Last Friday night, I went out to support a friend’s oldest boys. They had a high school rugby match in Bedford, Texas.
It was a great evening for it, and it felt good to be back out at the pitch (rugby field). I’d played in college and still held a catalogue of deep and abiding memories of my teammates and the matches we played in, the remembrances a comfort and a reminder of the bonds we forged and still shared.
It was no minor joy to see a younger generation of ruggers making the game a part of their lives. It’s still not terribly conventional or mainstream, and it goes against many of the prevailing currents in American culture. But, maybe, that’s the point. It’s not football, basketball, baseball or even soccer—in fact, every year, lots of football players show up to play rugby at the high school level, but most only last a day.
It’s complex and more nuanced. There’s more running in rugby, and no huddles. There’s no alternating series of defense and offense. You’re doing it all at once, nonstop—and without polycarbonate helmets or pads.
It’s a little much, really. It takes a different type of toughness.
My friend’s sons’ team was a new, smaller, high school squad, taking the pitch against a giant, multi-school squad from northern Tarrant County. The north Tarrant squad had three times as many players and a lot more experience. And let me clue you in early—the outnumbered squad did not win. They got worked over pretty bad.
But they never quit. They kept fighting. They kept going. Despite impossible odds and inferior numbers. The first match, they lost 22-10. The second, worse. The third, worse still. But instead of being disappointed, I was inspired. My friend’s sons’ club only had one sub. The north Tarrant squad had fifteen or sixteen, enough players to field more than one side. And they rotated a different side in after every score. My friend’s sons’ squad never left the field.
I was impressed with their effort, and that would have been enough. But then I saw one of their players on his stomach on the ground between halves. At first, I thought he was stretching. But his knees were beneath him, and his torso suddenly rose upright.
I noticed he was facing East. I realized he was praying.
The north Tarrant squad was located on the home side of the pitch and had bleachers. Our squad was located on the visitor side with bleachers, but no access to them. The gates leading to our seating were locked. The praying player had jumped the fence to perform his prayers, probably not wanting to draw attention to himself.
So, family and friends of our squad were basically on the sideline with the team. It was no big deal. But later I found myself in the proximity of the Muslim player. I struck up a conversation and shared words of encouragement regarding his team’s play. Then, I asked him where his family was from.
“Palestine,” he replied.
I immediately wished I hadn’t asked.
“I have no words,” I said, honestly not knowing what to say. But I kept going. “Especially as an American.”
Impossible odds. Inferior numbers.
“I still have family there,” he replied. “It’s hard. Most people don’t even know.”
I clenched my teeth. I may have said something else, but I can’t remember. There was a silence like glass. We both knew the truth. I offered the young man a drink and an orange from my friend’s ice cooler.
“I can’t,” he replied.
“Ramadan,” I said, suddenly recalling.
“Yes,” he confirmed. “I can’t have anything until this evening.”
“Of course,” I remarked.
Soon, he and the squad were back out on the pitch for the last match. The young Muslim played hard and was solid, all on an empty stomach, his lips parched, but his heart full. He never wavered.
It inspired me in ways I no longer thought I could be inspired.
As an American, I was still ashamed—but that was simply a luxury. I wasn’t facing impossible odds or superior numbers or hamstrung by limited resources that night in Texas, every day in my country, or for decades in the land of my ancestors.
Did I mention former President George W. Bush was a rugger in high school and later a standout player at Yale? Very enthusiastic, I hear. From prep school to the presidency—a rugby player. It had to be acknowledged, even if I thought the Bush Administration’s disastrous foreign policy in the early aughts were a precursor to what was happening to my new, young rugby friend’s family in Gaza.
Lots of folks are upset about our current foreign policy regarding Ukraine; Palestine seems little more than an afterthought.
Thankfully, however, a much more inspiring, iconic leader also played rugby. He suited up for San Isidro, Ypora and the Atalaya Polo Club. He also founded and edited a rugby magazine called Tackle.
And that’s what he did for the rest of his short life. He tackled. Aggressively. Especially social injustice and Western imperialism.
His name was Che Guevara.
As we clapped our team off at the end of the match, I remembered something. Something Americans seem to constantly, though comfortably, forget.
There’s nothing heroic about fighting a winning battle, a contest whose outcome is known from the beginning. Real courage comes in fighting battles you can’t win—but knowing you have to fight regardless. Knowing that you have to keep going. Knowing that giving up or quitting is not only wrong, but that it’s not even an option.
America will probably continue to do a lot of winning.
But there’s nothing heroic about it.
The post Inspiring Pitch first appeared on Dissident Voice.
This content originally appeared on Dissident Voice and was authored by E.R. Bills.