Rugby, a game for real men?
THE FIRST thing I noticed three years ago at The Shamrock Inn in Nicosia was the large collection of underpants, with attached names of ownership, pinned along a ceiling beam in its wooden interior. The second thing I noticed was the signpost saying Ireland 3,000 miles and the third was finding it was showing the Six Nations Rugby on a big screen. Which was a relief, because if there is one thing you need to watch rugby apart from a pint of Guinness in your hand, it’s glorious technicolor to see the mud and blood and to be surrounded by a suitable array of pump room ‘experts’ to explain the rules: because a pub is as much part of the game as the pitch.
So when we heard on the grapevine that the Inn had been sold we were worried, that the best place to watch rugby in Nicosia might have disappeared. But not so: at four o’clock last Saturday, an hour off the plane we headed there to catch kick off.
I needn’t have feared, for under its new Argentinean ownership it remains steadfastly Irish, and its den of dark polished wood and walls lined with eclectic bric a brac are still there. Like bears emerging from hibernation, so were the fans: teachers, trumpet players, gardeners gathered as ancient Spartans for the games.
The great truth about rugby is the good nature of it. Maybe you need to have a sense of humour to appreciate the subtlety of grown men putting their heads between other mens’ legs. Maybe, if you’ve played the game you understand the sheer physical effort and courage it takes: for surely no other team game is as heroic. And although they may be battering the hell out of each other on the pitch, in the pub the supporters are convivial, cheering good play from either side. A clear dividing line of where the game ends and the drinking begins. Football might be for boys but rugby is definitely for men.
Most of the time I haven’t a clue about ‘mauls and rucks’, ‘up and under’ or ‘knock ons’ but I do know to look out for the ‘hospital pass’ where you take the ball with the certain knowledge of getting flattened. And that is what impresses about rugby, not just the skill and glory of a great try, but the dogged determination that makes 18-stone men knocked off their feet haul themselves up and carry on. Cauliflower ears, black eyes, necks like tree trunks, it’s not for the vain. As one player once said, “In my time, I’ve had my knee out, broken my collarbone, had my nose smashed, a rib broken, lost a few teeth, and ricked my back; but as soon as I get a bit of bad luck I’m going to quit the game.”
