Time

So I've finally got enough time to write a post, between the time I've spent decidedly not doing university work and avoiding the teachers in my office, after I accidentally down-scaled the print queue, from A4 to B5.  Whoops.

So at the weekend I went to an old boys game at Iwasaki, followed by a bout of ridiculous drinking.  A few things struck me, but I am going to proceed in chronological order so it might take a while to get there.

First up, the game was a simple friendly game of touch.  We played on a pitch that was, quite literally, an inch underwater due to heavy rain the night before, and was never one of the best to begin with.  In essence, it was a bowl of mud, with some mud thrown in for extra mud.  I forwent socks in favour of the South African style no socks.  A choice that I'm glad I made, all told.

An hour before the match I went outside and started place-kicking; something I've not done for a very long time.  I was surprised at how enjoyable it was, but my hamstrings hurt like hell afterwards.

I was hitting around 45% when I was kicking from the pitch, but I couldn't actually place the ball on any firm ground - it floated away before I could kick it.  I therefore switched to the corners, aiming at the uprights from the side.  The aim being to hit the only post visible from that angle.  I managed to squarely hit it once and graze it a few times.  I managed to get bloody close though, and the majority of my attempts were exceedingly close.  I would probably give it a 75% hit rate for normal conversions, which is okay I suppose.  It turns out that having a patch of grass to kick from, rather than a puddle, makes things substantially easier.

The matches were fun, but being touch aren't really worth commenting on.

So I was originally supposed to stay at the after-party until 10.30 at which point I would catch the last train home.

Interestingly, the last train home did not, in fact, go home.  It stopped half a dozen stops before my transfer station, so it became impossible to go home.  Having got a lift to the station, I trudged back to the party.  It's amazing how bright the night is here, I could see the local big city radiating light over the brow of a hill as I walked, and even thought there was no sound, it looked like a there was a massive incandescent fire rolling around just out of view.  That or a jellyfish.

I can't decide whether that view was because the city is just so bright, or because that particular area was so vast and rural.

Anyway, trudge I did, and upon re-entering the party a small arm-wrestling competition had broken out.

Being the foreigner, I was invited to challenge one of the underlings (everyone is ranked by ability in everything, so the club had a champion who designated who should compete with who).  I dispatched the underling (a lock I believe) raising an eyebrow here or there.  I then competed with the old master, a prop who was more prop than man, but under his belly lied a strong arm.  I beat him, setting up a title fight with the king of the fiefdom.  It was a surprisingly long battle, with a man who weighed 135kg's (another prop.)  The table took a battering, with it bowing in the middle (we were both holding onto either edge, so we were essentially folding it around our elbows.)  After what felt like an eternity, he relented, allowing me to slam his hand down in glorious victory.

After about ten minutes of recovery time, he asked for a rematch.  I made him promise that this was the last (my shoulder still aches) and we were fighting for national pride once more.  The man hits the gym regularly, and he isn't weak, and in this second fight, as he was straining with all his might, he sprang a leak.  As blood burst forth from his nose, his elbow began lifting, and at its peak was three inches off the table; at this point he was essentially scrummaging my arm off the table with his whole body.  This had ceased to be an arm wrestle.  The table was decidedly more U-shaped than when it began, meaning that to win, we needn't push the opponent far.

After much blood, and four people holding the table down, I was declared the victor.  It was more of a technical knockout as I don't have the ability to bend others to my will, I simply hold out long enough for them to wear down and tire out.  It's an extremely slow process that involved more than a few words of swearing.

Anyway, after this, I settled down with an orange juice and wore the night down talking to a crazy woman and the man who introduced me to this particular club in the first place.  It was quite interesting, but I would have rather been at home.

I bedded down in the club room (on a futon, with a pillow and everything) to be awakened (after the worst nights sleep ever) the next day.

At this point, I would like to add a few photographs, but wouldn't you know it, home beckons.  I'll finish it up tomorrow.

So it's now tomorrow.

I wanted to show you the picture of me sleeping, but my friend deleted it, so now no one will ever see!

What I will show you is this:

This was shortly before some seriously crazy shit happened.

Everyone appears relatively sober at this point.  It's worth noting that the stuff they're holding up is showing support for one of the towns affected by the earthquake, something akin to 'do your best.'

That must be a captivating stain on the floor.

I have completely zoned out in the picture.  Your guess is as good as mine as to why, why goddamn I look terminally stupid.  Also, I don't know why I'm wearing shorts.  It's three degreee outside (hence why I'm wearing my coat inside).

Also, this was taken immediately prior to the main event of the evening - naked rugby.

A group of lads went outside (in the freezing night) completely starkers.  One of them had a headband on, securing a strange flag.  I don't know why.

This was in front of everyone as they took photographs and videos - they seemed to love it.

Interestingly for me, it was also in front of some of the kids.  There was obviously nothing sexual, but these guys would have been arrested, locked away for 25 years and put on the sex offenders register in England.  Remember, naked =/= sex.  Yet another reason why christianity should be outlawed (and all religion for that matter).

I don't have any photos of that.  Sorry ladies.

How to Break a Leg and Influence People

I've not broken a leg, don't worry.

I played rugby on Sunday, with a massively bandaged right hand.  It looked like I was beginning a particularly unusual mummification process - particularly gruesome considering I'm still alive.

I didn't re-hurt that particular area, but what I DID manage to do, was get a massive headache.  I was holding one of the little opposition players off the floor, when someone belted me with a forearm to the face.  This put me out for a few seconds, and besides from the image of a big, fat, wobbly forearm coming towards my nose, I remember not much of anything for the next ten minutes or so.  Apart from the headache.  I also scored a try at this stage, apparently.  Buggered if I can confirm it though, so let's all pretend it happened.

That try aside, I scored two others; definitely.  One was from a sublime pass, I was standing extremely flat (as I'm wont to do in Japan, the defence holds off for far too long, allowing a head of steam and certain gain-line advantage) and one of the defenders chose to shoot out and try to nab the ball in mid-air.  He failed, I walked a few feet over the line.  It was all very easy, thanks to a sublime pass.

The other came from a break from the halfway line.  I pushed away from the would-be tackler, ran outside the covering defence, scooted past the full-back (at this point I had slowed down somewhat) with about four cover defenders pushing me ever closer to the line (this was deep into the second half, and I'd been causing them troubles for about sixty minutes, whenever I got the ball there were four shirts in front of me).  I dived, dobbing the ball down one handed while flying through the air superman style, lest one of them try to tackle me partway through.  It was worthy of a television replay, alas none was forthcoming.

The real trouble started with ten minutes left.  I once again broke through the midfield (having started at fullback I was moved to outside centre), beat everyone with the full-back to go, decided to ship it onto the winger who wasn't anywhere near me.  My only option was to push a pass backwards fifteen feet, where despite a valiant effort, he was nabbed by a defender.  A couple of phases later and I was ready for an inside ball, except, and I don't know why, I blew my hamstring.  It exploded like a drag racer, I was short of disengaged pistons, but it felt quite terrible nonetheless.  Why it should happen so far into the game is anybodies guess.  Oh, and this was five minutes after I landed badly on my right wrist while I was diving at a try scorer to be.  He was definitely going to make the line, but I was running as fast as possible and wanted to exact some revenge for being punched, beaten, kicked and generally done ill to.  So I did.  Childish, yes.  Worth it?  No. Now both wrists hurt.

I'm deliberately leaving the bad play until last, and as such, the last good thing to come from the game was some of my tackling.  I stopped at least three definite scoring opportunities, one with a tackle that was perfectly legal, leaving the attacker winded.  While he was on the floor making like a grounded fish, I dived onto the scrum half (at this point there were two defenders and fifteen attacker) which was perfectly legal, as no ruck had formed - causing him to spill the ball backwards, allowing my team to catch up and, eventually, poach some possession.  I was particularly proud because milliseconds prior to the tackle I had slipped, causing me to be on one knee during the impact.  As I rose onto my feet, the natural forward momentum and position I'd adopted were perfect.  One of those lucky flukes that works, I suppose.

Now the bad - my first take at full-back was as inauspicious a start as is possible.  I took the ball up, not realising my entire team expected me to kick.  I took it into contact with no one there to help.  They inevitably got the ball, shipped out it to the backs and scored.

Looking back, it was bloody stupid to run it in, let alone where I eventually chose to do so.  I should have taken it onto the wings and let a few of them tackle me, allowing me to release an outside player.  Or kick it.  But kicking is no fun.

Other bad things - I gave away about forty eighty bajillion million penalties.  No matter what I did, it was wrong.  I was pinged for not releasing the tackler (I was on my feet, had let go, did a theatrical hand waving ceremony to prove that I had let go while jumping back over the tackled player, picked the ball up and ran off, (no one else was there) only for the whistle to go).  I then tackled a chump, deciding not to let him touch the ground.  In doing I again came foul of the referee for something.  I don't know what this time.

Then, after another break (they happened all over the place, made by any number of players) I was a cog in the passing machine, taking a tackler out of commission, passing backwards to the next person.  Except it was forwards apparently.  It was only forwards insomuch as backwards is forwards in the southern hemisphere.  But we are not in the southern hemisphere.

The one that makes me chuckle is the tackle when I got a forearm to the face (no broken nose, amazingly, although it is sore.)  I had the player in the air, forearm to the face, went down, penalised for not rolling away. To be fair, I didn't roll away.  To be fair, I didn't do much of anything.

So in summary, it was a game of mixed outcomes for myself.  I scored a few, our team lost.  I made some great tackles.  I busted every part of my body.  My running broke the gain-line.  I was penalised more times than everyone else on the pitch combined.

It was lots of things, and interesting was certainly one of them.