“Why do they dive into the end zone, and the other players pile on after?” I asked, pulling on a hat and gloves. An early, chilly fall had stolen our summer and down came a merciless drizzle to ensure we stayed cool.
“Yeah, I don’t know,” Husband said, popping open his umbrella.
Flicka, a new rugby spectator too, sat between us in her camp chair to watch her sister play. “Snipp’s family tried to teach me the rules of football last night, but I still don’t get that either. I understand the ten yard line thing, but how do they figure if it’s seventeen yards, for example?”
“Maybe they see it’s a little shy of two of the sections?” I said. The blind leading the blind.
Husband laughed and presented an overview of the game of football. Again.
I watched Ricka on the field, playing what Husband guessed was winger (although he wasn’t sure if he made up the name of the position or not), remembering her sudden decision in December to pursue rugby. The girl’s determination was unmatched. Did she know anything about the game? No. Was she going to learn and play it anyway? Yes.
In the deep, dark winter, Ricka watched YouTube videos and studied the game’s rules. She lifted weights and ran. She researched everything about the sport, and in January, she found a local U.S.A. Rugby Club team called the Valkyries. She asked them if she could play, and they took her in.
In May, during a game in Seattle, Ricka tried to tackle an opponent but should’ve gone a little lower, she later said. The collision caused the other player significant facial bruising and Ricka a trip to the ER. The doctor placed fifteen stitches (and one dissolvable internal one) into my girl’s almost severed ear.
Husband had taped up our girl’s ears in headband fashion for today’s event, so I figured she wouldn’t lose them. I prayed against a concussion, breaks, and sprains, though, as I recalled Ricka’s pledge to “let the animal out.”
I shivered at the memories from months ago and at the fifty-five-degree rainy afternoon. Those muddy girls on the field didn’t care, though, which showed me how soft Husband, Flicka, and I were, huddled in our drenched camp chairs, our opened umbrellas dripping on each other.
As I tuned back in to my people next to me, Husband was still teaching football. I had once again evaded an explanation of America’s beloved sport.
“I didn’t catch a thing you just said,” I told him. “Sorry about that.”
“I don’t think I did either,” said Flicka.
“How many degrees must one have to understand it?” I said. “I have four.”
“Four?” said my oldest.
“The master’s degree, the bachelor’s, the certificate from the Bible School, the high school diploma—”
Flicka laughed. “You’re counting your high school diploma?”
“—and I was a high school football cheerleader and have a long-ago expired CPR certification and an Anoka County library card, in case that matters.”
Husband laughed and shook his head again, but maybe he was just shaking off the water.
We clapped and hollered and shivered in the damp cold. With blue lips, I yelled for my player to let the beast out—or some such sentiment.
And she kind of did.
*Has My Blonde Life inspired or entertained you? If you wish to toss a tip into my writerly coffers, here's how you can do it: @Tamara-Schierkolk (Venmo), @TamaraSchierkolk (PayPal), or $TamaraSchierkolk (Cash App)
*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka and their husbands, Snipp, Snapp, and Snurr.