Jersey #9: Kentucky's Journey

Okay...so maybe I didn't get to go to San Diego when I REALLY wanted to, but thanks to my friends in the midwest, it looks like I'm gonna get to play in the sun and sand after all!

The champagne classic is a supposedly awesome tournament held every year over on the west coast, and I've always wanted to go. Just the other day I was sitting around the house, moping that all my friends had gotten to play rugby already this year, when I received a facebook message from one of last summer's New Zealand buddies asking if I'd like to go to the tournament with her team. Well....duh! I immediately got to work on making it happen - begging for a plane ticket from the folks, and expressing the fact that I am pretty much bankrupt to a kind Valkyrie who helped me with my San Diego budgeting. Thankfully, I got my ticket and determined that I could probably manage to be a cheapskate for that weekend and still have a wonderful time.

I also found out that they are kind of in need of backs. So, while I may be playing scrumhalf for some games....I may also be playing FLYHALF. Interesting.....I imagine that it may seem like some sort of out-of-body experience, playing in the position of the "other half" for a bit. I have to admit, if I do get the opportunity to play 10, I'll be pretty nervous. But it could be an exciting experience and an opportunity to improve my field vision and running skills.

Whatever happens, I am SOOOO excited to get to play!!!! This trip is just what I need to raise my spirits and get back into things in preparation for the spring season and select-sides. It's also really boosted my training motivation. I had been sick for about a week, but I'm all healed up now and taking on the world again, so that is another reason to smile.

Alright...I'm heading out into the cold now to get in a good endurance session. More on San Diego, my recent workouts, and (hopefully) an alumni trip to Iowa soon!

A long, long time ago in a land called Wales, a little angry man was leading a tired, jet-lagged, delirious group of about 30 rugby girls on a three mile trek through the park back to their hotel from practice. Along the way, we spotted a little cake that said "eat me"......so we did. Then, walking cards and giant caterpillars began walking out from behind the trees.

Okay, so we didn't really eat little cakes....but until today - the glorious day in which a friend posted this photo - I had no proof of ever meeting giant caterpillars. But yes, now I can say with certainty that Alice in Wonderland characters did, in fact, appear out of nowhere while walking through a park in Cardiff, Wales...for serious!

(excuse the poor quality - this was way back in 2004, before everyone had digital cameras)

Haven't done this in a while...but since I've been in a fairly somber mood as of late I thought I might as well post my latest poem. I guess it sort of goes along with my "long winter" mood. Anyways, here goes:



Colorblind


Some of us are blinded from the inside out.
With shrinking, shriveling, sad little hearts
Which turn two sparkling baby blues
To a hollow gray.

All the better to see you with,
My far away, immediate nothing.
Darkness? If only.
It’s the color that’s gone.

Gray as the sunshine,
Gray as the hole in my stomach
Gray as the pathetic, meandering
Apology I’ve imagined for myself
With love, from you.

Gray. Like the hilarity of hope.

No blackness, no dark,
Not blind of objects, nor of light.
Yet straining, tired, and bloodshot…
Numb, as the outside shines – sparkling, bouncing,
Brilliant against the gray, grey…gray -

Yes, blind.
Having seen it all,
And still, nothing but gray.

As I write, I’m sitting aboard a flight which has finally begun making it’s way back toward my so-called home of Philadelphia (sigh). I can’t lie anymore; I’m exhausted. Not tired. Not worn down. Not broken. Just plain exhausted.

Today has been a small microcosm of that exhaustion. As a sort of consolation gift for not being invited to attend the USA "A" camp in San Diego this past weekend, I traveled to Maine for three days of “extreme skiing” with a friend from last summer’s New Zealand tour. Normally, skiing wouldn’t be my activity of choice at the beginning of a rugby season. It’s an inherently dangerous activity, and especially so for me given that I suck at it – but I guess I felt like being a bit dangerous...

And so, I spent money I didn’t have, boarded a flight that had to be gifted to me by my parents, and endeavored to participate in an activity that isn’t quite my strong suit. Despite my fears (or hopes?) skiing went over fairly smoothly. I have the expected aches and pains from more than a few crashes, most from my day of snowboarding, but I’ve come away without any permanent damage, and even managed to get fairly comfortable chasing my much more adept friends down the intermediate slopes. My returning travel, however, has been another story...

I began the day expecting to hop on a flight out of Portland on a direct route to Philly. However, zero visibility fog changed those plans pretty quickly. My flight was cancelled, and pretty soon I found myself on a cramped bus bound for Boston, with a flight that was supposed to head out at 6:30 and arrive in Philly at a reasonable hour. Not so much. My flight out of Boston also ended up being delayed, and a couple of hours later, I finally boarded my flight sometime around 8:30. Countless painful minutes later, we were finally in the air. And here I am.

So basically, it goes like this....I went skiing this weekend to avoid reality. The snow drowned out the sun and sand of San Diego. The skiing drowned out the rugby. And the company drowned out my thoughts. Basically, I had a lot of fun and thought very little about a home which feels anything but mine, a maddeningly unfulfilling job, far away friends, and an uncertain future in the sport I love. But then instead of returning smoothly to regular life, I was given a day in which I had nothing else to do but sit in an airport and explore the darker caverns of my mind.

Which brings me back to my exhaustion.

With so much turmoil and uncertainty over recent months there have been more than a few moments where I have questioned my ultimate goal. I’ve questioned my abilities; I’ve questioned my worthiness; I’ve even questioned my desire. I came immeasurably close to packing it all in and heading out into the great unknown to begin a new life for myself, sans rugby. I tried soooo hard to take that step. I really, really, tried. And you know what the best (and worst) part is? I’ve come to realize I love it. More than anything and everything. I love the places it’s taken me and the friends it’s given me and the experiences I’ve had along the way. I’ve loved the hard practices out in the rain and cold as much as the sunny match day victories. I’ve loved the training and the socializing. I’ve loved the drama and the camaraderie. The grass. The mud. The ball. The pain. The travel. The home games. The friends. The rivals. The players. The coaches. I have loved everything. The gifts. The sacrifices. I have loved. And I love...

And so, I know that I shouldn’t retire from my dreams for lack of love. But as I’ve learned from my horrifically failed attempts at romantic relationships, love isn’t the only ingredient necessary for success. I can love rugby all that I want, but if I’m not good enough, I’m just not. Unfortunately, it’s too early to tell whether or not that’s the case, so I have to keep going. I have to keep trudging through this winter...

I’ve called it the longest winter in my title because that’s what it’s been for me. One long deep-freeze, despite the comparably fair temperatures outside. I made a lot of mistakes last fall. A lot. I played poorly at times, I said things I shouldn’t have said, I did things I shouldn’t have done, and as a result, my world was put into a bit of a blender. I haven’t really spoken about it on here up to this point because it wasn’t really appropriate but, I will no longer be playing for the Philly Women in the fall. They are an amazing team full of talent and wonderful people, but for whatever reason, I was not able to fit the mold. So for an entire off-season, I have been in limbo – struggling to decide where, or even if, I would continue to play. Once again, I will be a rookie – it seems that the Keystone club here in Philly will be my next stop, so at least I won’t be packing up anytime soon. But I have to start all over...learning names and playing styles and proving myself (or not). I have to find out, once again, where and if I fit.

Again, exhaustion.


Yet as I explained before – I’m in love. Hopelessly, recklessly, unconditionally in love with the sport of rugby and all the people and things that surround it. So regardless of the weary legs and broken hearts which are sure to lie in front of me, I’m going to keep pushing forward. Love, ya know...it’s a funny thing. It gives us wings and blinds us at the same time – a rather dangerous combination if you ask me. When soaring into the fog, the chances of crashing increase dramatically. But then, the only alternative is to remain on the ground...



Editors Note: This post was written Monday night, on the plane....I didn't post it till Tuesday, and you'll be happy to know (or maybe not I guess) that I made it home safe and sound around 11:30pm - about nine hours after my initial expected arrival time. Oh well...

Well, it seems that winter has certainly returned to the East coast in full force this week (or finally arrived, however you look at it), and oddly enough, I couldn't be happier. Having lived in Iowa for two years, I repeatedly griped over bone-chilling temperatures which seemed to stretch on for ages; but now I see it as sort of a character building experience. It let's one know that the human being is sturdier than might be expected, and that there are things to be enjoyed in the outdoors despite what may appear to be a less than inviting environment.

The tricky part, then, is getting started. From the comfort of my warm couch, the sound of the wind outside my window and the chill of the cold air seeping its way under the door and into my apartment are enough to deter me from venturing into the great outdoors. However, with the help of my obsession for training and a pleading look from Brutus I inevitably find myself bundling up for a trek into the deep freeze.

Despite the drawbacks, cold weather training sessions have never been a regrettable experience. There's just something really special about sprinting through the cold air and being surprising cognizant of the the nuances of the work my body usually performs without my knowing. It's the one time that breathing becomes tangible; the sting of the air inside the lungs and that extra push in and out make appreciable the work of those two invaluable organs. Not only that, but actually seeing the breath in front of me - the product of my effort in visual form. Moving down the line, my legs, whether covered or not, tend not to work as fluidly when faced with serious chill. On my return jog up the hill to the apartment, I had to continually remind them that, despite their protest, they could indeed continue to move me forward, one leg after the other, and at my desired pace. In addition, all this direction to the lungs and legs must be conducted above the screaming of half-numb fingers. It's a pain just tolerable enough that I remain assured that frostbite is not of concern, but just painful enough not to allow for a moment's respite. I suppose it's natures way of ensuring that all extremities remain intact, but it certainly can provide for a serious annoyance.

In spite of all the aches and pains of the cold weather experience, the beauty of it all inevitably shines through to make every second of discomfort worthwhile. In addition to puffs of crystallized breath rising into the air, the glitter of snow clings to every eyelash. The sounds are also worth the trip - or rather, the lack of them. Especially in a big city like Philadelphia, it seems that the parks and sidewalks are a rather crowded commodity in fair weather. Bikes, dogs, horses, runners, walkers, children, unicyclists - whatever - flock to the great outdoors whenever possible to escape the drudge of a what is one of the filthier cities I have encountered. However, cold weather seems to keep all but the most enthusiastic of those normal park-goers at bay, allowing for an unheard of amount of solitude. Only the sound of birds and the occasional footsteps of other hard-nosers like myself fill the air. When I do encounter one of them, a nod of the head is all that's needed to communicate an understanding. It's too cold to be outside and not be working hard, and far too cold not to open your mind for a moment and look around, appreciating what so many others are missing at that very same moment.

Indeed, I could certainly have chosen to perform the very same workout on a treadmill in the comfort of a heated fitness facility. However, I would have missed the intangibles. Sometimes, it's not the workout in itself that is so important, but the willingness to put in the work despite other obstacles. In rugby, more than perhaps other sports, we must learn to put in our best effort despite distractions. Sometimes the jolt from the last tackle or the pain from a busted finger must be overcome in order to get the job done. Likewise, occasionally sprinting outdoors on the days when the cold would encourage me otherwise is a great exercise in overcoming distractions and pain for the sake of a higher goal.


The moral of the story - winter is painful, but beautiful, too. I challenge all you cold-weather nay-sayers to bypass the drudgery of enduring these last few weeks of gloomy skies and bitter temperatures by facing up to it head-on. Actually experiencing the cold has helped me to not only appreciate what old man winter has to offer, but to grow quite fond of him in the process.

See ya'll out there.

Why post a video of a sneezing baby panda and it's mama? Well...why not?

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