Short Hops

How a wayward rugger found a new home – courtesy of the SVC alumni team

Sports Editor Adam White gets a worm's-eye view of SVC's star flyhalf, Andy Macnaughton, as the latter gallops by during the second half of the men's match at the Mountaineers'Alumni Weekend on Sept. 15. "Why, if I were 10 years younger..."

It would have been extremely difficult for me to cover the 2007 Southern Vermont College rugby alumni weekend men's match from the sideline. As a rugger myself for the past 15 years or so, I can count the number of times I've stood beside a rugby pitch and not participated in the actual match on one hand. There's just too much of an allure for someone who has the sport in their blood like I do.

So on the Friday before the match, I called up SVC head coach Jeremiah "Germ" Maddison and made an innocent inquiry.

"Is there going to a be a B-side match?" I asked. B-side is the rugby equivalent of JV.

"No, but you could probably get at least a half in the A-side game if you wanted," he replied.

Suddenly, my Saturday took on a whole new meaning. I had trouble sleeping the night before, and woke up early to venture out and try to find a pair of rugby boots (cleats) to buy in Bennington. My kit was in my car, which was in the shop, as I hadn't expected to need it for a while after playing in a tournament in Saratoga Springs a few weekends before. So I ended up plunking down a whopping $20 at a certain discount shoe store for a pair of plastic Spauldings. Hey, they had studs on the bottom, and that was all that mattered to me. I was going to play some rugby.

The SVC alumni team – the Warthogs – welcomed me with open arms from the get-go. I introduced myself to a jacked-up dude named Nate, and gave him a brief rundown of my rugby resume – first exposed to the sport in the Army, really learned to play at Salisbury University in Maryland (one of THE best college programs in the country), won a pair of national championships with the Sharks in 96 and 97, played a few more years at D-I UMass, then picked up games with various men's clubs and old boys sides ever since. Nate knew one of my oldest rugby buddies from his time with the Albany Knicks, so we hit it off immediately. The team's defacto captain, Matt, came over and told me they could definitely use my help due to a modest turnout by the alumni. I was in.

"Where can you play?" Matt asked.

"Anywhere," I replied. "Just plug me in wherever you need a body."

Anyone who knows rugby knows that there are positions for every body type, from the short, stout props up front in the forwards to the lean, super-fast wings on the ends of the backline. At 6-foot-1 and 200 pounds, I am certainly not the svelte speedster that I was back in my college days. In fact, I had played exclusively in the pack since, oh, about 1999.

"How about wing?"

I nodded and turned away to do some warmups and stretches, all the while smiling like a kid with a million-dollar secret. The last time I'd played wing was in 1995, some 12 years and roughly 30 pounds ago. Putting me at wing was something akin to the Chicago Bears putting the Fridge in at fullback. This was going to be fun.

Just before gametime, Matt shuffled me to outside center, a little more practical for someone my size. We plugged an exiled forward into the other center spot just inside me, in hopes that we could crash him into the college kids all day and wear their backs out, and we were off.

Let me tell you, the current Mountaineers are a hell of a lot better than I expected them to be. Fly half Andy Macnaughton and center Steve Nappi are naturals, with the former running an aggressive attack off set pieces and the latter showing a knack for cutting his runs back when the opposing wing forwards either over or under-pursue.

The alumni, on the other hand, were slow, unorganized and tentative around the ball. I cannot say that I wasn't guilty of all these things – I was – but there were a lot of other guys who seemed hesitant to pound the point of attack and set the college kids back on their heels. "Old man strength!" had been out pre-match break, but instead we were playing at old man speed – and the current team took advantage of it to the utmost.

We let in two or three trys in the first half, and after each the yelling and finger-pointing would be rampant as we awaited the conversion attempt. Nobody likes to take a beating on the rugby pitch, and a lot of guys think that if you remain silent during such a beating, you're somehow condoning it. But then again, screaming and infighting definitely don't help the cause.

The second half saw us old guys come back with a vengeance. All of a sudden we started rucking, supporting each other and recycling the ball through multiple phases of play – the recipe for rugby success. A winger named Joe entered the game and gave us a stud outside presence, and on the third phase of our first possession of the half we managed to isolate him on his much smaller opposing wing and I spun him the ball for our first try. We rolled right back down the field and I took a run up the gut, suddenly confident that our forwards would support me and win the ensuing ruck. They did, our flyhalf dished another pass to Joe and suddenly we had whittled it to a one-try game.

I must admit that I played a big part in short-circuiting our momentum. The current team drove down close to our try line, where we managed to get a 5-meter scrum with our put-in. Nobody was stepping up to call for the ball in hopes of kicking us out of there, so I volunteered to do it. Now, I've never been an especially strong kicker, but this whole "I'm a back again" thing had me carried away, so here I was calling for the ball with the enemy only inches from our try line. Matt got me a clean ball off the scrum, and my kick was high as a kite but bought us exactly five meters of touch line. To their credit, my teammates were quasi-supportive – "It's better than nothing" someone said – but it was clearly a horrible kick at a crucial time. Harrington easily won the ensuing lineout, the SVC forwards drove like a slave gally for the final few meters, and somebody punched in the try to swing momentum back in the college kids' favor.

I felt like a heel for that kick, but the beauty of rugby is that there are hundreds of plays during every game, hundreds of chances to redeem yourself. If you make a mistake, you just go that much harder and try to make up for it.

We ended up losing the match, 24-12, but I still felt great to have been a part of it. The Warthogs are a good bunch of guys, and I hope to get another chance to play with them – possibly during their annual "Mud Bowl" tournament. This time I'll have my trusty kangaroo-leather Copas instead of the cheap-as-hell boots that so miserable failed me in this game. I must have slipped and fell at least a half-dozen times, including once when I had Macnaughton lined up – the above picture shows the unfortunate result of having no traction on a soft field. "Spaulding, get your foot off the boat!" Indeed.

As I said, I was very much impressed with the SVC team, also with what I saw of the women's match before ours. In particular, freshman No. 8 Amber "Bunny" Coutermash is going to be a heck of a player with more experience. She was touch-judging during our match, and she told me she was jealous and wanted to be out there playing with us, and I told her she could have been – and I meant it.

So in closing, more people should go out and see these teams play – they both have home matches this Saturday at the Beech St. pitch here in town, the men at noon and the women at 2. If not, be sure to check out the Mud Bowl, and look for a certain well-aged guy out there, giving the kids all they can handle. Hopefully, from the wing.

-Adam White

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Mile 13: Which will come first, the finish line or merciful death?
Adam White, Sports Editor

Yours truly had the distinct, um, pleasure of participating in the Maple Leaf Half Marathon in Manchester this past Saturday. Well over 200 people ran in this race, which commenced at 9 a.m. in already sweltering heat and stifling humidity.

I had trained for the event for a few months prior, though I must admit that my running habits slacked off somewhat slightly as race day approached – definitely not the way you want to go into a 13+ mile road race. The longest training run I had accomplished was 11 miles, and I had yet to time myself during any of my practice runs – hence, I had no idea what kind of pace is adequate for a race of this length. I had also broken the big toe on my right foot playing rugby a few weekends before, but figured that once the race started, it would go numb and cease to be a factor. Big, big mistake.

I had company in this race from fellow Banner employees Clover Whitham and John Waller, as well as Manchester Journal editor Andrew McKeever. Clover and I train together, so I knew she would be going at a slightly slower pace than I would and likely finish behind me – provided I didn't die. John, on the other hand, is an accomplished runner who competed in track in college and nearly won the Battle Day 5K last month. I figured that the longer length of this race might level the playing field between us, so I decided to pace myself off of him at the race's start. Again, big mistake.

The starting gun went off and I felt great, charging through the clusters of people and staying on John's heels as he settled into a seemingly strong pace just off the lead pack. Miles 1 and 2 went by, pitched slightly downhill, and I was still going strong in about the top 80% of the field. At that point, my delusion was still intact: I could end up doing pretty well in this race.

Mile 3 had other plans, namely a steep uphill climb that came out of nowhere and knocked me off my proverbial high horse with authority. Suddenly I couldn't breathe, my legs felt like they were encased in concrete and every step brought a searing pain in my toe akin to being stabbed in the foot with an icepick. That pain made it impossible for me to adequately push off with my right foot, and so I began more or less hopping on every right step. That quickly led to my right calf tightening up, then my right quad, followed by my right groin.

Seriously, I was ready to quit. And the race wasn't even a third over yet.

Roughly two-thirds of the way up that first hill, I began to walk. I had come into the half marathon determined not to walk at all, to at least maintain a slow jog – "the Airborne shuffle" from my Army days – rather than give in to the pain and fatigue and start walking. But here I was, not even at Mile 4 yet, and I was walking. I could not have been more disgusted with myself.

The heat was certainly a factor too; I was already soaked head-to-toe in sweat and was carrying another 2-3 pounds of perspiration in my t-shirt. Serious athletes go by the addage that cotton kills, and here was pretty good evidence of that. But I had worn this shirt – a sleeveless T that had served as my uniform top during the prestigious Haigis Hoopla basketball tournament back in my college days at UMass – to try and remove the bad mojo from it, as we had been swept out of that tournament despite having a very good team. I figured a strong performance in the Maple Leaf would exorcise the demons contained in that garment; now, those same demons were laughing at my sorry, walking self.

After the hill I began running again, but the pain and exhaustion made every step a challenge. At this point, I seriously thought there was no way I was going to finish. But how do you quit in a 13.1-mile road race? You still have to walk back, and the course ends at the same point where it begins. I had no choice but to press on, something I would later be thankful for.

All along the course sat spectators, waiting to cheer on a particular participant. Let me tell you, there is nothing more demoralizing than seeing little kids jumping up and down and yelling, "Good job, grandma! Looking good!" and then spotting me and staring in amazement at how NOT "looking good" I am. At one point I was running alongside BBA girls lax goalkeeper Paige Madison, and she seemed to have supporters at every turn as we progressed along a dirt road between Miles 5 and 6. "Keep it up!" yelled one woman as Paige passed in front of her. Then she looked up and saw me, and her smile faded. "Just keep breathing!" she offered. Yeah, that's the idea, lady.

Roughly 25 yards further down the road, I felt a rumbling start to grow in my intestines, and had just enough time to jog across to the far side of the road before I vomited. My eyes were really starting to burn as well, due to the pre-race sunscreen I had applied melting down off my forehead. Yee-ha! Could this GET any more fun?

The other downside of road race spectators is that the ones who DID come to see you run actually want to see you run, not limp by in the early stages of cardiac arrest. Right after the marker for Mile 6, I ran into Clover's Dad Steve, who pedalled up on his mountain bike and offered me a bottle of water. "I just rode the course backwards from the finish," Steve said. "And there's a wicked hill at Mile 10. If you're gonna walk, that's the place to do it." Awesome, something to look forward to. By then I would have been perfectly content to sit down on the side of the road and take off my shoes, but here is a guy who not only came out in support, but is biking alongside me with water and advice on strategy. Steve was the worst, and best, thing that could have happened to me at that point. He made we want to strangle him and take his bike, but he also reminded me that I was in a race. Time to start acting like it.

Miles 7 and 8 featured another demoralizing turn of events: A long downhill followed by a 180-degree turnaround. There is nothing like running down a grade and seeing people on the other side of the rode huffing and puffing to run up it, and knowing that you will very soon be in the very same predicament. But it was at this point that my toe actually did start to go a bit numb, and I made the loop and climb with (relatively) no additional agony. At the top of the hill, there was Steve again, with another swig of water and more talk of that upcoming super-climb. But at this point, I was actually starting to psyche myself up for it.

The key to running, I have found, is to reach a point where the pain and fatigue fade away and you get lost in your own train of thought. Some call this a runner's high, a time when the miles fly by unnoticed and the race is over before you know it. I encounter this feeling quite often during training, usually when I start thinking about work in general and story ideas in particular. I forget how tired I am, how far I'm running and how much work I'm putting in.

For the record, I NEVER had that feeling during the Maple Leaf. Not even close. I felt every single painful step, every labored breath and every foot of pavement that I traveled.

The Mile 10 hill was indeed the beast that I had been warned about, and I ended up walking most of it. Near the midpoint I encountered a fellow runner sprawled on the side of the road, being tended to by race officials as they waited for an ambulance to come and "rescue" him. As much as I felt for this poor guy, the whole scenario made me feel just a little bit better: At least I was still on my feet.

Then again, a ride back might have been nice, even if it had been in the "meat wagon."

As I resumed running and came down the other side of the hill, I was finally starting to feel like I could finish the race. I was offered water just before the Mile 11 marker by Steve's partner Andrea – and actually refused it! I guess that's why you walk in a long-distance race like this, to regroup and get some of your mojo back. I would almost say I felt good heading into the final 2.1 miles – but then again, that would be a total and complete lie. I still felt like crap.

The course snaked through the woods behind Riley Rink – where a fellow in a kilt played bagpipes in a gesture that was intended to be motivational, but instead made me want to assault him – and past the Mile 12 marker. The Rec. Park where the race finished was now in sight; an official then pointed me around a corner and said "Just one lap around the athletic fields and you're done." Steve once again rode by on his bike, with one final offering of water and encouragement. "Nothing can stop you now, big guy."

And just like that, I was spent. Runners use the term "bonk," and this was the mother of all bonks. I didn't even decide to walk; my legs simply stopped running on their own. I limped gingerly along the outside of the fields, as runner after runner passed me with the renewed vigour of having the finish line in their sights. Each time, I thought about how I was slipping further and further down the ranks of the finishers, yet I could do nothing about it even if I wanted to. I had nothing left in the tank, period.

I managed through raw pride to run the final half-mile of the race, and it was just before the finish line that Andrea reappeared and snapped the photo you see at the top of this blog. Notice a few things about me, here at Mile 13: My facial expression (pain, disgust). My shirt (originally several shades less gray and 3 pounds lighter, pre-sweat soak). My body shape (stocky, not at all the lithe body of an accomplished and well-trained long-distance runner). There is the slightest bit of definition in my left quad, but other than that I look like a sunburned, fashion-impaired coach potato who lost a fight with a garden hose.

But the point is, I finished the race. My time of 2 hours and 10 minutes equated to a pace of 10-minute miles, not too bad considering the circumstances. On a healthy toe and in better shape, I'm confident I could break 2 hours. But will we ever find out? I can't say. I do know this: I hated every single solitary moment of this race, and swore over and over again within my mind that I would never do anything this stupid again.

But then we got free ice cream and watermelon (and Gatorade, and salad, and bananas, and bagels, and a loaf of bread, and a t-shirt) when it was over. And it was Stewart's ice cream. Anyone who knows me well knows that I hold Stewart's ice cream as a sacred part of my life.

So who knows, maybe I'll be back out there again next year. If so, and you're there to either spectate or run, look for me. I'll be the guy in the sweaty shirt who looks like he's about to die.

-Adam White

P.S. John finished 63rd, I was 133rd, Clover was 151st and Andrew was 225th. The winning time was 1:26:23, and six of the Top 10 finishers were from the Male 40-49 age group. So maybe my best road racing years are actually ahead of me...

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