Friday, May 11, 2007


The greatest guys in the world will be at the Columbo Club tonight hoisting a few beers to Steve Finau, and rasing some dough to help him and his family through this current battle. Anyone who ever got a free cold one at the "Rat" just might be there. If you ever wonder why we gather, these words say it all.
This was sent to me by Stan Dzura. It was written by a Rugger from Down Under, whom they played against in '64.

If you can't make it but want to send a check:

checks should be written to "Try for Others" instead of "Old Blues Rugby Club." This will insure proper accounting and qualification for deductability. Send them to 1874 17th Ave, San Francisco, Ca. 94122, as before, so Grealish can record them for acknowledgement.


When the battle scars have faded
And the truth becomes a lie
And the weekend smell of liniment
Could almost make you cry

When the last ruck's well behind you
And the man that ran now walks
It doesn't matter who you are
The mirror sometimes talks

Have a good hard look old son!
The melon's not that great
The snoz that takes a sharp turn sideways
Used to be dead straight

You're an advert for arthritis
You're a thoroughbred gone lame
Then you ask yourself the question
Why the hell you played the game?

Was there logic in the head knocks?
In the corks and in the cuts?
Did common sense get pushed aside
By manliness and guts?

Do you sometimes sit and wonder
Why your time would often pass
In a tangled mess of bodies
With head up someone's arse?

With a thumb hooked up your nostril
Scratching gently on your brain
And an overgrown Neanderthal
Rejoicing in your pain!

Mate - you must recall the jersey
That was shredded into rags
Then the soothing sting of Dettol
On a back engraved with tags!

It's almost worth admitting
Though with some degree of shame
That your wife was right in asking
Why the hell you played the game?

Why you'd always rock home legless
Like a cow on roller skates
After drinking at the clubhouse
With your low down drunken mates

Then you'd wake up - check your wallet
Not a solitary coin
Drink Berocca by the bucket
Throw an ice pack on your groin

Copping Sunday morning sermons
About boozers being losers
While you limped like Quasimoto
With a half a thousand bruises!

Yes - an urge to hug the porcelain
And curse sambucca's name
Would always pose the question
Why the hell you played the game!

And yet with every wound re-opened
As you grimly reminisce it
Comes the compelling feeling yet
God, you bloody miss it!

From the first time that you laced a boot
And tightened every stud
That virus known as 'rugby'
Has been living in your blood

When you dreamt it - when you played it
All the rest took second fiddle
Now you're standing on the sidelines
But your heart's still in the middle

And no matter where you travel
You can take it as expected
There will always be a breed of people
Hopelessly infected

If there's a teammate, then you'll find him
Like a gravitating force
With a common understanding
And a beer or three, of course

And as you stand there telling lies
Like it was yesterday old friend
You'll know that if you had the chance
You'd do it all again

You see - that's the thing with rugby
It will always be the same
And that, I guarantee
Is why the hell you played the game!

1 comment:

richter51 said...

good post, good dinner, good guys, thanks for the poem Jeffrey... wondering about the Google suture ads ? was it cueing off of the word Rugby? Any rugger who never took a stitch send an extra C-note to Finau, (must have been a back)