Carpets of the little white flowers remind me that winter is blessedly short here. From now on something will be blooming consistently in the garden. Skies may remain grey, drizzle may fall, but flower trails at heritage properties across the country give me a reason to get outside.
It’s not enough of a lure to get the husband out of the man cave on a winter weekend, however. People need to be chasing a rugby ball for that.
Rugby has turned up a fair amount over the years in this blog, mostly in conjunction with travel we’ve coordinated around England away games. It’s been an excellent excuse for Paris, Rome, and most notably Japan, where we were lucky enough to attend some of the 2019 World Cup. I haven’t written much about England’s home ground of Twickenham, however, despite the fact that we’re now regulars.
It’s time.
How did an American who’s mostly ambivalent about sport, with the exception of St. Louis Cardinals baseball, end up passionately supporting England rugby in the stadium five to 10 times a year, with more on TV? And why? Part of it is, quite simply, that I married in. Some men have a mid-life crisis and buy themselves a ridiculous car or a young wife. Mine, thank God, went for debentures at Twickenham. (This is a particularly English version of season tickets; your investment buys you right of first refusal on tickets for your seats, which you then buy at face value. Given the difficulty of getting seats for a sport where every match always sells out, this is the only way to guarantee attendance.)
But I’m not just tagging along to be a good wife. I honestly enjoy the game.
All the things I liked at my first outing … fast-paced action, fit male bodies worthy of admiration, a merry and highly social crowd … have only multiplied in my affections over the years.
I can add patriotism. I love England as an enthusiastic immigrant. I had to work hard to gain my place here and I regularly appreciate things that native-born citizens take for granted. I think it would be great for the country if more people mustered more vocal enthusiasm for the place. But I grew up in a place where flag-waving is the norm, whereas patriotism here … with a few exceptions …. is far less visible. I love wrapping myself in the flag. Wearing a crown of red roses. Belting out Jerusalem and God Save the King. You get to do that at the rugby.
As I learned more, I fell in love with the structure of a game that has a role for any body type. The slight, little people. The tall lanky people. The chunky, broad types. Slow ones and fast ones. There’s a place for everyone in this remarkably inclusive game.
While I still only have a tenuous grasp on the laws of rugby … and know enough to call them laws rather than rules … I have a much better understanding of what’s happening on the field. Enough, certainly, to be able to roar frustration at gaping holes in the defence and appreciate the beauty of a particularly nimble tackle or agile run. Honestly, I don’t think it’s even possible to have a full grasp of the laws unless you’ve been involved with the game since childhood, and probably played it, because they are profuse, subtle and complicated. And ever-changing. Leading me to my belief that thick people can’t play rugby. It’s one of my favourite aspects of the sport.
Long before I paid attention to what was happening on the field I worked with the sport’s veterans off of it. If you want to lure British senior executives out of their offices, rugby regularly tops the list as the most enticing corporate hospitality offering. Thus I’ve hosted meetings where Clive Woodward offered leadership tips, got to interview Lawrence Dallaglio, and explored the importance of data in the game with Ben Kay. I even learned how to do the Hakka from New Zealand legend Sean Fitzpatrick. All of these events included drinks and socialising with the former athletes who were always incredibly bright, easy conversationalists and great fun.
These guys gave me my initial impression that people rugby people are special … a belief that’s only strengthened as I’ve come to know the game. So I’m not surprised that following Maro Itoje on Instagram can teach me about West African art and that Joe Marler’s podcast gives me fascinating insights into quirky professions.
These days, I extend that exceptionalism to the fans. I can’t think of anything else I do in my life where everyone involved is so uniformly pleasant and easy to get along with. In a country where you don’t talk to strangers on the train and cheerfully greeting an oncoming pedestrian is regarded with suspicion, fans inside the stadium strike up conversations like they’re all old friends. Or, if you’re part of the strange minority that is USA rugby fans, like family. This geniality extends to opposing fans. At the 2015 World Cub a group of South African fans consoled me after they trounced the Americans. Everyone loves the Italians, perennial 6 Nations underdogs. Even the long-standing Calcutta Cup, fought between the English and the Scots, is tremendously civil.
Because fun, ultimately, is why I’m content with investing so much of our free time, and our discretionary spending, into following rugby. Every game at Twickenham is a celebration. Following the team away is even better. We’ve bought a package to see the lads in Cardiff for the last game of this season’s 6 Nations, and I’m ridiculously excited. I have no doubt it will be the highlight of our first quarter of 2025. When we were having serious conversations about economising at the turn of the year we took a hard look at the rugby and, rather surprisingly, I was even more vocal in its defence than he was. Whatever the result on the field, the whole experience is consistently joyous.
Unadulterated joy is too rare a thing to sacrifice unless there’s no other choice.
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