Greetings from the Ridge.

Sometimes we just need a little good news. Anyone over 50 remembers the time when the U.S. was number one in the world in just about everything except maybe caviar production, Sumo wrestling, and boomerangs. Whether it was average life span, health care, economic strength or potato chip production, the top flag on the pole was always red, white, and blue.
Okay, those times are gone and perhaps for the sake of world peace and prosperity it’s been healthy to share the pole position with other ambitious nations of the world. But it’s some small consolation that there’s still one record we’ve held for the past 85 years. We’re the current gold medal holder in the sport of rugby.

Rugby? That free-for-all football game the British play in short pants, no padding and a lack of teeth in the players’ heads? Yep. We’re still the world Olympic champs.

To be completely transparent on this, the last time rugby was played in the Olympics a group of boys from Stanford traveled six thousand miles to Paris and beat the French 17-3 in the final. The year was 1924 and the event hasn’t been held since due to a barrage of rocks and beer bottles hurled by the astonished French crowd. So, for the past 85 years the U. S. has held the title.
Things may change. The IOC recently voted to reinstate rugby as an Olympic event and when Rio de Janeiro holds its games in 2016 there will be ruggers from all over the world with the eye on our crown. Our crown…rugby.
In fact, two new sports will pop up at the Rio Olympics as the gentleman’s game, golf, makes it’s debut. Golf is played by bankers, by retirees, by little old ladies just up from their afternoon nap. Rugby is played in large part by mongrel hordes from the north raised on a diet of raw baby lamb and small children.

The Reverend B.J. Weber, a rugby coach at Columbia University and former chaplain for the New York Yankees said, “I’ve never seen better conditioned athletes than on a rugby field. The average N.F.L. player plays only minutes in a game. He wouldn’t last in rugby…he simply lacks the fitness, speed, and courage.” Regardless of your feelings about the two sports, there’s little disagreement that rugby is perhaps the most punishing sport in the world.

I’ve always had a personal fondness for the sport even though I’ve never watched a complete game in my life, all because of twelve hours spent with the world’s greatest rugby team.
The New Zealand Blacks are the New York Yankees of rugby. In fact, they have a winning record against every country in the world. The world! As fate would have it, they boarded the same plane out of Auckland, New Zealand, as our little group of Midwesterners. We were all in headed to Hawaii then San Francisco after a tour of Australia.
A great many of their players are Maori tribesmen and if you’ve ever seen a Maori athlete you know that they are built for this most vicious of all sports. Big boned, heavily tattooed, with heads of wild black hair, they make their presence known both on the rugby field and coming down the narrow aisle of a Quantus Airlines 747. These guys need their space and believe me, we did everything we could do give it to them.

I was curious when mealtime came somewhere over the South Pacific. Would the flight attendants delivery crates of raw chicken to the Blacks? Did they want to kill their own meal before eating it? Was silverware even necessary when they could handily pull a small cow apart with their clenched fists?

My seat was directly in front of the Maori ruggers and I was fascinated to listen to their conversation. I assumed they’d growl to each other about tearing limbs from opposing teams, wrenching the necks of wallabies, and mud wrestling reef sharks. Instead they chatted about their families, the devaluation of the Australian dollar, and the shrinking size of airline seats.
And then…somewhere south of Honolulu, the most amazing thing happened. Bored with the long flight and noticing that the rest of us were getting antsy as well, the entire New Zealand Black World Champion Rugby Team stood up, walked to the front of our cabin, and began to sing. Never in my life had I heard a harmony that beautiful. This was no spur-of-the-moment drunken barroom song. These muscle-laden goliaths were breathtaking in both their vocal power and their attention to musical detail. These guys had practiced. A lot! When? Where? Why? I didn’t know and didn’t care. Our trip to the South Pacific was wonderful, but there’s not a moment I remember as vividly as the Rugby Concert in the air.
If that’s what Olympic Rugby means, bring it on, mate!
You ever in Coonridge, stop by. We may not answer the door but you’ll enjoy the trip.