The spirit of rugby

There’s something about sports that stirs the human spirit.

There’s something about rugby that disquiets yet inspires, then calms and unifies.

Except for the Rugby Sevens which some of my friends were quite crazy about when we lived in Hong Kong, I had little interest in the most popular sport in the South Pacific. Until we moved to Fiji. Until I witnessed how men, women and children play along Suva’s historic Albert Park or along open fields in the countryside anytime of the day regardless of the season. Until I watched a rugby game for the first time.

It was one of the major matches among the provinces of Fiji. It was a game between the teams Ra and Northland/Tailevu, representing two provinces in northern Fiji.

I fancied watching in one of the famous arenas of Suva where I would be seeing players probably in lilliputian sizes because I thought we would be sitting along the bleachers. But we entered a gated field adjacent to a popular arena. People were queueing up holding mostly 10 Fijian notes, which I later learned was the price for an entrance ticket.

There was not a seat in sight where the game would be held. Spectators were sitting on cardboards, others on red or yellow scarves sprawled on the ground while the rest were eagerly standing, anticipating for the games to start. It was not an ordinary game by the looks of advertising paraphernalia around the field. The presence of a medics’ tent, unarmed police roaming around, standby ambulance, photojournalists equipped with high-resolution zoom cameras, reporters and spectators in yellow and red, representing the colors of the teams, reveal it’s a major event.

Minutes before the game started, the teams were solemnly huddled on their knees in fervent prayer. I read about how faith is a deeply embedded element in every rugby game, so much so that teams kick off every match with a prayer and a song to extol and dedicate their game to God.

For almost two hours we stood among children, families (we saw young mothers clutching bundled up infants) and avid fans who seem to know each other. We blended amongst an overly enthusiastic crowd rooting for the Ra team. As amateur rugby spectators, we sometimes caught ourselves cheering for the other team, confused which of the two teams scored. I pondered about jargons like scrum, maul, try or winger.

In rugby the ball can be kicked forward and passed to other players sideways or backwards. Since it involves agility and speed, wingers or players who are positioned near the touchlines are pivotal, as they play a critical role for their team to “try,” a term for score in rugby.

Part of the intensity of rugby is to witness players slide, slump, crash, roll over, bump their head on the ground or scrape their limbs. As the game builds up, broad bodies would collide with each other, you worry they might end up on stretchers. But you’ll be very amazed to see them quickly rise and resume to tackle the ball again in lightning speed. A few times I thought there was a scuffle on the field when burly bodies seemed to pile one on top of the other. I was told this formation is called scrum or restarting a play. Here eight members from each team gather closely face down as they attempt repossession of the ball.

While understanding the rules and dynamics of the sport more attentively, I wondered: what could the players be thinking during scrum? How could the ball just reemerge bullet speed from the formation then end up in the possession of another player? A scrum allows players to recompose themselves. After the mad scramble comes the calm. Then the play resumes. I thought of how this strategy to recollect practically applies to life, especially in a world dominated by overwhelming distractions.

While standing in the open air field, I contemplated on how we were not only watching live action. I was feeling the spirit of the match as every player single-mindedly rushed for the ball or wingers guarded it with their life. I was sensing the zealous cheers of fans yet hardly heard annoying jeers (save for a lady who was heckling but nevertheless stopped when her attention was called). Magnanimity was in the air. It was marvelous to see elderly women wearing red or yellow garlands in bula get-up rooting alongside teenagers. As if cheers were not enough, somewhere in the field, bubbly music blared. Fans, including us, couldn’t help but dance along.

Perhaps part of the wonder of rugby is players are not athletes per se. I learned that every promising player has his or her own story to tell. When passing by Sigatoka one day, we were told, it is known as the rugby town of Fiji because a good number of famous players are from Sigatoka and its nearby villages. According to statistics, Fiji has one of the highest players to population ratios: “600 clubs, 30 unions across 14 provinces and over 30,00 provincial and school level players.” It is no wonder the country has won four Olympic medals in Rugby Sevens, including two golds.

Rugby players are also farmers, descendants of village chiefs, students, ordinary workers and Fijians who invest time and effort to train intensively out of sheer ardor for the game. Their goal is to bring pride to their family, village, province and their country. Others play rugby as a pathway towards education or financial security, especially when they qualify to the national team or professional leagues.

Rugby is not only a sport. It is a lifeforce that binds people; a heartstring that links a newcomer like me to the communal soul of Fiji. I have become a fan not because I admire a team or a player but because I experienced firsthand the spirit of rugby and how it genuinely feels to belong in a community.