Rugby & Lemons

Sometimes life gives you lemons but you just don’t know how to make lemonade. 

Last Saturday I went to see Christchurch’s rugby team, the Crusaders, playing against the South Africans’ Stormers, at their new stadium (the last one was defeated by the February 2011 earthquake). If you are in New Zealand, going to a rugby match it’s something you just need to do (or go to the supermarket barefoot, you choose). As the countdown clock of my departure ticks louder and louder, it was a long overdue task I had to cross from my kiwi-must-do list. And taking the risk of over sharing a bit my views on the game, I have to say that seeing it live confirmed the impression tv already gave me: rugby is porn for straight women. There is something extremely erotic about witnessing men the size of industrial closets smack each other to the ground. It’s not only porn, its historical porn. It allows us to revive the good old days when there wasn’t a societal necessity to come up with concepts such as ‘metrosexuality’ to explain why men now enjoy mirrors and hairdryers as much as women. Yet, the most memorable moment of the night was not the players game . 

yes, please.

Before leaving the house, my flatmate, too bored to enjoy his own life, decided that the most logical use of his time was to do my make-up like I was on my way to marry a rugby player instead of watching them score tries (goals). After protesting about the ridiculousness of putting on make-up to go sit on a 15$ open air seat to watch human beasts throw balls, I lost the argument and twenty minutes later I was already late but ready to rock that game in style. Little did I know. At the stadium, my cheering mates for the Crusaders were five Czechs and an empty seat next to me from a New Zealander who bailed on our European entourage at last minute (he actually said it was too much Europeans for him to handle). As we were not quite in the designated places, I just told the confused guy staring at the seat numbers to seat next to me to avoid a larger dance between chairs. 

grab that ball, boy!

When I actually looked at him with proper eyes, I wondered if some superior cosmical force was playing with me. First, the random make-up session when all I wanted was to dress like a comfortable Bavarian lesbian and now there I was, with top notch visual production and a last minute empty seat next to me that a lonesome, handsome and blue eyed Scottish guy on my left just happened to take. Even after reacting to his name with a “you have a girl’s name” (it’s official: I have the same smoothness with men as an African elephant has in a Swarovski store), he didn’t mind being my live Wikipedia for the next ninety minutes, enlightening me on rugby rules and tactics every time something happened and I seemed lost about it: “now you can clap, that was good”, “so when the player does X, Y happens and Z follows”, "no, the game is not over". 

Running Closets

Granted, those eyes plus the thick accent didn’t allow for my brain to process a great part of the information offered but, in the grand scheme of things, who the hell cares?  By the end, I reassured him that I am not so ignorant in other areas of human intellect and in a clumsy goodbye we both stand in the dilemma of shall-i-ask-his/her-number but no one did, so we just went our separate ways. It felt as if life was throwing lemons right at my head and I wasn’t able to grab any, let alone squeeze one into a glass. Oh well, at least that was one memorable rugby game.