Zombie Horse and the Great Whites

So, I have to talk about the craziness that is Denver International Airport. First, and most obvious, it’s a freaking airport. It’s going to be loaded to the tooth with random crazies, the really anxious, the spatially unaware, the hurriers, the hurriers who don’t have to hurry, the inconsiderate, the spatially unaware inconsiderate with large baggage, etc. However, what separates Denver from any airport in which I’ve ever had the chance to alight is its artwork—from the 32-foot blue, demonic, emaciated, creepy horse statue, dubbed Bluecifer by some of its fans/frenemies and “that scary fucking horse zombie” by me, to the crazy, Nazi, all-the-colors-of-the-world murals near the baggage claim areas. I don’t have that much time to go into them all right now (and by that I mean I don’t have much time until my eyes uncontrollably close and I drift into dreamland), so if you have time, google Bluecifer. If you guys are skeptical about its demonic roots, just know that it killed its maker—the flesh-eating head of ole Crazy Eyes fell and severed an artery in the guys leg.

I’ll post pictures of some of the artwork tomorrow, but right now, I’d like to touch on camp before I hit the sack. First, the sad news. My fellow MARFU teammate, Eli White, and I are, for the first time not bed buddies. Every event in which Eli and I have competed, we have shared a room, and I have gotten closer to Grover than any other stuffed animal since that big lion I had in my youth. The good news is that we’re both on the same team—the white team—and it is a kick-ass squad.

After getting all settled in the dorms (we’re staying at UNC…not the baby blue one, the North Colorado one), we had a meeting (go figure), followed by a team meeting, and then practice…followed by another team meeting. The consensus from the white team—the Great Whites—is that we all did a pretty darned good job of adapting to one another’s play and to the system today (as well as the altitude).

Tomorrow we play the blue team, who also has a good squad. We’ll see if good is good enough to trump kick-ass. I don’t think it will be, and if I were a betting woman (actually I am, but only on horses…just not Bluecifer), I’d put my money on white. Ok, I’ve written just about as much as I can without passing out. Goodnight Denver Moon. Goodnight zombie horse. Goodnight rugby world.

Camp Commences Tomorrow

Camp begins tomorrow. I’m at the Atlanta airport now, waiting on my connecting flight to Denver (4hr 45min layover). Side note on the Atlanta airport—it, like many other airports, doesn’t have free WiFi (which is bullshit, but I’m not going to comment on that now, because I’m in a very cheerful and peaceful place at the moment), but what’s worse, is that it has an option for free, limited browsing. You can only access certain websites, but it’s free.

So, I’m thinking it’s going to let you browse quite a few sites, but the big money sites (facebook, email sites, twitter, etc) will be off limits. Not the case. Everything is off limits, except some dinky ass sites on some Georgia museums, history, commerce, government, traffic, etc. Oh, and you can check the weather. Wooptie doo. Here’s the forecast—el Diablo set the thermostat on fuego. I mean as much as I would love to learn about the city that inspired many episodes of Designing Women, I’d rather watch last night’s episode of Swamp People, so don’t tease me with some empty little promise of limited access, when what you really mean is that the lights are, in fact, out in Georgia, unless you want to get mugged by some internet provider’s fees. Enough ranting.

Camp gets down with the get down tomorrow, and surprisingly I’m not really all that nervous about it—not like I was last year. I suppose it’s because I’m more familiar with these camps, because I’m more prepared (physically and mentally), because I’ve formed friendships with a lot of the girls, etc. Really, I’m not so much nervous as anxious. I want to get shit started. I enjoy convening with the rugby elite. I enjoy meeting with others who share my need to lift heavy things, run to no specific point and back again, jump and turn in awkward directions, stretch relatively unknown muscles for the cumulative goal of getting better at rugby. And I enjoy getting better at rugby with them. I know that’s not the only goal of this camp, after all it is a selection camp. We’re there to compete as well, but then I also enjoy competing with these ladies.

I guess you guys (you, my blog readers and followers—you, the few) have heard me say all of that before. I’m sure I’ll repeat myself, from time to time, on how much I enjoy rugby and rugby people. Just bear with me. I’ll also give you some colorful tidbits on camp happenings (or airport happenings), the scenery in Colorado, the rugby world, players, etc (some of them may not be true—I believe my made up stories about Tigertown had some fooled).

Anyway, I look forward to the rugby, of course, but also to keeping my awesome readers on the up and up. 

NASC Follow-up

I haven’t gotten around to updating my blog from last weekend. I’m sure that those of you who actually follow (shout out to Bonnie Hanks who follows this particular and the handful of others who follow my other blogs) and/or read my blog are aware that we lost in the championship match to the Midwest. Here’s the skinny on the match.

They beat us in the first half, but it wasn’t a runaway. We regained our footing at the start of the second, and scored a try. But then the floodwaters were too much, our dam burst, and the runaway commenced.

Though they smoked us in the second half, we didn’t fall apart. We took it like the 300 Spartans and went down together. Ok, so we weren’t fighting thousands of Persians (though those corn-fed Midwest girls are certainly comparable), but my point is we went down the way we earned our spot in the championship—as a solidified unit and scrappy as hell.

So yeah, we lost, but all in all it was a great time. The NASC tournament always is. It’s a special event where all the rugby freaks can convene and beat the shit out of each other. And awesome things happen, like getting to hang out with old friends, getting to visit different parts of the country, getting to play rugby against some of the best in the country, getting kicked in the face with the ball twice in one match. There’s nothing like it, and I think I speak for a majority of the players when I say that I hope there are more of these tournaments.

I mean if it wasn’t for the NASC tournament, I probably wouldn’t have run into Laura Hanks for another 10 years. Hanks is a friend from way-back. We played AAU basketball together for the Lady Cavs out of Charlottesville VA.

We were trouble. Always into something—Hanky and Pankey. I’ll tell you guys a few things you probably didn’t know about ole Hanky and then I’ll close. First, she plays rugby like she played basketball—like a bowling ball. But then, that’s kinda how I played as well, which makes rugby a better sport for us, since there are no fouls. She also had a knee brace with a smell that could knock the flies off a shit-wagon. And when I said we were trouble…once, at a Five Star camp, we decided that we would steal as many things on campus and hoard the stuff in our room. With the help of Gillian Gumble (Bryant’s daughter), we managed to get several complete sets of dinnerware (trays and napkin dispensers included) and I believe a fire extinguisher, all of which stayed on campus when we left.

Anyway, Hanky and I also got to play against each other in the final at NASCs. I guess we were rugby freaks from the start—probably why we got along so well.