Rugby Fathers - Part 1

This is a guest article sent to us by a parent of 3 very talented young Rugby players in Sydney, Australia. Realistically it could have come from anywhere this is a two part series and next Thursday will see the second part released. If you recognise yourself, you are a disgrace.

Release the ball, you turd

When your kids play a sport, it is generally considered to be a healthy pastime, not just for the body but also for the mind. The kids get out there and take part in a team sport and hopefully learn some skills along the way, such as team play and camaraderie, as well as the sporting aspect of it.

There are similar minded parents at these matches and you may come to quite like them – they are not mentioned here. On the other end of the scale are the loud-mouths, the irritating spectators, the inane, the imbecile. You may not always know their names, but you will never quite forget them. It’s because of these father types (mothers are not scope of this article) that games can become dire affairs.

This article is dedicated to the wider Rugby community in my city. If you think you may recognise yourself in any of the profiles below, it’s probably because I’ve overheard you. Any similarity with living or deceased people is absolutely intended, but most unlikely of course. We all know that this place is abounding with good sportsmanship.

The Perfectionist

The Perfectionist has never dropped a ball in his life. Ever. It may belt down with rain, the wind howling and blowing icy water drops sideways into the players’ faces. You may find yourself staring into a blazing sun at kickoff. But dropping the ball is not an option. If someone on the pitch has the audacity to lose prized possession by so selfishly dropping a towering kick, he will be dealt with relentlessly from the sideline. “What are you doing, you idiot?”

The Perfectionist also has the sure-fire recipe for making tackles. Regardless of height, width, weight, ferocity of the attacking player - it’s as simple as this: ‘around the feet’. ‘Around the feet’ interspersed with “tackle low” you’ll hear them call all game if the opposition has a Samoan mountain playing in the forwards.

I urge you, Mr Perfectionist who’s never missed a tackle in his life, I urge you to show your young one how it’s done. Show them the stuff that men are made of. Here’s how:

1. Go and take your son to the local Rugby club.
2. Approach First Grade’s biggest prop. For a realistic audition, pick the local Samoan mountain-man, adult edition.
3. Outline your problem to mountain-man.
4. Offer him a beer if he could hurl at you at full speed, with a ball tucked under his wing, just once. He’ll usually oblige.
5. Ask remaining first grade plus all other players to form a make-shift crowd on the sideline. Get them to yell out “around the ankles” and “big men fall hard”
6. Go to the south side of the pitch, while the big fella walks to the northern in-goal area.
7. It’s now you and mountain man like a scene from High Noon.


As the 12 o’clock train approaches the small township, it blows its whistle. A faint sound in the distance. Some horses, tied up outside the bar, seemingly sense the tension and neigh nervously while pawing the dusty ground. The customers from the nearby barber shop have risen from their chairs and are peaking cautiously through the window. Tumbleweed is blowing through the streets that are suddenly swept empty. The hammering from the undertaker’s Complete Funeral Services house has stopped, creating an escalating sense of grim foreboding.

”I’ve never killed a man who didn’t deserve it”, says the older gunslinger.
”Go ahead, make my day”
”Big mouth don’t make a big man, gringo”
”Are you gonna pull those pistols or whistle Dixie?”
”Nobody wants to see you killed”


8. We will reduce the error margin for missing a tackle and agree on a narrow 10-metre strip.

The cacophony “tackle low, tackle low” was only a dim sound, all muffled, remote and almost unreal. As his eyes narrowed to slits, he eyeballed his impressive opponent. And then the signal was sounded. It’s the time of truth…

9. On the agreed signal, you both start stampeding towards each other. 10. Now go down low and tackle the guy.

Come up trumps and your son will think you’re Tops. He’ll be inspired by your prowess. He may not always be successful in the future, but by golly, he’ll give it a shot, like my old man.

On the off-chance that Mountain man tramples you into the dust (where you belong) – which is unlikely given your superior tackling technique – go to your son’s games from now on and appreciate him and the others for just having a go.

It was only just beyond his own 22 metre line where they scraped him out from underneath the line marking powder. Bro’s big frame had belied the speed of this magnificent species. Like a Grizzly he had charged down the line. The narrow 10 metre strip had become a tunnel of truth, and a tunnel of destruction….

The Suburban Rambo

You are one tough guy. You’re a man’s man.

Middle age had you seen you swapping your once-so wavy hair for a bigger girth but the gym membership is still somewhat holding the physical ageing process at bay. You love wearing a tight T-shirt which hugs your chest and upper arms and you walk with the tough-guys’ gait, arms slightly sticking out. You are never seen without chewing gum at training and during a game – it releases all the tension that one experiences during an Under 7s tag match.

You tend to hang about with the coaches to make sure you’ll bring an element of grunt to this team. No point treating them like a bunch of sheilas because this ain’t Netball.

You would have really liked to owe a Pitbull terrier which could rip into the neighbour’s Chihuahua and tear the little slipper to shreds. But like the cock fighting that’s so dear to your heart, the RSPCA has stopped your urges in both instances.

So, the next best thing is that your breeding has resulted in sons. Rugby players! The boys joined the footy club at age 3 ½ . Can’t start them early enough. “Hit the ground, men, and give me 10 push-ups” you growl at the 5-year old who have to tilt their head all the way back to look up to you when you talk to them.

You need your men in prime shape for the kick-off whistle. They are taking on the Viet-Cong. This is not a gentlemen’s game – it’s jungle combat, ruthless and brutal.

Your motivational speeches are legendary, as is your first aid treatment of injuries. You have watched the scene a hundred times, you’ve gone over this in your mind time and time again: you know how to cauterise a gaping wound just using a hot knife and gunpowder.

The old adage of “Rugby is the winner” is for pussies and poofters. You will look kindly at the Enforcer in your team, for he is the player who understands the concept of First Blood. As for the rest of the team? They may as well become Pitbull Terrier feed.

Recognise yourself? No? maybe your in part II ..... OR FOR YOUR SAKE HOPEFULLY NOT!