LifeFiles: Rugby Glory Planned, Despite Football Fiasco

If you are a boy in the state of Texas, and you have all your arms and legs, you will play football.

And so it was that I found myself one fall evening -- 9 years old, wearing oversized shoulder pads and an uncomfortable helmet -- staring down destiny.

A ball carrier and two blockers had broken free and were moving down the sideline, with only myself between them and a touchdown.

Upon further inspection, I realized that the runner was about a half-step ahead of his blockers, leaving him unprotected. But the close proximity of his blockers meant that he was trapped and could only go straight. There was no way he could avoid me. There was no way I could miss.

I would take him out and earn a tiny grain of respect for my team -- my pitiful team, whose season high was an 85-7 loss. This was it -- my moment in the sun. My moment of glory. I was in the right place at the right time.

But I didn't want to be there.

The whole reason I had been near the sideline in the first place was to avoid conflict. Now three big kids were running right at me, and all I wanted to do was to get out of the way.

I could hear my coach, everyone in the stands, everyone on the field, directing me to hit the guy with the ball. As the three approached, I lined myself up with the smaller of the two blockers and -- eyes closed -- glanced off his right shoulder and fell to the ground with a dramatic flair.

I sold the hit as best I could, rolling on the ground and clutching my shoulder as I watched the three trot across the goal line. I have since seen Tampa Bay kicker Martin Gramatica pull off the same performance with almost as much finesse.

In baseball, I was a right fielder and prayed that the first baseman would play deep.

My parents signed me up for soccer one summer, but I spent my time chasing dragonflies.

Indeed, for the longest time, the whole of my athletic prowess was displayed only when I did a run-cadence in marching band -- and it took me two years to learn how to do that.

Now I've decided that I want to play rugby.

I am amazingly good at thinking up really odd schemes like this. When people ask why I am learning Welsh, I only semi-jokingly tell them that I plan to make a living as a Welsh soap opera star.

And, admittedly, this rugby idea is an extension of my Welsh madness. Rugby is hugely popular in the Land of Song -- in the same sort of way that God is popular in church. How can I ever expect to make it big on Welsh television, let alone become head of the Welsh Assembly, if I haven't experienced a few scrums?

Scrum. I just learned that word a few weeks ago. I am somewhat behind the curve.

I have seen two rugby games on television, listened to one on the radio, and -- several years ago -- watched two Royal Navy teams play live, until I became disturbed at one of the coach's instructions to "break his legs, Nigel!"

So I've had to do quite a bit of research into the game. I've learned the lingo, the game's supposed beginnings (some bloke got tired of playing soccer and decided to just pick up the ball), and -- most disturbingly -- I've learned that you apparently need to be quite fit.

"I can tell the difference between a Garryowen and a grubber, a maul and a scrum -- but getting fit? Perhaps I should reconsider," I thought to myself. "No. There'll be plenty of time to change my mind later. Like, after I get hit for the first time."

So, I started running. This weekend I broke the 3-mile mark. That's about as impressive as a knock-knock joke from a 5-year-old, and even less so if you could see me doing it. Most people could push a car over the same distance in less time, and would look much sexier doing it.

Here is what I have learned about running: it hurts. Your head hurts, your lungs ache, your mouth gets dry, and the next day your legs don't work quite right and you walk around like John Cleese in the Ministry of Silly Walks sketch.

As an added bonus, I have discovered that my body has a design flaw. My legs rub together when I run, creating enough friction and heat to keep a city the size of Omaha, Neb., warm for the winter.

The solution, a friend told me, is Vaseline (and definitely not Burt's Beeswax).

Vaseline. On my legs. So I can do something that makes me sweat and breathe heavy. There is a goldmine of humor in that, but this is a family Web site, so let's move on.

Along with running, I have taken to picking up heavy things and putting them down again. As I get better at it, I'll be able to lift heavier things, and I'll be able to pick them up and put them back down with greater frequency. Some people call this weightlifting.

And to top it all off, my wife has taught me how to do a "modified" sit-up. Unlike a normal sit-up, which is just painful, the things my wife has me doing make me weep.

At this rate, I'd say my chances of rugby greatness are in question. Perhaps I should add one more element to my training program: practicing faking an injury.

Chris Cope is married, with no children. His column appears every other Tuesday.