BY DAVID CAMPBELL
(And has the scars to prove it)
I love rugby. I loved playing it, and I love watching it now that my body has wisely retired from active service.
My introduction to the game came during my final year at Carnegie Mellon University. A friend who played for a local club asked if I had ever played. I admitted I hadn’t—and, more honestly, that I wasn’t entirely sure what rugby actually was. He asked if I played American football and what position. I told him I was a tackle—at the time, just under six feet, about 210 pounds, and in good shape. He gave me an appraising look and declared me perfect for prop. “What,” I asked, “is a prop?”
And so began my education.
He explained that rugby was the foundation upon which American football was built, and that many of our terms trace back to the original game: touch from touchdown, offside, blindside, blitz, conversion, tackle—to name a few. He added with a grin that we could also add bruise, sprain, and concussion to the list of borrowings.
After a brief primer on the responsibilities of my position, he walked me through the basics: what a scrum was, how to set one, and how to play in one. I was told that when I tackled, I must never make contact with the head, and that if I got the ball, I could only pass laterally or backward—never forward. At first, I thought rugby was sheer mayhem. Then I realised it was organised mayhem, with players constantly repositioning to maintain continuity and drive the ball toward the try line.
It was American football—but as the saying goes, on steroids. No pads, no helmets, and an absolute blast. I fit right in the moment I understood that this was a drinking team with a rugby problem. I didn’t fully appreciate how physical the sport was until the next morning, when every muscle in my body ached—my hair hurt, and parts of me I didn’t know could hurt were also in open rebellion.
Between studies and work, I couldn’t play as often as I wanted, but I suited up whenever I could until graduation. Now, as a spectator, I relish watching the matches: the All Blacks and Black Ferns performing the haka, that magnificent Māori war challenge before kickoff; the fans in their kits, roaring their support; and the deep respect between teams—something I’ve rarely seen in any other sport.
Women’s Sevens is a particular joy—pure exhilaration to watch, with the women playing with finesse and ferocity in equal measure. There are so many thrilling players: Ilona Maher from the U.S., Marlie Packer from England, Portia Woodman-Wickliffe from New Zealand, and countless others.
I watch every match of the Six Nations. Like many Americans, if you name a county, someone in my family probably emigrated from there. I’m of English, Scottish, Welsh, Irish, and French-Belgian descent, which gives me splendid fun betting pints with my friends in Scotland and England on the outcomes. Though I would never admit it to them, I confess I quietly root for England.
Now, about those scars.
During a match, my head came into unfortunate contact with a knee, resulting in twelve stitches right in the center of my scalp, just above the hairline. The nurse—with what I can only describe as excessive enthusiasm—shaved an area an inch and a half wide and six inches long to accommodate the sutures. My girlfriend at the time (laughing, I should note) suggested I shave it all the way back to my neck and sport a reverse Mohawk. I was not nearly as amused as my friends were.
For the next six weeks, while my hair grew back, I wore a flat cap in civilian life and, at work, a bandana under my safety helmet. I looked, my colleagues informed me, like a pirate who had wandered onto a construction site by mistake.
No concussion was officially recorded at the time, but many of my family and friends still attribute my subsequent behaviour—and my enduring love of rugby—to that particular blow to the head.
They may be joking. They may not be. I’m not entirely certain myself, and at this point, I’m afraid to ask.
David Campbell is an American who spends a lot of time in Littlehampton, West Sussex.