One Fateful Day

Sweaty palms, a bloody nose, fingernails torn from the cuticles: these are the things I love most about rugby.  The pain is immense, but the reward is all the greater.  At the end of the game you know that you have played your heart out, not unlike the guy standing across from you; however, one of you will have the bragging rights everyone who steps onto that field desires.  To claim that your the best; that you go harder; that you take more pain.  These are things every rugby player desires.  I have that desire.  

It was an odd day in March.  A field with more brown dry spots than green.  A field with sand pits strewn throughout.  It was not pretty, but it was all that we needed to play the game.  The gritty, dirty game we all love. Rugby is not like football; there is no glamour.  It is short canvas shorts and long sleeved, collared shirts that are anything but comfortable.  But we play regardless.  

I lined up at the outside center position.  A previous game had taken longer than expected so my stretching was forgotten a solid hour ago.  Our maroon canvas uniform sat heavy on my shoulders; I really did not being on that field.  Not that day, I knew we were going to get murdered by the other team.  Our team happened to a rag-tag group of rejects gathered together to lose and claim that they played the game like champs.  Only myself and one other player possessing any skill, it was not my day.  I should have exited that field.  Like any true player of the game, I stayed.  

Halfway through the first period, I blocked a kick and leaped over the opposing inside center.  The ball laid rest on the opposite side of the try line.  My eyes widened and I rushed to touch the ball down for a try.  All I had to do was touch it.  A sudden popping sound resounds into my ears and rattles my eardrum.  I knew immediately that something went horribly wrong.  My knee was the cartilage and bone version of jello.  My rugby career was temporarily halted due to a lazy body flung into the side of my leg at full speed.  I hobbled off the field. 

Little Jesuit Boy

Going into Jesuit I was not very spiritual.  As far as church was concerned, I more or less did what I was told to do without really understanding or caring, for that matter.  I was raised Catholic, but it was latent Catholic at best.  I despised church and everything associated with it.  I think this repulsion towards church came from the fact that I was not able to question the things I did not understand.  Going to a private christian elementary school and catechism classes, I was simply told what I was to believe and why I had to believe it.  Things I did not understand were not topics that were open for discussion.  I think much of my love for Jesuit came from the fact that we were encouraged to ask questions instead of just blindly believing, and or questions were not just blown off.  The Jesuits would even explain to us how they ad questioned the same things in their younger days.  These men seemed to genuinely care about our thoughts and feelings.  We were not pushed to believe things, but rather their method of questioning and seeing God in our daily lives made me more of a believer than just being told to blindly believe.  The easy going nature of most of these men was something to be admired.  These men truly cared for each of us as an individual, for example one Jesuit would always track us down on our birthdays to make sure we got a very special happy birthday applause.  The fact that these men were all extremely learned and still humble was very appealing.  The Jesuits saw themselves as part of our student body instead of viewing students as below them.  This attitude merited or respect rather than forcing it down our throats.  I think this is why I respect the Society of Jesus more than any other religious body. 

Chuck E. T.'s

I stand in Foot Locker amazed by the selection.  There are so many options.  Green shoes, gold or yellow, sky blue or navy blue.  The colors of the rainbow are well represented on the wall packed with a hundred or more tiny, personalized shelves.  Each shelf withstands the weight of a sole display version of a foot encapsulating apparatus.  It becomes easy to get lost in the selection.

What shoe is the most “me”?  I could get the Jordan’s, but I suck at basketball.  Some Nike Donks would be a lovely asset to any collection, but I do not have a record or a potential rap career.  How about old school Adidas?  Negative, they are plain enough to not be cool and expensive enough to show that one put legitimate effort into the purchase.  I stumble upon the Vibram toe shoes and realize that these must be for individual reminiscing over the toe socks of his/her childhood.  

Weighing my options with extreme precision and intensity, I realize that the classic Chuck Taylor’s offer the best shoe for the price.  The look fresh with any ensemble.  One can run and play without any difficulty.  Getting them filthy is not an issue because they are only acceptable once they get a little dirty.  And they are extremely affordable.  

Perfection.