Cup of Ambition

The green pitch was expansive. It extended as far as the horizon. The ivory goal posts stretched higher than my eyes could see. Their painted tops disappearing into the starry night above. Along the edges of the field, light posts illuminated the rugby players under blue-white fluorescent light, their movements made more crisp somehow by the sharp contrast of colorful jerseys against the twinkling nighttime sky. The lush grass looked so very soft. As the massive men slammed into one another, they fell into the field as though it were a feather bed.

And there I slept on my feather bed, dreaming about rugby.

I believed any remaining doubt in regards to not playing rugby this season was erased. I was at ease with my difficult decision. The Bingham Cup was a suitable bookend to two years of unexpected fun. I like bookends. The brief period spent on the pitch had been quality time and now I was ready to rest.

Who knew my rest would be interrupted with a rugby dream so convincing and so alive that I awoke this morning yearning for the brutal sport once more? Who knew a scant midnight vision could evoke those missed memories, that pesky feeling of friends lost. Who knew a dream could channel the raw thrill of this sport into my sleeping mind for me to savor and reflect upon the entire morning?

And who knew Dolly Parton could play rugby?

Yes.

Dolly Parton was my dream guide as we watched games and then played rugby together. She was so cute too, decked out in a pink and white track suit. Her hair was huge. Platinum blond and done up like a giant swirl of cotton candy. I didn’t notice her trademark “assets”. I think she left them at home in respect of visiting a gay man’s dream about him missing rugby and beefy men.

But there we were at this enormous field, just talking about rugby and the many laws governing it. She glanced at the field, at the game in progress and suggested, in her darling Tennessee mountain twang, “You wanna play rugby with me? Let’s go!”

And before I could protest, Dolly and I were kitted up, myself in my muddy shorts and jersey and she’s jump-the-shark adorable in a lavender and cream rugby jersey and pink short shorts. She wore teensy, pink rugby cleats with sterling silver spikes. She took a long moment to pose as I admired her darling outfit.

Work Dolly Parton. Work!

Dream guides often represent your “true self” or how you want friends and family in the waking world to see you. They can take any form. Perhaps a cat, slinky and mysterious, leading an awkward woman to a secret chamber to find her lover there, so very sensual. Or perhaps a widower, furious but controlled, will see distant tornadoes inviting him to unleash his anger, his fury.

Well here was Dolly Parton in pink beckoning my gay ass to play rugby again. Sigh.

At first I was all timid and trying to do most of the work to keep Dolly from getting tackled or having to run around. She's like eighty years old, and seriously, she is the size of a Bratz doll, including the giant noggin’ and lack of nose.

But Dolly Parton was a monster in her knee socks! She was out of control!

She’d tackle someone then get up, tackle someone else, get up, push through five hulking men and then tackle someone else before punting the ball and chasing it to pass back to me!

We were both running around the pitch (it was our team of two against a standard team of fifteen) doing amazing feats of physical fitness. I did question the reality of it at all at one point, but she scolded me for not paying attention to the game. Then she passed me the ball and I slammed through an opponent and scored!

Wooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!

Dolly ran to me and hugged me. We jumped up and down and the score board began to buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz… fucking alarm clocks.

Good morning.

Note: And yes you homos, no need to mention her special guest appearance as Charlene's Guardian Movie Star on "Designing Women". It was such a strange, real dream. I'm still mulling over all the imagery of playing rugby with Dolly Parton. Needless to say, I'm ordering pink knee socks this morning.

Foggiest of Recollections

Lethargic afternoons numbly reclined in my red room at 797 Penn avenue burned away most of my childhood memories; those hidden cardboard boxes of sepia-tone photos featuring Christmas parties, weddings and renuions where all the women are polyester mountains with snowy beehive caps and the men are surprisingly youthful, strangely handsome, and everyone oohs and ahhs over grandmom's desserts followed by the kids' amusing talent show that is neither particuarly amusing nor particularly talented...

I exhaled and the names and details trickled up from my nose. Hidden boxes of mildew-stained photos still stashed away in the collective attics of our minds. Little details hidden on glossy, fading memories. You can find more snapshots beyond the realm of the black and white, the second dimension. Have a little lazy fun burning them and see what develops in the clouds. So long as you don't get lost in the fog. If you float too deep the ghosts may call your name, scream your name, but lost in the darkroom you'll never know in which direction to look. What's more confusing is when the voice is your own...

Memories of my childhood indeed left me in a fog this past weekend as my family and I reunited for a rousing day of rugby in our nation's capital. A light rain misted the vibrant green trees of rural Maryland as the family (my aunt, my brother, my father and my boyfriend) toured the rolling hills in search of the field where twenty years of unspoken resentments, internalized anxiety, would finally face the overcast light.

My stomach always aches prior to a game. The window of my aunt's station wagon was beaded with water drops, and my breath fogged the interior glass. I wiped it away, and for a split second saw a chubby boy wearing a blue mesh jersey hiding among the trees. I blinked my eyes. He disappeared. My stomach rolled as we crested a hill and I slid down in my seat hoping to ignore the apparition I had seen.

The boy I had been. That sepia tone shatters, padded jerseys in red and blue crunch together with surprising force for the players wearing them are children no older than 11 or 12. Myself in blue mesh dashes forward and slams into a boy wearing red. I see more red. He's attended to by the adults on the sidelines, and play resumes again. The blood thrills me. The adrenaline thrills me. It's the all-star game and my father, my brother, my grandparents, the whole clan (I wish my mom was there) are in the stands. That's all I remember of pee-wee football. I remember I hated all the running. Always running. The asshole coach told my father (who coached the pee-wee baseball team) that I was particularly talented, that I was fast for my size. I made it to the all-star game, although I've always secretly suspected it was only because my father knew the coach...

"You know, Neil used to be so good at football -- "

"Dad, stop, please!"

I interrupted my father as he prepared to regale my rugby mate with what a good pee-wee footballer I was. I write my sassiness off as pre-game jitters, but think it's pathetic that someone can be so fixated with the past, with those old photos. The irony is not lost on me. We unfolded our chairs and spread out a quilt on the damp grass. From the corner of my eye I again spied that chubby ghost-boy in blue mesh sneaking a hotdog off the concessions table. A light fog settled in the pine and oak treetops. Through them, a half dozen buzzards were visable slowly circling, smelling the air for something tasty and red. I try to push him from my mind.

I can't remember the coach's name. He was short with a stocky frame and a pug nose situated above a blond moustache. He wore his ass on his shoulders, walking with it high in the air like he stood in an invisible pair of high-heels. My eleven year old mind couldn't finger it, but I found him strangely handsome. Regardless, even then I could tell a jackass when I met one.

The three of us were standing infront of jackass' home, me, my father and the jackass. He was such a jackass! He wore a whistle all the fucking time! He probably wore that whistle while fucking his wife, ick. (The coach being a jackass didn't influence my decision however.) Jackass and my father stood infront of me. I remember feeling ambushed, brought to the yard of his home. Brought outside the reach of my sometimes vindictive mom. Brought here to give my own answer to the question my father had asked with such persistent enthusiasm for several months.

"Do you want to play another season of pee-wee football?"

"No. . ."

And my father and I stepped into his Pontiac, and quietly he drove me home to my mom's. I never saw jackass again, but driving past his house, even today, I still get an upset stomach. When I visit my hometown, I sometimes see that little chubby boy standing in his yard, in the fog...

My mom and dad had finished a quiet Southern divorce, never any sepia-toned photos or attic memories of those polite, private, unspoken family affairs. Those are the memories we hope to ignore, but never do. Mom's absence from the family reunions and Christmas parties was palpable. The talent show now cut short by the appearance of the girlfriend and frantic calls by the boys for their mom to pick them up early. Which she happily did, her boys.

I charged across the rugby pitch. I ran so fast. I ran and sidestepped an idle opponent. I turned and lunged towards the ball carrier's thighs and he crumpled into the forgiving grass. I crumple the forgiving grass and the fog grows thick...

I dashed forward and actually managed to block a punt that would have cost us valuable yards. My teammates on the side began chanting my name. I hear my name in the fog...

I lunged towards an opponent, he fumbled and weakly tossed the ball to his teammate which I snatched from the air and carried down the field before I, too, was tackled. From beneath a pile of muscular arms and legs, I see the chubby boy in the blue mesh jersey. He is pumping his fist and doing a victory dance and laughing...

An hour later, exhausted, the last person I tackle is my boyfriend on the sidelines. I kissed Bryce's sun-burned forehead before staggering over to the family quilt. My father was the first to congratulate me for playing a great game. And twenty years of self doubt and fear of my father's disappointment floated gently away on a spring breeze. The game was over. We didn't win, but those are the details that never matter. Those are the details you can afford to burn when searching for that greater picture in the clouds.

Holy Rugby!

rugb The ball was out! I peeled off of the forwards and cut into the opposing team’s offense. The competitor ahead of me saw my barreling approach and feebly pitched the ball to his teammate, who ran past his poor throw, leaving the exposed ball floating in the air. It was a dandelion seed floating on the gentle October breeze.

Everything around me slowed into one timeless moment, an open expanse ahead, the rival team away from me. The ball begged to be plucked out of the air and carried down the pitch for a scoring try.

I imagined myself stealing the ball. Thundering down the field like a thoroughbred. Placing the ball in scoring territory, the entire game would stop and my teammates would flood onto the field. Cheering, they’d hoist me up onto their shoulders and I’d…

The ball fell to the ground. My legs gave out before I could catch it. I punctuated my lack of athleticism with a loud, “FUCK!” Was I truly that upset at my abilities? Or was I just being an attention whore for those on the sidelines? I cringe to admit it was a little of both. I continued to act like a pouting ninny, punching the field and at intermitted periods grunting like a baboon.

SINNER, REPENT THY SINS!

Perhaps I’m being too hard on myself. Every new relationship has a “getting to know you” period. I’m growing more accustomed to playing rugby. I’m also getting to know the follow-up rituals of a rugby match.

Following every game a boisterous drink up occurs in which the rival teams come together to sing bawdy songs and celebrate an afternoon of broken noses and sweaty man on man action. One such song, “Jesus Can’t Play Rugby”, is a particular favorite of mine. Everyone croons reasons why Jesus can’t play rugby (bloody thorns, heavy cross, etc). I stayed up late Friday night scribbling possible lyrics into my little blue notebook. Should your Jesus-ology be found pleasing then you are cheered to the heavens. Should you get booed, well…

CRUCIFIXION!

Due to our gay team’s triumphant win (Blue You Rock!), champagne was in abundance. After chugging a half bottle of bubbly, I stepped forward and offered my fantastic verse!

“Jesus can’t play rugby cause hippies don’t have health insurance!”

It certainly seemed like a good idea at the time. And I committed to that sucker as too! Sadly, it was either a stinky verse or I shouted over someone else’s singing. Either way I was punished.

The blurry faces around me resounded with a chorus of boos and burly men barking “Shoot the boot! Shoot the boot!” Usually a failed rugger is forced to guzzle from a stinky rugby cleat. In my case it was a cherry red fireman’s helmet. Pushed forward, I guzzled a fizzy fusion of bubbly champagne, black ale and light beer, half of which soaked my polyester leisure jacket the other half-liter soaked my gullet. I don’t remember much following.

“Don’t shpeak to me. I’m invishible.”

Apparently this was my new verse the entire ride home as concerned mates checked on my wellbeing. I intently concentrated on the back of my eyelids. A stop at a gas station resulted in a much needed Mary Kate (outside the bus thank you.) And more vomiting occurred at the rugby president’s swanky Chelsea apartment where the entire team, sans moi, engaged in more libations.

RESURRECTION!

Unconscious, I awoke from the dead to the “Hedwig” soundtrack for a bizarre little musical revue in front of my mates, before passing out again after vomiting one final time (inside the lavatory thank you…I think.)

Sunday morning after leaving a charitable person’s futon (Gox is gaseous oxygen FYI) I limped down the street. My hangover was a crown of thorns. I slumped into a train seat and grimaced as Saturday’s flashbacks mocked me.

Unfocused aggression, lack of technical skills, delusions of grandeur, growing team mentality, desired invishibility, showtunes; my cross feels heavier and heavier the more I analyze. Finding balance in any competitive sport is hard enough, but in gay rugby the stakes feel so much higher when I drag all my Luis Vuitton baggage onto the pitch. I brutally tackle a giant straight man and I giggle to myself, “Could I have played high school football instead of joining the drama club?”

Jesus Christ Superstar becomes the star quarterback until that next ball slips through my hands. But this time there’s no “Fuck!”, no pouting, ok maybe another Jesus lyric, but definitely no more cherry red fire helmets! All that’s left is a calm resolution to do better, plus all this damn running has made my calves look fabulous.

Praise Him!

Gaysissi Neilicus

I ran today, and I wasn’t even chased. I ran under my own accord. I ran several blocks before slowing, short of breath. I strolled into a stagger then into an amble. Wheezing, my amble became a saunter which slid to mosey until falling into a toddle followed by a hunched, gasping stop.

I was a diagram illustrating the devolution of Man.

I prayed a line of volunteers would encourage me to push onward. Just punch through the exhaustion. My exertion rewarded with an ice-cold martini from the trays of cocktails held by the cheering mob. No such luck.

I jogged to the park near my apartment. A neon orange jungle gym sang with dangling children. I don’t know which was louder: the children, the paint or my panting. Two very young, black sisters played claps. Kneeling, I lowered myself to the highest bar and attempted a chin-up. I failed. They stopped clapping and stared at me with stunned silence.

Mother appeared by her daughters. Still I hung there, my flabby arms exposed to the family. She handed me the door key I’d dropped.

“You lost this.” Her tone was “get away from my children, weirdo”. I climbed up from my knees and a little Indian boy proceeded to perform fifty chin ups. He counted each one with an Olympic zeal. “Show off”, I thought.

Like a decathlete, I dashed from the park at top speed before ducking behind the bushes out of general view. I panted laboriously while hiding behind the shrubbery. I removed my t-shirt and moved from the vicinity of Hamilton Park until the telltale rhythmic clapping grew louder and closer. As loud as my thumping heart the little girl’s clapping was again upon me.

Around the corner were the two little girls, once again. Motionless, silent, they stared at me with those cautious eyes. Not to frighten them, I reassuringly gestured towards them, out of breath. The mother found me, yet again, wheezing, topless, skulking behind a bush grabbing for her little girls, and promptly dialed three numbers on her cell phone.

I ran this time with a little more motivation. At home I plowed through a box of cold Popeye’s chicken, three tortillas and a quart of chocolate milk. Crumbled Nutter-Butters over raspberry sorbet finished the pig-out. I justified the chicken as ok with my Atkins. The tortillas I didn’t cover with cheese. The chocolate milk at least wasn’t Coca-Cola, and the cookies were crumbled over fat-free sorbet. Anyways, I “worked out” tonight.

How lucky the ancient Romans had it when eating disorders were cosmopolitan. Stuffed, I could have lounged in my luxurious vomitorium. Ticking my gizzard with an exotic peacock feather, I’d expunge my body of the ill-humoured ingestion. I’d retire to my gladiator pit where strapping warriors would massage one another in olive oil before flexing for my amusement.

Lucky Ancient Romans, those hunky men. I could have a body like that if only I pushed myself. Narcissism is a better motivator than even 911.

Drastic steps must be taken. I’ve decided to start playing rugby. Oh sure, I know nothing about the game. I’ve never really enjoyed contact sports, but I relate to the adrenaline fueled macho passion that only barreling into a mound of screaming brutes can satiate. Fear of cauliflower ears, torn ligaments, black eyes, broken fingers, shattered knees all feed my rugby/gladiator/fight club anticipation. I’m a man and I need the full body contact of a rough and tumble English blood sport where my only padding is a chewed up mouthguard.

Also the men on the gay rugby league are really, really, really hot. So macho fulfillment, really sexy blokes and with strenuous hard work and sacrifice I’ll get into shape, the choice seems simple, right?

Roman Philosopher Cicereo detailed in 41 BC, “Lost in fantasy, the eccentric Roman Senator Gaysissi Neilicus relaxed in his vomitorium. He imagined a road divided and saw images before him. In one an obese monstrosity cheerfully devoured oriental food, in the other a muscular Adonis flexed his muscles. The first path was delightful sloth. The second path represented beauty and health gained through hard work. Gaysissi Neilicus chose the first path and sent his messenger out for peacock feathers.”