Don't mess with mum

I've rattled around on the sidelines for years. I have stood up to my knees in mud, huddled under  brollies, I have cut too many oranges into cute little segments and endured the wrath when said oranges were left on the bench on the way to the game.

I've sat in Accident and Emergency clinics as the family player has been x-rayed ... let's see ... his shoulders, skull, jaw, hips and ankles. If I knew where all the x-rays were, I'd magic up an internal collage of my oldest son. He has bounced and bumped, thumped and thudded around the rugby pitch since he was seven. He has broken his nose and I've lost count of the badly bruised eyes. Not my game of choice, but alas it was not my choice.

I've watched my youngest son, dance around the rugby field somehow managing not to get injured as his great talent was in keeping his distance from the ball. When he decided to partake, he was all energy and wrath, but these bursts were not as constant or as frenetic as those of his older sibling.

I've screamed from the sidelines, in ways I never thought I would or could. Sometimes I'm surprised at the strength of my vocals - I've grunted and gasped with the best of them. I've glared at the parent calling my son the 'fat white boy', but refrained from acting upon an impulse to tackle said parent and try to ellicit a retraction through some form of passive strangulation.

I've enjoyed the gossip on the sideline with other gumbooted mums. In fact, I've usually been so immersed, I've missed my son's greatest injury moments.  

I've been apalled at the racist comments and taunts from both supporters and players. And was secretly pleased when my son planted a fist into a player who'd called his friend something I'm not prepared to write down. (Rationally, I don't condone violence, whether or not justifiable.)

I've watched fights on the sidelines, both on and off the field. Remember this is kids we're talking about, some parents' role modelling skills leave a smidge to be desired, as they shriek obscenities at their own players but usually more specifically at the referee.

I've watched the ref. I've listened to the vitriole hurled at him from the sideline. I've heard the obscenties sprayed at him on the field by the players. I'd always felt uncomfortable with the comments but had never acted upon them, well, not at first.

I've watched my nephew and my son become referees. Bye-bye nice-mum. Standing proudly on the sideline at the first game, my heckles slowly raised as a woman heckled and abused the ref ... my baby ... on the sidelines. Her language, was both vulgar and unpleasant. My heckles were rising so quickly that I was starting to resemble a mohawked punk. With nostrils flared, and eyes wide, I turned to the woman and noted that she was screaming at my 14 year old son ref'ing his first game. Her countenance returned to middle-class insincerity, and with not a hint of an apology, said "He's doing a great job." Whatever.

Not sure why I'm writing this down, the start of the rugby season, perhaps? Anway, to cut a long story short, I now drop my ref at the game and seek out a nearby cafe to keep out of earshot. I think my son is worried he may end up having to break up a fight on the sidelines, his mother vs a vocal opponent.

Who'd have thought, eh? And they say rugby is a game for gentlemen (and women).