Should children play rugby?

So, look at the picture and three guesses where I spent my Sunday morning? Bondage fashion show? Outdoor shopfitting workshop? Oh, alright, so we were at Sandyway, the rugby ground of the Exeter Chiefs.

Yup, it’s rugger season again and I’m resigned to giving up large chunks of my life to stand, shivering, at the side of the pitch, while my son hurls boys into the mud and is then duly hurled into the mud in return.

I have a love-hate relationship with rugby. It’s one thing when vast man mountain strangers brawl in gladiatorial fashion; quite another when it’s your own precious breakable eleven-year old who is somewhere at the bottom of a melee of writhing limbs and kicking boots.

I do sometimes wonder: should children really play rugby? Every atom of my mothering heart screams Nooooooo, don’t be so bloody stupid; of course they shouldn’t. Let me count the reasons.
#1 = visit to A&E for suspected concussion.
#2 = suspected broken wrist.
#3 = other wrist being fractured.
#4 = neck injury.
There may have been #5 and #6 but I have started losing track really.

Bottom line: it’s brutal and downright dangerous.

I’m the kind of mother refs dread. The kind who watches beadily, narrows her eyes and reproves: ‘That tackle was way too high, ref’ or who glares at small boys and mutters ‘get off his neck, you little toad.’ Yet, curiously, I’m also the one shouting ‘Rip it out’ or ‘Heave!’ or ‘Down the line!’ Jumping up and down with glee as James makes a break or fells some boy-tree hybrid. Punching the air in triumph when he makes a try.

It’s a game of strategy and speed as much as brute force and when the team works together, it’s a joy to watch, like quick-moving chess. I also love the fact that it’s a sport in which the most unlikely boys can shine. For once it’s not just the slim and speedy who get the breaks – there are roles for the solid and chunky too. When you want to move a maul, you need a bit of weight. Truly, I missed my calling.

Yesterday I was chatting to one mum who said she was over-the-moon when her son took to rugby. ‘He’s a solid child,’ she said. ‘The type who normally gets labelled as ‘non-sporty’. Yet he really loves that he can make a difference in the scrum, and be one of the team. It’s getting him fitter and healthier too.’

I once talked about it with the headmaster of James’ old school and he said that there are good psychological reasons for promoting rugby too. It doesn’t just get boys fit, strong and agile; it also gives them a safe outlet for their natural thuggishness; lets them burn off a bit of the excess testosterone.

‘Do you really enjoy tackling?’ I asked James after one match, genuinely puzzled.
‘Heck yes, I love it,’ he replied, eyes shining. ‘Sometimes you feel like you just want to thump someone but if you did that normally you’d get told off. In rugby, you bring ‘em down and get praised to the sky.’

I tell you, boys are an alien species sometimes.

There’s this weird preconception that rugby is some kind of ‘posh boy’ game but, actually it’s played in around 10,000 state schools and local clubs up and down the country teach rugby to children from all walks of life.  Discipline is tight on the pitch and in the club-house afterwards when the children change into shirts and club ties for their after-match tea. It’s a far cry from football’s yob culture and you have to wonder whether, if rugby were played in every school, we might have less problems on the streets?

Would be interested to see what you think. Is rugby the Right Stuff or Total Insanity (or maybe a bit of both?)


Totally changing the subject, I was deeply chuffed to read a lovely review of this blog....do have a read by clicking here.

And please don't forget that I also blog for The Lady as Mrs Muck (get me!) - have a butcher's here (and do leave comments if you feel so inclined.  Or, indeed, write to that august publication and demand more of Mrs Muck (that would be fab!).  Latest post is Mrs Muck's Guide for Lonely Hearts..  :) 

And the rain, rain, rain came down, down, down

Thanks to the lovely Sun (gawd bless ‘er and all who sail in ‘er) we got to go to Alton Towers yesterday (let’s be honest, we couldn’t have afforded to go if we hadn’t had free tickets). Sorry, I’ll rant quickly and get it over with - £38 for an adult??? I suppose it’s justified if you get your money’s worth of being scared out of your wits but it seems steep if all you do is act as a glorified golf trolley. Note to theme parks – how about a subsidised ticket for non-riders? We could have neon brands on our foreheads to show we’re party-poopers and are Not To Be Allowed on Rides...

Anyhow, we picked up James’ friend Nathan at sparrow’s fart and hurtled up the motorway for four hours. Adrian argued that someone had to look after the Soul Puppy and that he would nobly pluck the short straw, eschew the joys of Nemesis and Oblivion, and take the SP to visit Thornbridge Brewery instead. Cue gnashing of teeth (why hadn’t I thought of that?). But hey, I figured that, for once, I could nail this pukka parenting lark. I could give the children a relaxed, calm, fun perfect day. Think about it - with a theme park, someone else has done the organising, no? There is endless entertainment and child-friendly food – no risk of boredom, curled sandwiches or nature raw in tooth and claw biting you on the bum. Seriously, what on earth can go wrong?

Umm, let’s try a thunderstorm. An all-afternoon monsoon with flashing lightning, growling thunder and pathways turned into log flumes. There is clearly some minor deity whose only purpose is to watch me and open the heavens every time I set foot in a theme park. I can still remember Legoland in a downpour, watching the children kicking water at one another while I swabbed mascara from my sodden cheeks.

I wouldn’t mind but I’d been a responsible adult for once, had checked the weather forecast (occasional light showers) and had even Taken Sensible Precautions and packed spare clothes, towels, umbrella. All of which became duly soaked.

Despite it all we had fun. The boys even coerced me onto the Rapids water-ride which was fab. And I dragged them into Hex which is absolutely mind-blowing (you think you’re doing a loop-the-loop while actually barely moving). I liked Alton Towers – more than most UK parks actually. It is well-designed around the park’s beautiful natural assets (lakes, trees, gardens, hills, copses). Food was good too – James and I had really good chicken fajitas while Nathan opted for the all-you-can eat pizza/pasta (£4.25 for kids). My only quibble – we had to sit through lunch twice as we wanted different things – why not go for a USA-style plaza with outlets round the edge and central seating so everyone can pick what they like and all eat together?

But in the last flurry to get onto rides we got seriously soaked. By the time Adrian arrived we were literally drenched to the skin. Luckily he’d been given a T-shirt by Thornbridge so I slipped into that while the boys put on swimming trunks and towels (the only dry bits of kit we had). With one pair of flipflops between them (and James’ bum covered in mud) they looked odd, to say the least, as they hopped (literally) into the service station. I could almost hear the thoughts. ‘Will you look at those boys? She’s got them in swimming trunks and won’t even buy them a pair of flipflops each, for pity’s sake.’



Ah well. We tried.