| This book began three decades ago, on a cold Saturday morning in early September. That was when I pulled on for the first time the scarlet jersey of Icknield, a high school named for a fierce tribe of Britons, the Iceni, who under their warrior queen Boadicea inflicted several heavy defeats upon the Romans. Our opponents that morning were from the Cardinal Newman School, named not after a warrior but a mild-mannered man who may soon become a saint of the Roman Catholic Church. The Cardinal’s men were victorious that day, the final score was 10-6 and, to show my age, we were defeated by two converted tries to two unconverted tries. But I was hooked.
Chances are you are reading this book because you, too, fell in love with rugby. It has that effect on people. It’s a game of many parts. While a good deal of brawn is needed, brains play a big role too, and the post-game social life is usually enjoyable, if not entirely wholesome or suitable for family viewing.
Rugby has grown immensely in recent years. There are now women’s teams at the international level and a women’s rugby world cup; there are national teams for the hearing impaired, and the sport spreads ever wider. As I write, Brazil conquered Trinidad and Tobago in the early qualifying stages of the next Rugby World Cup. There’s even a movement to reintroduce rugby in the Olympic Games, where the current reigning champions are the United States who defeated the French 17-3, in Paris, in 1924. |
