Rugby players are wired differently. It is as if they are running on Apple and the rest of society is on Microsoft. For whatever strange reason, they love the sensation that physical contact brings.
Within the strict confines of the playing field, when the referee’s whistle blows, a social contract materialises that allows many of the laws from the outside world to be temporarily suspended and the differently wired ones to have fun.
Within this strange twilight realm, where extreme physical contact is normalised, cultural boundaries remain.
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Any violence that breaks these boundaries is colloquially known as ‘dog acts.’
At the lower end of the dog act scale is a defender using their legs to trip another player. Biting sits a rung above. Close to the top end is the almost extinct practice of what was euphemistically termed as the squirrel grip. This was when a player would forcibly grab and twist their male opponent’s genitals.
The squirrel grip was at its prime in the long forgotten days when both sets of forwards would enter every ruck. In the dark, murky centre of these Jurassic era like gatherings, a leather ball carrying individual, from our fossilised ancestors, would encounter the other tribe of knuckle dragging Neanderthals.
This was squirrel grip territory. In the shadowy lawlessness of these two massed packs, the player in possession was greatly incentivised to hand over the ball by a low life opponent who would violently twist his testicles.
I can personally testify to its effectiveness.
In one of several traumatic encounters with one of these ‘bag snatchers,’ I would like to tell you that I was brave and, for the good of my team, I heroically endured the gruesome distortion of my scrotum by refusing to hand over possession.
The reality was that once the squirrel grip was applied, I immediately dropped the largest of the three balls involved in my dilemma and desperately grasped at the hairy hand that was clamping my testicles and yelled out something inconsequential like, “Oh God ... someone’s squeezing my balls!”
Those were the days.
While that happened many years ago - and I am using black humour to make light of it now, just to be clear - at the time, it was a dog act that produced more violence in the inevitable fights and punches that followed it. Thankfully, the disgusting practice and the fighting have now all but been eradicated from our game.
Unlike the extinct squirrel grip, the action that still sits at the pinnacle of the dog act table is regrettably still with us.
The senselessly violent act of Eben Etzebeth, in attacking the eye of Welsh backrower Alex Mann, did not just break the boundaries of the social contract of what is physically acceptable in our game, it smashed it.
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In Cardiff last weekend, in the 78th minute, despite South Africa leading 73-0, Etzebeth broke the game’s law and rugby’s lore.
To the officials’ credit, Etzebeth was correctly given a full red card by the referee, putting to bed once and for all the ridiculous arguments that the 20-minute red card had undermined the referee’s ability to correctly sanction egregious foul play. Etzebeth received a full red card because his actions were on a totally different level of violence when compared to accidental head contact in a mistimed tackle. Our regulators have correctly changed the sanctions to differentiate between the two.
What has been good for rugby is the condemnation of Etzebeth’s actions by players, coaches and all sections of the media. It was an ugly, violent and dangerous act.
The 12-game suspension that was handed down by the judiciary is a substantial punishment. The length of the suspension was not just because eye gouging is a dog act, but because it was committed by one of our game’s best players. Being a role model carries both responsibilities and consequences.
Rugby’s message regarding eye gouging to future generations has been made crystal clear. By giving Etzebeth a 12-week suspension, World Rugby is telling our current generation, and those of the future, that eye gouging is completely taboo.
What makes Etzebeth’s actions even more horrendous is that there is no doubt that after 141 test caps, he will rightly sit inside the pantheon of all-time great Springboks second rowers. He has been a player of immense influence and standing within our game. His outstanding abilities and prowess should have been a shining light for future generations. Instead, his actions serve as a warning beacon of the consequences that await any player who stoops to the lowest of the low and gouges a fellow player’s eyes.
For professional rugby players, discipline is a way of life. Doing what needs to be done, when it needs to be done, even though they may not want to do it, is a daily duty. Sadly, for Etzebeth, if he had held on for a few more minutes to the same discipline he had displayed for most of his 141 tests, he could have avoided the situation.
Once again, a message is being sent by the judiciary to the entire rugby community. No matter your status, no one is bigger than the game and its laws.
There always were and always will be individuals in every sport who lose control of their emotions and commit senseless acts of violence. Regrettably, that is human nature. One of sports’ main functions is to place young people into stressful competitive situations so they can learn how to control those emotions.
When they fail, no matter the profile of the player, the game’s judiciary must confront and punish them severely or risk losing the social contract that protects every participant now and into the future.
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