Intimacy

The place where I felt closest to nature was the rugby field behind Queen Elizabeth elementary school in Vancouver, where I grew up. Every day after school in the fall and winter we would walk from our high school blocks away down to the pitch with our cleats in our hands. Before we reached the field we could smell it, the muddy soil and surrounding pine trees rising up to meet us. Part of the intimacy of the field was that it was an enclosed space, a pit deep below the school, with dark woods on every side. When the field came into view I always felt a small quaver of excitement. The pitch was ours. I felt close to that field, every day pushing my body to its limits. Sweating and gasping in the cold air. Racing on the soft soil calling for the ball. There is a science to tackling that many people don't understand, and so they would be shocked that a guy of my size could excel at the game of rugby. But to tackle someone, you have to know what you're doing. Without pads you can't simply hurl your body into an opponent, knock him over with the sheer force of your velocity. You have to be precise. You have to be very aware of your own body. I remember the smells and the cold air, the sense of privacy that we felt each day as we trudged down Blenhem street towards the field. I remember the first long drink of water at the end of practice, our bodies colored with grass and mud.