months. Plus, now i'm not even sure how long I'm going to be living here. After three days of stress, I called the old man and tell him this story about how my parents want me to move home and I cannot live there anymore - is there anyway to get out of the lease. To which he replies "Oh no, sweetie...You'll just have to pay the money anyways, sorry." GREAT...great. F#!*ing great.

He then tells me that IF I can find someone else he will switch over the lease agreement. Better...but this means that until I find someone, I cannot plan a life, so everything is in a state of seriously painful limbo. I think my heart rate has sped up by about 50 extra beats per minute, I can't eat, and I've barely been able to sleep. If I can't find someone, then I'll have to find a job JUST for the rent, because I cannot -CANNOT- tell my parents about my stupidity, or they would take my dog away and make me live there anyways.

Me = Unhappy.

Me = Nauseous.

Me = One Giant Migraine.

Me = Stupidest Girl EVER.


I think I'll go run with some scissors now...

Okay, so the 5.4 could have been a messed up time, but the good news is - I'm still the 5.5-5.6 range!!!!

Last night at practice, AFTER we had done a bunch of drills and I was pretty much drained, I still managed to pull off a 5.63!!! My legs were also pretty sore from front squats the day before, so I KNOW I can do better. Best of all, this confirms that there has truly been an improvement in my 40 times....My time at the beginning of last summer was a 6.13, SOOO slow! Since then, it seems I have improved by about a half-second or more!!!

I am so thankful that I have found the programs and the people who have helped me do this...and I'm glad I put in the time and effort to make it happen. Basically, if you are having trouble with your speed (or even if you aren't and just want to improve!), then I HIGHLY recommend Julie McCoy's footwork camp. I truly believe that it has been her program that has added the final element to the speed work I had already been doing, and allowed me to break through whatever barriers I was experiencing with form and explosiveness...

I'm going to continue to try to widdle precious increments off of those times. It's a good feeling not to be the slow kid anymore =)

I can't really tell you why I'm writing about this right now. It's a story I've been thinking about blogging for a while but just hadn't gotten around to it, and well, since I'm finally feeling semi-rested and have no pressing deadlines for the evening, I thought I might as well get it off my chest. So hear goes.

Once upon a time I lived in a little town called Pikeville, KY. There are about 6,500 people that live there, and at the heart of that little town is a little school. It's an "independent" school system - which basically means it's not private but people outside the city limits can go there if they pay a hefty tuition, and there is a completely separate school board than that of the county schools. For whatever reason, this makes us better than everyone else. "We Are - Pikeville!" - I can still hear our 3-time National Champion cheerleaders say as they lead us in our most arrogant cheer - one that we'd usually wait to use until we had thoroughly humiliated an opponent. It seems pretty innocent but,"We Are - Pikeville (and you sure as hell aren't)" is a more accurate depiction of its meaning.

So, this arrogance I'm describing - the priviledge of being a Pikevillian - a Panther - it didn't come out of thin air. Sure, some of it comes from the money: back in the 70's a lot of coal miners struck it rich and moved out to the "big town" of pikeville, buying up land and property and businesses. The people who owned the land and the people who sold the mines became sort of old money figures, and their children became mostly doctors and lawyers. Most stayed here and circulated the money around even more, meaning that by the time I came around the school parking lot was populated by quite a rich array of new mustangs, big chevy trucks, expensive suv's, and even a few bmw's. As for myself, I drove a Jeep Wrangler - sort of middle of the road. But not all of the Pikeville aura came from being the rich kids living in the middle of one of the poorest counties in America (mother Theresa has actually visited the area) - the other story is sports...

The focus of Pikeville existance is, was and ever shall be the three time State Champion Panther Football Team - 1987, 1988, and 1989. Sure, I didn't start kindegarten until 1990, but no matter. By the time I made it to junior high/high school the tradition was still alive and well. Some of the old players from those years were now the coaches, and so it goes that the boys of autumn were constantly working their buts off to begin another dynasty. With all this blood, sweat, and pride swirling around, there was more than enough Panther Pride left to go around to the other sports. Grow up in an environment where the athletes are heroes (think Varsity Blues, Remeber the Titans), and you're gonna want to be one of them.

Since I'm well, a girl, and my mom had forbidden me from ever entertaining the idea of playing football (she now loves to tell how I am secretly exacting revenge for this by playing rugby), my hopes and dreams rested on a different, but equally worshiped sport - basketball. Now maybe Pikeville isn't the basketball capital of the world - but Kentucky IS. Ever hang around Lexington during march? Ever drive through the bluegrass on I-75 and notice an overwelming number of blue Wildcat license plates?? Ever seen footage of Rupp Arena during a home game??? I have to tell you, the feeling - no, the religion - that is University of Kentucky basketball is something that is indescribable to an outsider. If you just pass by and look in, you'll think you're seeing insanity. But if you are one of the crazies, then you know it's pure love. And that was me growning up. I loved basketball, and I loved being a Pikeville Panther. We are Pikeville. I Bleed Blue.

Basically this meant one thing for me: I was going to be a basketball player. I was going to be one of the "heroes" on the local Friday Night Highlights and my picture was going to be plastered all over the sports page of the local newspaper. I was going to lead my team to a 15th region championship, and when I was done I was going to head west toward "Lex-Vegas" and make my name as a Wildcat. I made this promise to myself every day. I still remember those promises. And I especially remember the day they were finally broken.

Okay, so let's just say that things didn't go exactly as planned. Even starting out as young as 5th grade I started to notice that some things surrounding basketball didn't seem quite right. The best players didn't always play, and parents seemed to be insanely over-involved. Quarrels often broke out between parents and coaches when bobbie sue or susie jane didn't get the playing time she "deserved", and under the table "booster" club deals were rampant. Basically, playing time depended on who your mommy and daddy were, how much money they made, how much of it they gave to the boosters, and whose parties they attended on Saturday night. Pretty much a raw deal for little kids. And Junior high didn't go much better. It was a husband and wife team, and, as usually goes for me, the husband loved me but the wife - not so much. My parents had stayed out of the political mumbo-jumbo (as they should) and so my case was rarely fought for. There was no pressure to play me, and so I only played what was necessary. One particular night of bureaucratic bullshit occurred in my Eighth grade year. I had become a starter, and one night before a game, a 6th grade teammate of mine has asked to start because we were playing her former school. Naturally, I was the one who was asked by the coaches to sit out as a "generosity". Much later, my senior year, the husband of this coaching duo offered me endless apologies for the way I was treated and begged my forgiveness. I wish I could say the same for others...

When I finally made it to the high school team - JV and Varsity - it seemed like a whole new world. My coach was a former UK player and though she intimidated the hell out of me, I respected her more than any woman alive. She had pretty good ideas on the game of basketball, and clearly loved the game. Slowly, though, I began to realize she didn't care for me so much. I never really said anything or did anything. I just became that girl who worked really hard but stayed in the background out of fear. Those who know me now probably can't imagine this. These days, I make a special point to get to know my coaches and pick their brains about the game and improvement and all that. I tried that with this coach - we'll call her Coach Shaney - but it didn't really matter. It was clear that there was a hierarchy of things that was beyond my control. Before my younger teammates and I were even allowed to step foot on the Varsity floor, we were being specifically groomed to the coach's liking. Weaker players (with popular mommies and daddies) were being worked to death for improvement, while others like myself were all but ignored.

Now fast forward to Junior year: This was my time. I had waited through my sophomore year when all the older girls were still in control of the court. But now, I thought...NOW it'll be my time. Now all that was left was one senior player, a bunch of sophomores and freshman, and I was the lone junior. The summer before team practice sessions started I had worked my ass off. My parents had hired me both a personal trainer and a private basketball coach. I had improved all aspects of my game by 110% and absolutely could not wait to get out on the floor and show what I could do. All I needed was a little game experience, some confidence, and I just knew that I could shine. Especially on defense - in practice scrimmages I could strip the ball from anyone. I couldn't wait.

Unfortunately, in the weeks before the first practice I had gotten a terrible case of bronchitis and had run through the coughing in order to place in the state championships for my cross-country team. This had pretty much depleted my body for a while, and I came into the first practice not out of shape, but just not at the top of my game. I worked through it however, and within a few weeks I felt I had gained back whatever I had lost. I worked hard in practice and did well, and when games started I expected to be playing. I was wrong. At first, I would play 5-10 minutes. Then just five. Then five began to turn into three or four. Finally, after a game we had easily won, I trudged up the aisle of the bus to the seat of my coach so that I could confront her about having only played two minutes. I sat down and poured my heart out. "What am I doing wrong? What can I do to improve? How can I get more playing time??" It was basically a desperate plea to understand what it was that was so wrong with me. But I never could have expected the answer she would give. After mumbling something about shooting form and random rebounding issues that obviously indicated the fact that she hadn't really paid any attention to my play at all, she then dished out the lowest blows of all. She told me I was out of shape...and she told me she didn't think I was trying, or that I cared. How could she say this to me??? Tears flowed out of my eyes as I professed loving the game more than anything, more than life. And I begged her forgiveness for having not shown my tenacity on the court. I vowed to do better - swore it - and then returned to my seat where I sobbed in the corner, hating myself more and more with each passing thought.

From that day on, I was a machine. I woke early in the morning to practice in my driveway before school. I practiced before practice, I practiced after practice, and I practiced on Saturday when no one else was around. I ran suicides on my own every morning to get in better shape, and every extra moment was spent dribbling a ball or watching games - anything to help me improve. During running drills, players would tell me to chill out when they'd notice how I'd almost pass out afterwards - having beaten the entire team each and every trip down the court. But all of this really came to a head one day at practice when the coach's own daughter had smarted off and caused us all to have to hit the stairs. "Run until I tell you to stop," was the order, so we began running. Very quickly I was in the lead...and my lead grew. Pretty soon I had lapped them once, then twice...then three times. It was when I had reached the back of the line to begin my forth time lapping the rest of the team when I heard coach's voice yell out for me to stop. Not everyone else, just me. She had me sit down and rest while the others continued running for another 20 minutes. I didn't know whether she was rewarding me or just keeping me from making the others (her daughter included) from looking bad. I knew one thing, though - she had noticed me.

That weekend we had a big game versus our ultimate rivals - Shelby Valley. We hadn't won a game against them in almost 5 years, but tonight we had a chance. I went in once for about a minute - to give one of the starters a break - got a steal, and then was put back on the bench. I was pleased with how I had don, and was now praying I would get in again before the half. And I did. 30 seconds left in the first half, down by 2 points. I guess she figured this was the least "dangerous" time to put me in the game...maybe this way I couldn't "hurt anything".

As it turns out, I didn't hurt anything at all. One pass was made to me about 5 feet outside the 3-point arc. I spotted up, shot, and SWOOSH! Pikeville - up 1. We went into the locker room elated as I thanked God for the moment. My teammates practically carried me in before our halftime talk. We were told not to get too excited, but that we were doing a great job. I was so sure I'd get to go in again......but I didn't. We were down 2 points again at the end of the game. I didn't go in, a couple of girls missed some three pointers, we fouled them to stop the clock and lost by 5 or 6....

The next week, same thing happened. Down 2 at the end of first half. I go in, swish a 3-pointer. I never see the court again the rest of the game.

And then a funny thing happened. My playing time went from 30 seconds a game to not playing at all. I hadn't played for 3 successive games in a row when at the end of a game my coach particularly wanted to win, we were down by 3 with 15 seconds left. This time, when everything was on the line, she wanted me in the game! I went to the scorer's table but sadly, the clock never stopped and I never went in. In fact, I barely went in for the rest of the season.

I guess she didn't like scoring.

That summer I continued to play with the team. We played some scrimmage matches, one where we played Shelby Valley. I was allowed to play a full half since it was a scrimmage and in that half I made 4 three pointers, including one where I was fouled. I made the free-throw too. I wasn't allowed to go back in in the second half, and though we had been up by 10, we lost the game.

Every game for that entire year I drove home with teardrops splashing on my steering wheel. My dad once found me face first on the floor of my bedroom, sobbing into my jersey. I've never seen my father's heart break for me like it did that day. He knew this sport was destroying me, but he also knew he couldn't ask me to give it up...

Lucky for him, that's exactly what I ended up doing. The fall of my senior year had been the first year my school had fielded a soccer team. As it turns out, my coaches had respected my athleticism. I became the captain, tied for leading scorer, and played more minutes in every single 80-minute game than I had in an entire junior season of basketball. Still, thought, I didn't think I was ready to give it up. Until one night, on the bus ride back from my last soccer game, a few of the girls who knew the coach's daughter came to me and told me some of the things she had said about me. The coach's daughter, "Emily" we'll call her, had told them that the only reason I was on the team was because her mom felt sorry for me for being such a hard worker, but that I was terrible, and that every time I got in the games I messed things up. And that was it for me. This woman that I had respected so much, whether she had really said these things or not, was tearing me apart from the inside out.

The next day I packed my shoes just in case...but I knew what I was going to do. I walked into her office prepared to be strong - to tell her I was quitting and that was that; no tears. Unfortunately, that's not exactly how it worked out. I walked into the office, and slowly a monstrous lump began it's expansion in my throat till I could barely choke out words: "I'm retiring," I finally announced. She seemed "shocked" and almost caring. With a look of, "oh how sad" she cocked her head to the side and asked me if I was sure of my decision. I shook my head yes, and without warning my chin began to quiver. Tears came out of nowhere, and I began to quake from within. I began to apologize for not being better, to apologize for quitting...basically to apologize for being me. She walked over and hugged me as I shook, saying to me, "I'm so sorry, I know this hasn't turned out the way you wanted it too.." I almost want to puke when I think of those words now. When I think of the way I had been treated, undermined, lied to. I had never been the best basketball player in the world, but I was pretty damn good, and I would have been much better had I ever been given the chance to actually play. She then told me that she liked having me around for "team morale" because I worked so hard. But I wasn't going to be a mascot for anybody. I turned in the things required of me, gasped one more "I'm sorry", and left that office forever.


So many people told me I would regret quitting. And well, I guess in one sense I did. But what I really thought I would regret was ever having started playing in the first place, and especially having played for her. But now, many years later, the experience has had the opposite effect on me. It was in those early years of my athletic life that I learned how to work hard, and I learned to do it for little or no return. I did it for pure love of the game - and I still do, only a different game. And ya know, I'm glad I was treated so poorly. Had I not been, then perhaps I would have become a decent basketball player - maybe even played college ball. But would I have ever worn a red, white, and blue jersey? Would I have played in a National Championship? Would I have traveled to Europe? Played in the ocean in Iceland? Would I have met all the amazing people I have?? More importantly, would I ever have known what it's like to tackle and be tackled, or to push myself to the absolute physical and mental limit?? Would I ever have known what it's like to pull on a #9 jersey and feel that rush of being the general on the field, conducting and passing and running and yelling...no time-outs...no subs...?????

The answer to all that is NO. A hundred times no. And best of all, now I have the knowledge to truly appreciate all the wonderful coaches there are in the world of rugby. People who, in my experience, have sacrificed time, money, and plenty of sanity just because they love being out there. They've taught me not only how to be a better player, but in some cases how to be a better person as well. And beyond that, they've enriched my life by teaching me the little things...that puppets with machine guns can be funny, how to balance oranges on the back of your neck, when green and yellow toenail polish is a good idea, the alternate meaning of "ice cream", and that sometimes you've gotta fight to earn that "blue ribbon"... =)

I can't name one coach in rugby that has been the most talented or the most supportive or my favorite or whatever. They've all been amazing in their own ways - and to be honest, none of them have stopped teaching me. Despite my move to different teams or their moves to different jobs, I still receive feedback and support. It's an amazing network of people who have used every resource in their power to help me, and to help all those who are willing to learn. Because of that, I can't pick a favorite from among them. The only thing I can tell you, then, is about the worst coach I ever had...the worst, and the best.

She destroyed one dream, but in doing so, helped me to find another, far superior one. Her destruction of my self-esteem has allowed me to find the people who would eventually build it back up - the right way.

So thanks, coach. Thanks for destroying basketball so that I could find rugby. And thanks for being the best (worst) coach I've ever had.

....on me at least. I hate today. And I really hate anyone that likes it. So I'm probably going to be holed up in my apartment being anrgy for a while. In fact, this is kind of an entire month that most of my teammates call my "winter hibernation period". Which basically means I'm way antisocial and only come out for practice and spend the rest of my time barricaded on my couch growling over the fact that winter won't go away, and that all the people who might warm it up a little live over 500 miles away. Last year I probably would have made like Jesus and busted open some wine by now - but don't worry, my box of Franzia is still entirely intact, waiting on more celebratory times to come =)

Anyways, that's my rant for today. Don't worry, tomorrow (or maybe even tonight) my bitterness will probably wear off and I'll have something more valuable to post...maybe even about rugby. But for now, I'm busy hating Valentines Day, and wanted to share my hate with the masses.

Hearts and Kisses. (blah).

Okay, so for some that may have read this before, this might seem a bit repetitive. But what happened was, well....I had written some stuff down...then thought about it...then took it off, and then was encouraged to post it back up again. So anyways, here are my thoughts on rugby jealousy, and it's effect on me...


So a couple days ago I get a phone call from a very good friend of mine, announcing that she had been invited to the Women's National Team training camp for the second time....now, despite the knife piercing through my heart feeling I get when I hear this news, I pretty much have to smile, say congrats, and try to swallow the giant lump in my throat as she describes the details of the event. It's not that I'm not happy for her advancement - really, I am. But what am I supposed to say to that? "Guess what? I got invited to the senior Eagle camp!" ...."Guess what!??! I DIDN'T!" - I mean, seriously...and it's not that I would expect an invite, on the contrary I would actually have been pretty shocked - I'm sure I'm barely even on the radar because no one has seen enough from me yet.....but it's not only that I don't expect to be invited, it's that she doesn't expect me to be either; and for that reason it doesn't even seem to cross her mind that I would pretty much run over my own grandma to be in her spot. And that it hurts a whole lot to hear about the successes that seem to come so easily for her and others, when I'm struggling for every single inch.

Though some sacrifices come in slow steady increments - the hours of practice and training building up over many years to form a lifetime of commitment - there are other kinds of sacrifice that have become excrutiatingly clear to me over the past few months, and make these kinds of comparisons and disappointments all the more poignant. Reaching my goals has become more than just an afterthought that comes to mind when school and playtime are pushed to the side. There was a long period of time when I believed I could make it the easy way like so many others - put a few hours in the gym, go to practice, spend a little extra time on skills and Ta dah! I would be there. And at first, only a few months into my rugby career and suddenly on a trip to the UK, it seemed like that. But that would last only so long for me. Unlike others blessed with so much natural athleticism and talent, I finally understand that it's going to take quite a bit more for me to put myself on an equal playing field with those folks who glide right to the top.

So that's what I've been doing. And that's pretty much ALL I've been doing. I spend my days training religiously every morning at 6:00am, which means waking at 5:30am, which means going to bed no later that 10:30pm. All the time in between is spent in class, studying, or doing a ton of cooking and calorie counting in hopes that I might add some coveted muscle weight to my frame. I don't go out to eat, I don't go to parties, and most weekends my truck doesn't even leave the parking lot. My new form of entertainment is hiking with Brutus through the snow, which, no offense to Brutus, is fun but less that conversationally stimulating. It's not that I don't enjoy being healthy and working to improve myself - but sometimes when I get late night drunk dials or look at old pictures of myself partying with the best of them, I miss that old life...and I'm not too proud to admit how gd jealous I get knowing that there are quite a few people out there who can enjoy those perks and still make it to the top...I mean, let's get one thing straight, I am not a fun-hater. In fact, those that know me pretty well might be reading this and thinking, "yeah right, she woudn't give up Jack Daniels to save her life!"...well, that' might be true, but I would give up Jack Daniels to save my rugby career. And I won't do it for money, or titles, or to prove something to anyone. I'll do it because the best days of my life were spent out on the pitch, on the road, and in the hotel rooms with some of the most talented rugby players in the country. I've made the best friends a girl could ask for, traveled to places I otherwise would have never seen, and I've done it all while wearing the colors of my country on my back. How many people can say that? Not many, and I'm certainly not ready to give it up.

So while I may be jealous of the ease with which so many others like my friend seem to glide right past me while I'm here, drenched in sweat and struggling to pedal uphill, I cannot lose focus on my own path as I covet their achievements. I've made it over the hump, and now I just have to keep my legs pumping until I reach the top. On my way, I may find myself jealous of those whose naturaly talent allows them speed past on their shiny motorbikes and air conditioned cars, but the truth is that motors break down and cars run out of gas. And when that happens I will still be pedaling...driving steadily uphill with the knowledge that if I ever do pull on that senior Eagle jersey and stand to hear my country's anthem, I'll have earned every stitch of that jersey and every note of that song.

And it will be worth it.

Okay, so a friend just posted this picture of me on a private blog we have and I almost peed myself laughing....I have no excuses except that I was in high school when this picture was taken, which is to say, I was even more ridiculous than I am now. At any rate, I hope it brings some joy to your day!

P.S. Yes, those are pictures of Veggie Tales and Richard Nixon posted on my door in the background...again, no excuses...

*snicker* *giggle*...haha...

Even though the ground is still covered with a thick layer of snow, and poor Brutus hasn't been on a real walk in about two weeks due to the artic chill, I found the inspiration to spend this morning oiling up my boots with leather food, and locating my trusty scrum cap. Why? Well, as I stepped outside this morning and found that the temperate was FINALLY in the positive degrees - a forecast of 29 today! - I started thinking about what the date might be....sure enough, it's already February 11th! That's only three days away from my least favorite holiday (I have never been in a relationship on V-Day, and thus never received a real valentine...but before I crack open a box of Franzia and start drowning my sorrows, I'll move on) - much more importantly, it's only 20 days away from my first rugby game of the season! YAY!!! Making the event even more exciting, is that this isn't a game for UNI, but a Midwest U23 event. I'll get to play with some of the best players in the Midwest (or for that matter, the country), catch up with some of my best rugby buddies, and also see some new faces just moved up from the U19 bracket. Better yet, we'll be playing in Memphis, which not only means that it will be MUCH warmer than it is here, but also that I'll get to utilize my redneckness for the weekend, go to Elvis's home for the first time, and just breathe that sigh of relief I always feel whenever I'm back in the south...

I'm not certain, but I feel like we're playing Mid-south u23 something or others - I should probably pay more attention. At any rate, we'll get two games in and supposedly I'll be holding the 9 jersey for both. Honestly, I can't wait to get out there. I've worked so hard over the course of this off-season, and I really want to get out there and see how all this commitment pays off on the field...I think this could be a very good year for me...

Yay, rugby =)

Yeah. That pretty much describes yesterday for me, and this morning.

Yesterday morning I woke up as usual at 5:30am so that I could get to the gym by 6:30 and do some sprints and throw some angry scrumhalf passes at the wall. I got up feeling a little drowsy and stuffy, but just brushed it off as being extra sleepy and went about my business.

Then I got to the gym and started on my sprints. After going through just three runs I seriously felt like quitting. My legs were moving and my body felt okay, but there was just this overwelming "ugh" feeling encapsulating me. However, I still thought this feeling just involved sleepiness, so I took a big internal gulp, and looked toward my favorite motivational trigger phrases. For instance:

"Navy seals wake up at 3am and swim through the dark ocean with sand in their underwear and no one cares how they feel"

OR

"Lance armstrong had cancer and he still rode his bike"

Or my favorite and most popular internal conversation begins with a question:

"What would Jonny do??" and then I usually answer my question with something like, "Jonny would train, dammit"

Okay, so I know that sounds a little more than psychotic, but it works for me, and I got through my workout, angry scrumhalf passes included.

Then I went home, took a shower, and again the blah feeling resurfaced. I began to get ready for school but then I just thought. Okay, this isn't normal, I must be getting sick. Maybe if I just go to sleep now and sleep for the rest of the day then I'll get rid of it.

Well, that's what I did ALL DAY yesterday - I slept and watched tv...nothing else. Brutus was even kind enough to snuggle and keep me extra warm. I even skipped practice in the interest of my health, and didn't set my alarm this morning to go to the gym. But you know annoys me??? I just feel exactly the same as I did yesterday - no worse, no better. Still BLAH. My food tastes icky and I have no energy, but other than that - I'm fine.

What is this plague upon my training? I suppose maybe I have some sort of virus and my immune system is doing an effective enough job at expelling it...but that the fight is taking up all my energy and I'm feeling those side-effects. That, I suppose, is better than puking my guts out, but still very frustrating. I suppose I'll just have to wait to get better...

In the meantime, I'll be here on my couch, feeling icky, and wondering "What would Jonny do?"

hmmm...

Probably sleep.....sweet rugby dreams everybody.



P.S. Does anyone else use any crazy motivational trigger phrases for those days when the last thing you want to do is workout?? Just curious...because some ppl tell me I'm crazy on this, but I'm betting there are other crazies out there ;)

Okay....so I'm trying not to get too excited. But here is the update on my 4o yard time. Tonight at practice we ran indoors on the track in tennis shoes. No wind. I don't know why I'm reporting conditions but, whatever, they do it in the Olympics and right now I feel like an Olympian...

Anyways, so...Da da da DUM! my first run was a:

5.42!!!!!!!

I know, right!?! Okay, so if you don't know me, you probably don't understand the significance of that little number, so let me explain. I have always been, well, that slow kid that people mistake as looking really fast. When I first started playing rugby I weighed a buck fifteen and ran a 6.6 (wow) 40 yard time. Ridiculous. Luckily at u19 tryouts fate intervened and something happened to cause us to NOT time 4o's (thank the good Lord). Since that time, I have been able to lower my 40 to somewhere around a 5.9-6.1. Still not so hot (okay, so terrible) but an improvement. As time has gone on and I have advanced to higher levels, my 40 has kind of been my thorn in my side - an achilles heel, if you will. My goal, therefore, has been to lower it to a 5.7 flat - that's all I asked...

So imagine my sheer disbelief and utter amazement when I saw this time written down beside my name after my first run. "No f***ing way" was all I said to my coach". I then proceeded to find my way to the back of the line and prayed to all that was good and holy that I wouldn't run through the second time and pull a more likely 5.9...

So what happened? Another 5.42? Or did I clock something like a 6.1 and accept the first run as a fluke....welll.....I ran a:

5.61!!!

Yeah, I know!! Not as fast as the first run, but WHO FREAKING CARES!!! That's still over two tenths of a second faster than my previous fastest time. To check for accuracy, I went over and checked out everybody elses times - completely normal, if not a little on the slow side. Could it be? Am I no longer the slow kid??? I really really REALLY hope so. Average those babies out and you get a solid 5.51...an AVERAGE of a 5.51!!! I'm sorry...I just can't contain myself.

We'll be timing again next week and so I'll find out just how accurate these things are in a hurry...for now, I'll just enjoy this momentary blissssss =)