Soon many parents will be deciding whether or not to allow their kids to play rugby in the coming season. A few years ago when I was in Australia helping some gifted under-18 players, I was an unwitting witness to such a debate.
There was a genetically gifted loose head prop who, in old money, was just under six feet tall and tipped the scales at 112kg. He was selected in his school’s first XV at only 16.
His physical gifts were matched by his academic abilities. He was in the top percentiles across all his subjects. He was also an excellent player in his school’s chess team.
He was the son of immigrants who had fled totalitarianism for the freedom of Australia. Like so many migrants, his parents were hard working, dedicated people who toiled to give their cherished children a better shot at life than they had.
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Many of these loving parents in Australia’s migrant communities see rugby as a waste of time. Time that could be more productively spent working for a better future.
But I am telling this story backwards.
At this time all I saw was a big, highly intelligent, gifted athlete who loved nothing more than the joy of playing schoolboy rugby. That was until one day when he walked off the field after a match with a small facial ‘mouse’. Which is rugby’s nickname for a swelling above an eye. He also had what could be the start of a small cauliflower on the top of an ear.
In the joyous world of schoolboy rugby, these were all highly visible badges of honour. In the changing room that Saturday afternoon he was the brunt of his team-mates playful banter, all laughing and wishing they had a mouse and a cauliflower, except he was not laughing.
I suggested he see the doctor and get his ear drained so it would not turn cauliflower and I thought no more about it until my phone rang the following Monday. It turned out he was hiding a secret. His parents, who had limited English, had no idea that he played rugby. He had told them that each Saturday afternoon he was competing at the chess club.
He had forged his parents’ signature on all the parental permission slips that were required to allow him to play rugby. His pile of very large fibs began to collapse when his shocked father examined the bruises on his son’s face and asked how they had got there.
He was not a master criminal because his cover-up excuses had more holes than the Wallabies’ defensive system. He told his dad that he had been attacked by the opponent he had defeated at the chess club. That violent, testosterone-laden cauldron of masculine toxicity – the chess club – is where he had been beaten up.
His dad was not buying that his beast of a child got attacked by a pawn-wielding chess player. An English-speaking relative was brought in. Phone calls were made. Lies were exposed. The truth was laid bare.
With emotions running high, his understandably angry parents banned him from walking on to a rugby field ever again. They even banned him from that pit of brutality, the chess club. Later we all joked that the first rule of chess club is ... there is no chess club.
After a week or so, as his parents’ hurt and disappointment at being lied to subsided, and with an interpreter present, they attended a meeting that was intended to apologise to them for allowing their son to play rugby without their permission.
The outcome was very different.
Our academically gifted, chess-playing loose head started the meeting by apologising to everyone in the room. In front of his parents, coaches and teachers he tried to explain himself.
He told us that within his team he had people who liked him, not because he was smart or was a good chess player, but because he was their comrade. He had “rugby friends”. He told his parents how playing made him feel good about himself. Being a prop gave him confidence because his team relied on him to be able to master the dark arts of the scrummage. Most importantly, playing was fun and made him happy.
He knew his parents did not approve of rugby, but he loved playing so much that he had lied. Now he was embarrassed and remorseful. About halfway through his speech the young giant started to cry. I am not ashamed to admit that I felt my own eyes beginning to as well.
He went on to tell us that he believed he had the ability to be a top-line student and an athlete. That rugby gave him an outlet to his energy and he felt he studied with a clearer mind after the gym or a field session. With a tear-covered face, he asked for forgiveness but he still wanted to play.
We sat there, parents, teachers and coaches, together with this young adult, all educating him through a silly game called rugby.
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A few weeks later, penance completed and lessons learned, he was back on the field with his mum and dad nervously watching from the stand. While they knew their baby boy had not been beaten up at the chess club, they were astounded at what he was capable of.
At the end of the season I returned to Europe and I lost touch with that group. I don’t know if that kid became a doctor, a lawyer or a financier.
One thing I am certain of is that through his rugby experiences he became a better person and learned so many life lessons that will carry him across his adult journey outside of sport. Which is the true purpose of playing sport in our youth. To learn how to handle the emotional mouses and cauliflower ears that every life has to endure.
So when you are choosing a sport for your kids, remember this. Never let them join a chess club. They are far too dangerous.
