Second Row: American Rugby

By M. Stefan Strozier

Second Row is a story of a man trying to become a writer and at the same time learning the complex sport of rugby. It's an in-depth analysis of the game of rugby, history of the game, and coverage of key American matches, including at the 2011 Rugby World Cup. This story is written in a clear way so that a person with no knowledge of rugby will finish reading understanding the sport. Second Row is a story of a team of men who are a family.

• Language: English
• Publisher: M. Stefan Strozier
• Release date: Mar 18, 2017
• ISBN: 9781494728984

Book preview

Mary Celeste Press

www.marycelestepress.com

Coming in 2015, the 2nd Edition, when Strozier will be covering the 2015 Rugby World Cup

in England!

To my children, Carolyn and Jay, as always.

&

Sin City Irish Rugby Football Club

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; For he today that sheds his blood with me, Shall be my brother.

—William Shakespeare, Henry V

Left to right (top row): Steve Hutcherson, Don Price, unknown, Jason No Money Nimark, Chris Sully, unknown, Tex, unknown, and Vinny  Sedwick.

>>>>>>> Chapter One

HRISTOPHER GEIS was a Marine. He is out of the service. I had been a US Army sergeant and then an Air Force Lieutenant, and my last military base was Nellis Air Force Base in  Las

Vegas.  Geis talks a lot of smack like every Marine. We  had

once fought, because I wanted nothing more than to shut his fat trap—permanently. Geis is tough, and he smashed my right ball (I have one ball because my left one was blown off in the Persian Gulf War when my vehicle drove over a land mine, and the military put in a fake one, dyed OD green in honor of the US Army; for all you ladies—646-620-7406); but I made a Kung-fu flip, hoisted Geis up off the ground, and body slammed him, as we used to call that move back when I had been a Military Policeman-cop. Geis let out a horrible gasp and he flailed on the grass like a dying, upside- down cockroach. I had to go to the VA to make sure my stuff still worked. It did, thankfully; not that I plan to have more kids. I checked the more important question of serviceability that night—hurt like a son-of-a-bitch.

Geis and I were driving to the Rum Runner, in Las Vegas, off of the Strip. We were in his Chevy Camaro. We were both hurting and slightly buzzed, coming from the party following our game against the Blackjacks. Sin City Irish RFC ceded from the Blackjacks a couple of years ago like Rebels from the Union. It had been a bitter divorce that was now a civil war. When the Irish play the Blackjacks, it’s closer to gang warfare than a sports match. And while the Blackjacks may have been victorious on the pitch on this day, they were now home in  bed licking their wounds, whilst the real men—shrugging off pain with liquor and drugs and women, all the while compiling epic stories—were just beginning the party.

I was new to the team. Tonight’s game was my first rugby game—ever. I had won Man of the Match (MoM). That was not because of heroics. And it was probably a safe bet to give the award to a new player in a vicious game such as this one. Nevertheless, it had been raining and cold and miserable; and that is when I am at my best. Vinny Sedgwick put me in at Second Row. I was not sure if Vinny was a captain or the coach or what; but I did as he said and no one protested because the one asset I have is leg strength.

This  group  of  men  was  far  different  from  any  that  I’d encountered in my life. Defiance best describes their credo. They were like a run-away jury—their way was the right one and all else may be damned or perhaps they were more of a run-away train, careening toward certain doom; but happy, always strangely happy, about their fate. Whatever this mysterious and elusive quality of Sin City Irish, it was something new to me, and I’ve been around the block a few times. This unknown commodity was like magic fairy dust; and even though I’ve never used drugs besides marijuana, I was prepared to snort it, shoot it up or whatever it took, because I had to have this magic dust filling my soul. It was the kind of thing that lets one die in peace—with a smile on one’s face, bravely facing eternity (or even the lack of it, as Hemingway said).

My father, Charles B. Strozier, worked as a history professor at Sangamon State University, later part of the University of Illinois. A long, circular road wound around the campus. My brothers and I rode in a beat-up Chevrolet station wagon in the 1970s. One day, my mother—Carol Kelly—and I were driving on that road, and she was very drunk. At times, such as when she picked me up after my Boy Scout troop meetings, she would be so drunk that I had to drive the station wagon home, all of 14-years-old.

A policeman pulled us over. My mother got out of our station wagon, walked over to the cop before he had time to exit  his  patrol  car,  and  started  yelling  at  him.  She  was

articulate and exacting in her attack. The cop struggled to exit his car. He tried to stand; but he was flabbergasted, speechless. After  several  long  minutes  of  bearing  my  mother’s  verbal attack, the cop finally came to his senses and reached into his car, grabbed his mike and called for back-up, not because my mom presented any real threat; but because she presented every threat imaginable. He was literally powerless before her. The back-up soon arrived. And my mother took them on too. She was in control of the entire scene. We were soon driving calmly away to find my father, swerving down the road slightly, with my mother still blasted drunk, righting the steering wheel as it drifted too far to the left or the right. I turned around to watch the cop cars (three by that point, the cops trying to look important with paperwork). I felt very ashamed; but as I watched the cops receding in our rear-

window, I was whispering, ‘Wow.’

Thusly, I get my sense of drama from my mama. And I’ve inherited from her a keen sense of defiance too. But these were blunt objects. The drama has taken me a lifetime to resolve and to successfully put into context, through the theater. But  I never imagined, in a million years, that I would ever meet anyone in my life that truly understood the meaning of the word defiance as my mother had defined it for me. Alas, halfway through life, I was proved wrong about that.

They call me Tex. I’m not a nickname-kind-of-a-guy. In the army, people of higher and lower ranks called me Sergeant Strozier,  not  Sarge  or  even  Strozier.  When  I  was  a lieutenant, I was Lieutenant Strozier, not Hey, LT! I am a serious man and I deliver the goods. I did not ask for this name change—it was simply assigned to me. I am quite happy with my real name, Mike, a name that took me a while to settle on, in fact, instead of Michael—and now this Tex. And out West, this kind of moniker is permanent; Tex has become my actual name. The name Tex is for someone, not necessarily from Texas, with a bit of a rough edge and who is at the same time copasetic. Tex  can probably drink ungodly quantities of

alcohol, and drink anyone under the table—that’s where the name originates. One does not mess with Tex; but there is no reason to fear him. Tex is friendly, and very well-liked by all, sometimes outrageous, and lives on the outskirts of town. Tex is a leader, and a loner too. Perhaps my teammates had gotten me precisely right. Every single time one of them shouts, Tex! Tex!—I feel myself recoil, grimace, from the absurdity of having a nickname; and especially one as ludicrous as Tex. It must really stick for them to continually say it, and with such confidence. And then a split-second later I smile broadly, puff out my chest and say, Well, yes, what is it?

At the Crown & Anchor, we had sung many rugby songs, among them this little diddy:

If I were the marrying kind Which thank the Lord I’m not, sir, The kind of rugger I would wed Would be a rugby...

Then there was a pause and all pointed to No Money Nimark, our Hooker, who had said:

Hooker, sir! ‘Why, sir?’

’Cause I’d swipe balls, and you’d swipe balls, We’d all swipe balls together.

We’d be all right in the middle of the night Swiping our balls together

The  Rugby  Song,  as  it’s  called,  continued  like  that  to every position; at one point it got to Second Row, and Vinny (the other Lock) sang:

Grab crotch, sniff butt...

A strange new drug, as pleasurable as heroin must be, was

coursing through my body. It was making me focus in on a tiny dot with clarity, and that in turn gave me what seemed  like ungodly confidence. It was from being inside of a Scrum, equal parts vulnerability and power. Each part of that House  of Cards had to maintain its edge; whilst at the same time trying to break the balance created by being a part of the structure. It was complex, so very complex. And that made me want to understand it  further.

As we drove, we saw Las Vegas in all its neon grandeur, each casino’s lights distinguishable; but they melt together. A crack-whore was handcuffed and bent over the hood of a police car. Red and blue lights; and, her angry eyes flashed as she shouted obscenity-laced protests, cheek on metal. Homeless people sat with their backs against a wall in the parking lot of a wedding chapel, next to a strip club. Las Vegas is an endless journey between cliché and meaning.

Then Chris Geis and I were happily wandering and lost, down the never-ending, winding roads of Suburbia.

Tex! Tex!—Geis suddenly yelled at me over the roar of his Camaro’s engine.

What? Where are we?

I don’t know, I said. What?

I said I don’t know where we are, I said. Oh, Geis said.

Are you lost?

This looks like a hospital. Let’s pull in here, Geis said. Okay, I said.

Where are we going?

We’re going to the Rum Runner, it’s only 5 blocks from the Crown & Anchor.

You’re supposed to be riding Shotgun. Stop!—I yelled.

It was too late. Geis had entered into an unauthorized area of a hospital that was blocked by metal spikes.

‘Pop!’—went his front tires, with violent fury and we both threw up our forearms in protection as we recoiled in shock. Geis stopped his Camaro. He had two choices at this point: one logical and cautious, given the predicament, and the other brazen and stupid; but oddly rational—that bizarre human  quality  to  go  all  the  way.  Geis  is  not  crazy.  He’s a  Marine.  I’m  the  crazy  one,  having  been  diagnosed  a paranoid schizophrenic at age 15 and serving a one-year stint in a full-blown mental ward. (It’s all in my first memoir, The

Labyrinth, World Audience Publishers, 2006.)

Geis kept driving over the obstacle and ‘Pop!’ went his back tires. He stopped again and looked at  me.

Tex!

What!?

Tex! I have four flat tires, Geis said.

I could smell the burning rubber from our open windows. Yes, you do, I said.

He put his car in reverse and backed up over the obstacle again with much violence, along with loud screeching and ripping sounds. Geis drove back through winding Suburbia until we found the main road. The ride was quite a choppy one. It was loud too.

Let’s get to the Rum Runner!—Geis yelled at me over the roar of four flat tires scraping the pavement. The rubber had torn unevenly so that all four tires were bumping and jumping along with fearsome  randomness.

Where is it?—he asked.

I’m not sure, I said. Drive South. Roger that, Geis said.

Geis pretended he knew where South was and I tried to concentrate. We were not drunk. But after a rough rugby match and a few beers one enters this inexplicable, dream-like state that I previously mentioned.

Turn left, I said.

As we made our way down the road to the bar, the rubber on Geis’ tires started to shred. I heard the steel of the rims

screeching against the pavement.

Geis, don’t you want to stop at a gas station?—I shouted. Let’s get to the Rum Runner!

Soon,  there  were  sparks  flying  from  the  rims  of  Geis’ Camaro. And there was perhaps a mile left of our journey down a major thoroughfare.

This is a very bumpy ride!—Geis screamed at me. Yes!—I yelled back.

No one stopped or honked or flashed their lights at us. Perhaps people in cars or those walking on the sidewalks thought that Geis and I were professionals, filming an action movie of some sort.

There’s  the  Rum  Runner!—Geis  said.  We  were  very happy, as if we were two sailors pulling into dock.

There was not much to it, just a poorly-lit sign in a large parking-lot complex. But he sounded as he had found the Promised Land. Neither of us were important members of this team. That may have been why he had wanted to make it to the bar—come heck or high water—for were we to go AWOL, it would not have looked good in the eyes of the team.

We  pulled into the parking lot where the Run Runner is.  I got out quickly and stood several steps back from the vehicle. The rims were glowing bright red and now I smelled burning steel—no longer just rubber. It occurred to me that  the car might have exploded or still could. We went inside. The car kept smoking a lot as it cooled in the darkness of the mostly empty parking lot.

The rest of the team was in the bar. We were pretty cool as we entered, like it was all no big deal. Geis was fairly responsible and he probably had car insurance. It was a shame because it was a very nice Camaro and no doubt crucial parts like the drive shaft and the alignment were  shot.

Vinny hoists his beer and shouts, Here’s to the Man of the Match, Tex! Everyone cheered. Geis sat in a corner with his head in his hands. I didn’t say anything about his Camaro that

was smoking outside, possibly now on fire. "Get