Rugby in a Parallel Universe

Somewhere out there in a universe not very dissimilarly proportioned to the outside edge of our own—yes it has an edge and that edge is safely held in place by eight gigantic forwards—and yet infinitely different from the inside—possibly because the inside has been put under the care of backs—they play rugby.

The difference there is that the game is a little coarser, less refined, and generally more bastardly. If you should ask the natives of Ellswearth, they would say it is “not a game for ninnies”, “more refined”, and therefore “a brutal game”—the word “brutal” is by way of course said with a grin that makes the blood and the lost teeth all good.

The thing to remember is that if you know the elegant sport played in our European leagues, or the Tri-Nation retirement village of the Japanese league, then you do not know anything about the game played in Ellswearth. If however, you have played for a club that serves those cheap tooth-picked-polony-and-cheeses—having the gall to call it hors d'oeuvres—after the game… those clubs that hand the man of the match to the last man standing after the slaughter on the field and the brawl and afterparty in the clubhouse… those clubs where that man is the survivor not of thirty starting and sixteen subs but rather a loose number anywhere between seventeen and forty-eight—roughly depending on the number of angry spectator-old-boys and the referee’s eyesight… If you have played for one of those clubs, or if you have ever faced the combined Pacific Islanders team, then you can begin to grasp the gentler elements of Rugby on Ellswearth.

This parallel universe is subject to the whimsical incorrigibility of sci-fi and fantasy writers. And some things may stay the same while others change. It is actually more sensible and logical than you might think, and when you consider the things that make no sense on Earth—like soccer being more popular than rugby—then it may just be worth considering that we are the copy of Ellswearth and not vice-versa. Another example would be Young master William Webb Ellis picking up the ball and running with it, an event that ended abruptly when his schoolmaster accosted him near the opposition goals. In Ellswearth his name was William Lomu Ellis, and when the schoolmaster stood between him and continuing glory, the unstoppable force did not meet the immovable object but rather the unfortunately sized Mr. Michael Catt… Lomu Ellis just kept running and it is claimed that he is still running today—some philosophers speculate that Mr. Catt is still rolling under his feet as well.

Some examples of things that are the same… let me think. Basically, any statement that you can start off by saying: “In what universe…” Like, “In what universe does Northern Hemisphere rugby compete with Southern Hemisphere Rugby?” or “In what universe will a home union win a world cup again?” and “In what universe will anyone be able to tell which French team will pitch up?”

Rugby solved many problems on Ellswearth, most notably abolishing soccer. A few countries still play the game and a cold war is waged between Rugby’s giants and countries like Germany, Holland and Brazil. Men from those countries are forced to board planes with the pregnant woman in Bokland¹. In Blackland² and Britain, German, Dutch and Brazilian tourists are not allowed to enter a hospital unless they are bleeding or severely discoloured. Similar sanctions follow all nations still participating in anything as silly as playing with a round ball. After all any good wizard knows that spells do not hold to a round ball.

¹Name changed from South Africa after their third consecutive World Cup in 1995—the ten-year anniversary of Nelson Mandela’s release from prison.

²Name changed from New Zealand in 1999 when they won their first World Cup after the wrong French team pitched up in the semi-final.

Oh, yes, magic is used in rugby in Ellswearth, mostly in the echelons of power—the power of the game keeps all but the magic of the rugby ball itself from interfering in what happens on the field. In the boardrooms, it is all starry cloaks, pointed hats and incantations determining the fate of nations. To the uninitiated mind it seems unfair, but magic is actually a very honest way to execute power. Unlike its veiled evil counterpart on Earth; namely political skulduggery and financial misappropriation.

But it is needless to draw more comparisons, since in true Ellswearth rugby tradition all you need to know about the game is that it is played with an oval inflatable rubber ball—clearly magical as its dimensions cannot scientifically explain the way it flies off in any direction on the bounce. Beyond that it is only important to know that helmets and crash pads are illegal and penalised by six years of minimum-security lockup or one week at Commander Streuli’s Camp Staaldraad in South Africa—most opt for the six years.

The greatest rivalry in Ellswearth is between Bokland, and Blackland. The Kangaroos and England just beat the French Cocks, for third and fourth place and after that there is a continual battle between Argentina, the Welsh, Irish, and once in a while a spectacular Fijian or Samoan team.

You see it is not dissimilar, just altogether different. Referees in Ellswearth are a deplorable lot. Power hungry despots who never actually played the game. Stick-figured descendants of failed backs who claim an encyclopaedic knowledge of a rule-book that magically changes every third time you open it—an evil spell cast by the World Rugby Union in an attempt to stop the home unions from falling even further behind when new countries discover the sacred game. These referees are the villains in the Ellswearth rugby story.

They control a game they do not understand. They have the ability to show partiality to both sides—a skill far more dangerous that straight-forward favouritism. This leaves the spectator in the unfortunate position of having to endure seventy-nine minutes of health destroying, soul debilitating stress, in the hope of a winning outcome that then restores two of the five years he has just lost.

The great force of good, which is the game of rugby is in constant battle with the force of evil—the afore mentioned World Rugby Union. It is a battle rugby is losing. Nowhere is this more evident than the domination the All Blacks have maintained on the field over the last twenty years. Not that they are part of the conspiracy, but they have had the best wizards employed in their boardrooms for a very long time. These wizards of the Blackland Rugby Union have worked their own spells in the most marvellous ways to take full advantage of the WRU’s ambivialenciae spell and ini-eye-o’-wee-wee-guy spell.

The ambivialenciae spell keeps eyes away from unfair advantages gained. This allows already powerful teams to do all kinds of strange things to psych out other teams before the game and limits the response of the other team. Some players recall that playing against the All Blacks they were intimidated by the brutality of words that amount to: “you will die and I will live!” or a strange gesture that means “breathing” in one culture and “I’m gonna slit your damn throat” in the five thousand plus other cultures on the planet. One Irish player—in light of the confusing differences between cultures—promptly replied to the gesture by illuminating the All Blacks on the Irish cultural meaning of an extended middle finger. Other players were not intimidated, but confessed to a lack of concentration as they tried to remember where they had last seen such prolific tongue pulling—apparently the uncertainty is because they last saw it at ages four through seven and are therefore not used to seeing it surrounded by a beard or stubble.

Some believe there is no more hope in the light of the WRU’s wizardry. In their board room a group of wizards chant the words, “As it is, all is swell. As it is, keep it well!” With this eerie chant they keep all other spells in place.

But somewhere in South Africa Ras Grassmouse, new coach of Bokland, stands before his gathered Springboks. Around him there is a flickering glow—until one of the players steps forward and adjusts the bulb behind his coach. Grasmouse speaks with a calm that he doesn’t feel. “Today we claim back our honour! Bokke, tonight we tackle—high or low, no matter but tonight we tackle hard! Spartans! Ready your bootstraps and your collarbones... win tonight, then we dine in the hotel!”

The opportunity to hit someone hard and then food… The springboks are inspired and thus they take to the field to face a gesture that that means “breathing” in one culture and “I’m gonna slit your damn throat” in five thousand plus others—but meaning is rendered moot, because the Springboks have been given leave to do the cutting tonight.

All Black after All Black stand in wonder as blunt instruments prove highly effective at cutting ball carriers in half. Safe as houses All Black hands become suddenly unsteady. Tries come but by some magic the game has suddenly become about accuracy of boot as well. The long white cloud becomes a dark cloud with no silver lining. Pressure builds and…

Somewhere on the outside edge of the universe—an outside edge not very dissimilarly proportioned to that of our universe, eight gigantic forwards feel that pressure. It’s the pressure as what is, and what was, suddenly becomes a little less sure of what is to be.