There comes a time...

There comes a day when you suddenly realise you're the oldest one on your team. All your rugby friends and obviously all the newbies are fresh-faced youths who seem to get better and better every week. They run like gazelles, chin up like marines and squat challenge eachother just for the hell of it. One day (soon) they have mastered the art of tackling, a struggle that has taken you eight years and still resembles a drowning person desperately trying to cling to a float. They GET IT. At this point, it's not strange that you get pushed into a (too?) early midlife crisis.

Pass me a drink please. And fuck you - I'm not leaving!

Move, for * sake!

This is a post to all you new people who this year decided to enter our rugby pitch. You might wonder if we actually want new players since we yell at you so much.

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Let’s clarify. We’re not angry with you. We just get very excited and extremely competitive when there’s a ball around.

In our sport, communication is vital. It’s not just the fact that we play a team sport with fifteen people on the pitch, all with different ideas about what should be done next. It’s  also about the power of the game itself. We play an intense high impact sport and if we don’t talk to eachother, the risk of injury increases. For example, I’ve seen ten stitches in the face as a result of two teammates not talking to eachother (actually, I’ve felt them). Believe me, when you know it’s completely unnecessary, and partly your own fault, that needle in your forehead is not the icing on a perfect day-cake.

So if there was a lot of screaming, demanding and bossing you around yesterday, all is well.

I don’t apologise for a single word.

Absolutely and constantly starving

How did this happen? Let’s just say I’ve been a bad girl. Or, I’ve been a bad rugby player… I haven’t set foot in a gym since I was preggers (altho I have fond memories of that; random people in the corridors applauded me for just being there) and I’m nowhere near as strong or fit as I should be. Since end of season last year I haven’t been sweating in a sports related activity AT ALL (shame on me). When you go from that, to surprising your body with a four sessions a week schedule, something is bound to happen. And it has. Let’s just say food bills are on the rise.

In my office window, I don’t have flowers (they die on me anyway). I have a tray of boiled eggs and avocados, like an absurd mockery of famous still life paintings. When my colleagues have a cup of afternoon tea with a vanilla cracker or a couple of grapes, I shovel down spoonfuls of kvarg topped with my favourite nut mix. It doesn’t help – I’m always hungry! My daydreams used to be sexual, now they’re gastronomic… Well, I am a Joey after all. We like food. We dont' share food.

Another Joey: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l0Tn0HSVq7E

Masochist class

Earlier today I showed up at the PT rehab session designed for problematic shoulders. I wouldn't call it problems I said to myself in my head beforehand, it's maybe not up to scratch just now, but how bad can it be..? I don't know if the others felt the same way, but at least I was quickly proven wrong. We got shown an exercise that looked simple. Yet, when we tried, we failed miserably to keep our body in the right position. I studied the faces next to me, they were slightly contorted in pain and effort - I imagine I looked pretty much the same. OK, maybe I do have a problem. We turned, twisted, rolled, stretched and pulled, the rolling pin my personal favourite. When it hurts, stop there and maintain the pain. Oh right. Masochist class.*

* Altho I'm beginning to think masochism is growing on me. Why else would I sign up for a Monday spinning session? I tried spinning once 15 years ago and hated it... (15 years ago!? That can't be right. Did I not just turn 23?)

The den of doom

I entered the den of doom yesterday with anticipation. There had been rumours about this event, and people who attended the week before looked at us first-timers with pity.  True enough, it was hard work. The sheer number of stations and which order they were supposed to come in was all confusing but actually did their bit to take your mind off how fucking exhausted you were. Admit it, every pre-season start up is a slap in the face. Time doesn’t exist. Oxygen doesn’t exist. You. Just. Keep. Going.

As I did just that, sweating my way through another push up, squat, dead lift or weird commando roll, I noticed that this might be exactly what we need. I don’t mean fitness-wise (although it’s embarrassingly obvious that we do), but club spirit-wise. Our teams haven’t spent much time together these last years, and honestly, we could do so much better than this. Invisible barriers between juniors, ladies and men spread all sorts of negative energy through everything we do (oh the fuckers have stolen our match shorts again! / Naw, I don’t wanna go down to the club and hang out with those drunken strangers / Why should I sign up for a job for the club when others don’t?  / Theres no point playing for the seniors, I don't know them). It leads to absurd situations where someone who’s played for this club for years gets asked who actually brought her to that Saturday’s rugby party, being labelled as ’random groupie’ instead of the correct ’fullback heroine’.

These kind of barriers are easily broken down with sweaty hugs. Seriously, when our gym session ended yesterday it was like the final whistle in a game – people cheered, hugged and smiled (those who weren’t lying in a puddle on the floor, that is). And even before the end, people were encouraging others to keep going, shouting their names, slapping whatever they could reach as they walked by (apologies here if anyone felt violated!). I’ve said it before; when you feel like you’re dying, and you’re sharing it with someone else, you can’t not be friends afterwards.

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Now ladies, this recruitment competition…hos many points do I get for a masseuse?

Freshers' week

As it's freshers' week in Uppsala and new students are pouring in like grasshoppers, what would be more logical than to stand outside university and promote the club? Unfortunately, we shared the idea with several other organisations and had to fight for attention while various political or churchy people scared students left, right and centre. Some chose not even to look to the sides, but to suddenly sprout blinders and run for the entrance - bibles and anti-monarchy buttons being tossed at their backsides.

New tactics had to be developed, and our best shot was, 1) to geographically separate ourselves from the rest of the riff raff, and, 2) to send out our friendliest worker: Mr team manager. It didn't seem to matter who came along, a smile and a cheery Tjena! always turned into a five minute conversation and a handshake at the end. Very impressed!

Let's keep this up and we may get to see some new faces down at the pitch!

On time!

It was just like usual: short notice, stupid time, heavy work and poorly packed stuff. I'm talking about the latest work for the club of course, what else? But hey, isn't new years eve a great day to move an office and require help anyway? And why would you pack your stuff in easily stored boxes when they can go in half open Ikea bags? A house with a lift? Now that's for sissies!

I'm exaggerating, the house had a small lift. And drinks for the workers. And, unlike other jobs (see: the jigsaw challenge) it finished on time! Apart from a minor blood spill the four URFC players and the two extras had a surprisingly problem-free shift. Now, the two extras deserve a huge round of applause: one was a boyfriend who tagged along and was being a nice guy in general. The other was a former player who clearly saw my plea for help on the ladies' fb page and thought: well, I don't play anymore, I don't even live in town, and the only thing I have to wear would be the high heeled boots and lace tights from last night...but what the hell! Fantastic performance - please come back one day!

Working for the club is also bonding between clubmembers. Don't forget that!