Roger Pires October 11, 2012
When he's not offering his take on daily life, Roger Pires spends his days as a computer systems analyst. It's not exactly a glamorous calling but hey, it pays the bills. He enjoys hockey, canoeing, snowshoeing, and spending as much time as he possibly can outdoors. He lives in Udora with his wife and two kids, who are his prime inspiration for Ravenshoe Ramblings.
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Life, lessons and a funny-looking ball
I’d never been to Lamport Stadium. But I must say it’s the nicest stadium ever built on the site of an old women’s prison. Not yet middle-aged, the old girl is looking old beyond her years, however. I would’ve pegged her to be a relic of the Second World War – perhaps the marshalling grounds for troops headed overseas. But she’s really just a soccer stadium, built to house something called SC Toronto about the time Queen was releasing “A Night at the Opera”. Today it’s the home of the Canadian national rugby team: the Wolverines. And thus the reason for our visit last weekend.
My son’s friend had scored a ticket to watch the Wolverines host the touring England Lions. He had no one to go with and no way of getting there. But he knows I’m a fellow rugby fanatic; he’s heard all the stories. (“Gee Mr. P, can you tell us about when that guy broke his hip?”). My son has also recently taken to the game. I mean, how can you not love a sport that features “rucks” and “mauls”? And how can you not be captivated by the spectacle of two tons of beef grunting and heaving for the possession of a lump of pigskin that resembles the offspring of a soccer ball and a football. Besides, it’s a long, lonely bike ride from Udora to Liberty Village at King and Dufferin.
The forecast for game time was windy, cold, and wet: near-perfect conditions for a Canadian rugby squad hosting a superior English side. Only a raging blizzard – the great equalizer – could’ve added to the atmosphere. That and some old rugby stories from the days before Dad became a fossil. So on the long trek down the 404, I enthralled the young fans with the story of my high school senior rugby tour of Wales. Or as I like to call it, “The Massacre at Swansea High.”
Rugby is the Welsh national sport and they take it very seriously. They revere it as we revere hockey in the Great Locked-Out North. The goal of our tour was to experience Wales and to immerse ourselves in rugby culture. We knew we stood little chance of winning. They were well into their playoffs. Our first outdoor practice of the season was the morning after we touched down. Jet-lagged and sleep-deprived, it promised to be a murderous affair. Our hosts provided the final bullet: minutes after checking in with our billets we were frog-marched down to the local pub – or should I say pubs – and introduced to beer served at room temperature with only a hint of foam. And since a drinking age is just a rumour over there, the evening came to a predictable conclusion.
The next morning was a fiasco; we were a motley crew, indeed. Many a sausage-and-egg breakfast ended up on the sidelines. The resulting piles of steam couldn’t compare with the trails of smoke spewing from our coaches’ ears. They graced us with a passionate sermon on gentlemanly conduct, pride of country, and the fact we had come all this way not to totter around like winos but to come together as a team and to sacrifice for the common good. We were the ambassadors of Canadian rugby and we were off to a disgraceful start. They gave us our marching orders: we would be confined to quarters until game time the following day. If they even suspected we were within hurling distance of a pub we would be sent home on the next plane.
The plan worked. We turned in a valiant effort and lost by a mere twenty points - no mean feat given the quality of our opposition and the disparity in our schedules.
Over the next couple of weeks, we lived and breathed rugby. We got better with each game and actually won our final match at Lampeter Farm. The victory came in a downpour and ankle-deep mud to the chagrin of a group of northern Welshmen and a few startled sheep that occasionally wandered into the end zone.
Of course, no rugby story is complete without a body count. I’m sure every medical professional in Wales is on speed dial when touring rugby teams pay a visit. We were no exception. The list of casualties included countless bloody noses, various cuts and bruises, and the odd concussion. And then there were the ill-fated Skipworth brothers who became temporary residents of the local hospital. Jimmy, the eldest, fractured his ankle moments before his younger brother, Stevie, had his lower jaw introduced to his left ear. One returned to Canada in a cast, the other with his mouth wired shut.
After arriving back home, our team proceeded to have a season for the ages. We finished as OFSSA champions, the highest achievement for an Ontario high school team. The lessons learned on those cold, drizzly playing fields in Wales – teamwork, sacrifice, self-discipline - are still central to my life today. I learned as much - or more - from being on those teams as I did in the classroom.
Sadly, our evening at Lamport was a letdown. The game was less than a minute old when the visitors scored their first try – the rugby equivalent of a touchdown. A scattering of spectators watched the home side get pummeled under a cold, wet blanket of rain. Canada was down 40-0 at the half. That’s one rugby story that won’t make it to “Tales from the Good Old Days”.
