I CALL THIS PICTURE "SICK PUPS." And this isn't the half of it. There are 15 sick pups playing on any given rugby team. Two teams to a game, that's 30 sick pups playing at the same time. Then there are three matches of 30 men playing on sides called A, B and C that routinely take place on a Saturday afternoon during rugby season in the spring and fall. That's 90 sick pups, only half of whom are potty trained, mauling each other for the sport of it.
And into this frisky doomed puppy mill walks a single man -- the referee-- who must litagate the canine contest as if they were human beings.
Sick pup is a compliment where I come from. It means you're off the leash of duty and expectations. It means you will engage your passion on your terms. Some people call it rugby.
I was surrounded by sick pups when I was coaching Temple University's men's rugby club 20 years ago. The photo above shows some of the sickest, with the presumably adult coach (me) on the right. Not a pup among this crew would argue with Coach's call on this: The sickest of them all was Fonz (not his real name) who is standing as far away from me as anyone in this photo can stand. Look at that grin. Here's this blonde haired blue eyed Aryan assassion and the nickname he got stuck with by his Temple rugby teammates was "The Fonz."
Ayyy!
Another young life changed through the irresistible power of rugby. He was sick before Temple rugby; being the Fonz made him sicker. Then there's Mutt. Can you pick the kid nicknamed Mutt out of this litter? Hint: pick the anti-Mutt. Yeah, that's him. Next, see if you can find the young man whose face looks like the map of Ireland. His name is Finn and he's standing next to me, or as he calls me, Coach.
Twenty years. I remember when 20 years was a long time ago, a lifetime. To realize that this picture was 20 years ago makes me laugh. I haven't changed a bit. And neither have my sick pups. I don't mean physically. I'm thicker through the middle and so are they, but not so much. Except for Fonz, of course, but then he was carrying a double load for being confused with a TV dago. All and all --- and I'm not being gay here -- my guys look pretty good at the age of 40. Even Spanky and Hasbro.
This, of course, makes me 20 years older than my sick pups now grown to honorable manhood. "No freakin' way, Coach!" (That was Fonz.) No, I'm officially old, I admit it. The way I see it , being the age I am now gives me, what, 40 more years of surprising people.
"We're the boys from Temple U, we live in caves and ditches. We bang our cocks on jagged rocks, we're rugged sons of bitches." I heard that post-game cheer a hundred times, seriously, before I heard all the words. The message was, "We're the boys from Temple U we're rugged sons of bitches." So who don't know that. Admidst the husky shout the banging of "cocks on jagged rocks" somehow floats past without denting the conciousness. It wasn't until I included the team cheer in a piece that aired on a local TV news feature about rugby that I understood the consequences of being the person responsible for airing such explicit language on TV.
Nothing. Nothing happened, no one noticed. Thousands and thousands of Philadelphia TVs were tuned to KYW-TV when my piece ended with a hoarse shout of "We're the boys from Temple U we live in caves and ditches. We bang our cocks on jagged rocks we're rugged sons of bitches."
And do you know why no one noticed?!
Because you boys did not "e-NUN-ci-ate !!!"
Oh, by the way, next Saturday Temple University RFC is playing for a national collegiate championship (Div. II: We'll talk about that later) in California.
But for now we should talk about winning. How do we do it? I fear the only advice I have is what you've already divined in your hearts and souls. The only way Temple wins is if they are tougher than the rest.
So simple. So huge. Be tougher than the next guy.
It's not rocket science, my sick pup Owls. It's elemental. "Win, Rocky. Win" Do justice to that urgency, everything else falls into place. Go Temple!.
