Minimum wage rugby
My knee is on fire. A first experience of ‘artificial turf’ certainly claimed its pound of flesh. The banging drums and blaring trumpets aren’t enough to drown out the noise from my throbbing hand. A fracture, ligaments, muscle, or all of the above? The light show, the smell of beer, the closed roof, and the giant screens create a vacuum of anticipation.
Minimum wage rugby means whilst my work had finished at 17h00 on a Sunday afternoon, I spend my Sunday evening at the París La Défense Arena watching how it’s actually done. The speed is unrelenting. The collisions are brutal. The accuracy and precision leave me embarrassed about my own capacity.
I’m seated right behind the corner flag watching Finn Russel command his team with ease, flair and authority. Apparently we play the same sport, by name only, and in fact as of this season the same position. We both have our clubs who pin hopes and ambitions upon their recruitment. Our wage demands may differ, but there is an expectation to do a certain job.
He zips a bullet of a pass out to the far right touchline. The ball takes less than two seconds to travel twenty meters. Throughout the chaos his shoulders remains loose and relaxed, as though he hasn’t a care in the world. As though millions of euros isn’t decided by his actions. I both admire and envy his calmness, and think about the 60 euro I missed out on with today’s defeat.
He misses his first kick; by no means easy. I console myself; ‘even the best in the world miss sometimes.’ It’s a hollow consolation, and I know that I’m flattering myself. But my knee is on fire, and my hand is throbbing. I’m fragile and I’ll take whatever comfort I can get.
He misses another two. One hits the left post, and the other the right. The game is tight, and at this level every action matters. Every mistake seems fatal. He remains unfazed. By now I would have retreated. Stop trying in fear of more mistakes. In fear of being ridiculed.
Not him. Not this giant of the game. He keeps going. Staying in command; radiating an aura of self-belief. Finally an opportunity arrives. Penalty to Racing. Find the corner flag. Build pressure and win the match. The scene is set, and destiny is written. But, against all expectation he makes a mistake; failing to find touch. Again I comfort myself with hollow consolation.
It would be a sin to compare myself to the best in the world. But I do it anyways. Both of us started with the same intention. To become the best. I feel embarrassed typing that. But it’s the truth. Of course we cannot all make it to the very top. I am a realistic guy. I don’t blame bad luck or anything else. I am right where I deserve to be.
Some of us are meant to win World Cups, and change the face of the sport. Others are meant to slug it out in lower divisions to put food on the table. To be paid to play rugby is still a dream come true. At least that’s what I’m told.
It’s well after midnight when I walk into my flat. Finally able to ice my hand and tend to the missing skin on my knee. All injuries seem worse at 1am in the morning.
