A Speech about Rugby

after Chelsey Minnis’s A Speech About the Moon


I think, “I hate rugby and I hate rugby players.” Then I begin to think, “I have a grimy prejudice.”, “I have an unnatural distaste.”, “I control my taste.”, and “Everything about rugby is dirt.”

Then I plunge my hand into the dirt and say, “I want to soothe playing field!” And, “I want to chew the grass.”

Plus, “I like fickle ritzy sports.”, “Terrible sports with leotards and swords.” and, “I want to cartwheel.”

Then I think about the obstinate length of the grass and the burgeoning foamy flounce of the steam room.

I think, “I am going to cry” and “I am dreaming about thighs.” and I lay very still for awhile. I think, “I can colour the rugby ball in . . .”

Then I start to laugh and my lungs are obscene. I think, “Everyone has to bite their own laugh.”

I constantly try to think, “Rugby balls are lolling on the grass.” or “Some rugby balls are losing their air.”

And I stand very still and tell myself, “. . . In the middle of the pitch . . . it is totally quiet . . . no balls are coming towards you . . .”

Then I sit down and hold my hands over my knees and flick my toes back and forth.

The goals rise up on both sides of me. I think, “I have to die.”

Then I lay in a position for awhile.

The grass is bored and famous around me.

I think clearly, “I have to stand up.” or else “The ball is your jitters all sealed up.”

Then I reluctantly think, “Dominating players.”, “. . . that boulder . . . “, “around”, “. . . and unwilling scrum . . .” and “default rugby jerseys.”, “. . . with their bellies.”

I stand on one leg so that one shoulder is lower than the other.

I say, “I have to invent luxury sports that have never been seen before . . .”

Then I kick the players who are twisted around my ankles and think, “I have to
be tormented.”

Then I continue to think things about the grass, like, “The grass is a short back-and-sides . . . sliced . . . off someone’s head . . .”

I tell myself, “. . . late at night . . . a fleshly rugby monster . . . is crawling. . . with beer on its tongue . . . to look at me. . . .”

I think about the grass again, “The grass is a salty condiment”, “My childhood is the colour of school sports days.”

Then I think about the muscular crowd.

I rub my hands on my stomach and think “oh no” and start to cry.

I pull the long blades out of my eyes and look away.

Slow blinks touch down.

Then I hold a ball very tightly and watch my knuckles pale so I become violent in the moonlight.

I think “Grasses are necessarily entitled” and hop around.

I am dragging the anthems around in my mind and thinking of my displeasure. I roll over.

I cry more tears that slink across my face and think, “No, no, no”, “Fans are mauling the impotent grass.”

I think, “The thoughts are terrible drunks pissing in trophies.”