Well, I am mortified.


“If you’re crazy and you know it, flap your hands.”

My commin side came out yesterday … next to the rugby field … and I am absolutely mortified … with myself. It started innocently enough, with me lounging on a bench (donated by the Gr 7’s of 2005) next to the field. I usually sit quietly by at these sort of occasions, observing the yummy-mummys (all gucci-ed, coiffed and lipstick-ed), their perfect offspring (A average, 5 sports, volunteering at Animal rescue) and the absurdly successful dad’s (the ones who sponsor the rugby kit), while S stands with his fists clenched in his pockets, chomping at the bit and willing poor ol’ J to get aggro and score a try or gouge an eye out or something!

I was busy filing my nails as the touring side (some preppy school from the UK) scored a try about 30 seconds into the game. So I packed the emery board away and thought, OK – this should be interesting … And it was all dowhill from there. By half-time I was standing on the field and hollering and coaching and I must confess there was some gnashing of teeth and jumping up and down (yes, my feet actually left the ground, together, for a split second. Talk about a gravity-defying event.) I admit I may have let a few fist-pumps go and S warned me that if I carried on like that, I would be collecting my tonsils on the 5 yard line.

I was cursing a bunch of 13- year olds and sending them to hell and back? At this stage S had left my side and I noticed him cowering behind the tree about 50m down the sideline. My actions were not polite and socially acceptable. The screeching left me in dire need of a soothing throat lozenge. In retrospect, it may be a good thing that I do not actually reside in Port Elizabeth.

I noticed Tibbs (his head is basically up my son’s ass in the scrum) punching J in the kidneys and slapping his thighs and threatening him with all sorts of encouragement as they did the whole touch-pause-engage thing, and I am embarassed to say that I screamed for this kid to hit my son harder? Maybe not such a good idea, since this kid is half J’s size. But, you see, J is a gentle giant and it takes quite a bit to get him steaming and snorting. Only his sister has the ability to instantly get his goat up – no one else, it seems. Not even his crazy mommy gesticulating, vloeking and prancing in his line of sight, in front of his peers and the headmaster.

Alas, my Oscar performance (Jeez, where is Charlize Theron’s talent scout when you need him?) aside, J’s side lost and there were a bunch of pommies high-fiving each other on the side. Naturally, I left in a huff and had the whole way back to J-Bay to regret my uncouth behaviour and over-analyze the game. On the plus side – my knowledge of the game of rugby has improved in leaps and bounds in the last few months, and I am quite positive that I could lead the Blue Cheetahs to a victory, if given the chance. However, it has been noted by those around me that I will have to work on my field manners, BMT, sportsmanship and supporter’s etiquette.

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