Last weekend saw the ricketiest collection of elderly old farts arrive in San Antonio since the last Alamo reunion. Walkers, wheelchairs, lumbago braces, arthritis salves and the pungent odors of cedar and mothballs clocked in a full 3 hours before game time.
Nice and early, like dinner.
Wheezing, grumbling and shaking our walking sticks at nearby misbehaving youngsters we kitted up in an amazing display of incoordination likened by many to the penultimate scene in the original “Dawn of the Dead”. Bones creaked. Ligaments cracked. Mouths gaped toothlessly in concentration as muscles long atrophied groaned pitifully to enable the arraying of socks and boots.
Many heroes of yore were among that throng of broken men. GUE (Go Ugly Early) the Legend somehow managed to wrestle into a jersey now so tight his head popped like a stretched pimple. Banksy the Bastard, so ancient he makes old toddle, arrived a good two hours earlier than everyone else “just to be safe”. Jack the Nasty wore his Noble Bra of Might. Tom the Moldy brought his kicking boots.
And so it was, our heroes deliberately took the field, and the combined legion of San Antonio RFC and Alamo City RFC shook. Not from fear, you understand; they should have gone before they came.
Many feats were done that day! Feats of Laryngitis, Scratching, Moaning About Local Government, Adjusting of the Genitals and Tales of Leaving the Turn Signal On permeated the game with mythical abandon! Hither and thither play turned and turned again, a maze of sloth! Luckily, “MAUL IT!” became our creed, and so we mauled, because leaning on each other to regather one’s constitution is an old forward trick. Surely, the backs get left out, but who really fucking cares about those cunts?
Invigorated by victory, the Silverbacks retreated gorilla-like to the shade of nearby trees to libate tired thews and exaggerate anecdotes of drug-free sexual conquest. Stories were told. Japes swapped. Backs ignored. Women ogled wistfully.
And so the tribe were conveyed to Old Man Rutledge’s house, because he had the meat of the pig and the bull, and battle had made us ravenous.
And so men ate. And it was good. It was better than good; it was Rutledge on the BBQ. And we drank copiously, and laughed and drank some more. And it was good. And we drank some more. And it was better. Thusly we discovered that the only backs that scored were over the age of 45 and therefore too fat to play in the backs and were starting to think about playing in the forwards, and so we drank some more, and the backs correctly went home to gnash and moan about those bastard forwards hogging the limelight.
And so the backs became familiar with old boys rugby.
And how the forwards laughed and laughed.
And it was good.
Nice and early, like dinner.
Wheezing, grumbling and shaking our walking sticks at nearby misbehaving youngsters we kitted up in an amazing display of incoordination likened by many to the penultimate scene in the original “Dawn of the Dead”. Bones creaked. Ligaments cracked. Mouths gaped toothlessly in concentration as muscles long atrophied groaned pitifully to enable the arraying of socks and boots.
Many heroes of yore were among that throng of broken men. GUE (Go Ugly Early) the Legend somehow managed to wrestle into a jersey now so tight his head popped like a stretched pimple. Banksy the Bastard, so ancient he makes old toddle, arrived a good two hours earlier than everyone else “just to be safe”. Jack the Nasty wore his Noble Bra of Might. Tom the Moldy brought his kicking boots.
And so it was, our heroes deliberately took the field, and the combined legion of San Antonio RFC and Alamo City RFC shook. Not from fear, you understand; they should have gone before they came.
Many feats were done that day! Feats of Laryngitis, Scratching, Moaning About Local Government, Adjusting of the Genitals and Tales of Leaving the Turn Signal On permeated the game with mythical abandon! Hither and thither play turned and turned again, a maze of sloth! Luckily, “MAUL IT!” became our creed, and so we mauled, because leaning on each other to regather one’s constitution is an old forward trick. Surely, the backs get left out, but who really fucking cares about those cunts?
Invigorated by victory, the Silverbacks retreated gorilla-like to the shade of nearby trees to libate tired thews and exaggerate anecdotes of drug-free sexual conquest. Stories were told. Japes swapped. Backs ignored. Women ogled wistfully.
And so the tribe were conveyed to Old Man Rutledge’s house, because he had the meat of the pig and the bull, and battle had made us ravenous.
And so men ate. And it was good. It was better than good; it was Rutledge on the BBQ. And we drank copiously, and laughed and drank some more. And it was good. And we drank some more. And it was better. Thusly we discovered that the only backs that scored were over the age of 45 and therefore too fat to play in the backs and were starting to think about playing in the forwards, and so we drank some more, and the backs correctly went home to gnash and moan about those bastard forwards hogging the limelight.
And so the backs became familiar with old boys rugby.
And how the forwards laughed and laughed.
And it was good.
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