Foreword by MacDaddy
I don't understand what this c**t's on about. He's too clever for his own good. I'd kick him out, but his mother ran off with his Uncle Jim. Filthy whore.

Rugby is a violent sport. We cage our descriptions of the game in euphemisms like ‘confrontational’ or ‘combative’ so that we can give it the social acceptability that it needs to attract sponsors and avoid frightening mums and dads, but the game is gladiatorial: if a player is not trying to ground the ball over the line, then he (usually) is trying to stop his opponent from doing so, and this battle for ball and territory is violent.

It is the violence that either attracts or repulses. Those who are repulsed by it will watch it from time to time so that they can express their revulsion and so keep their arses firmly in the saddle of their high horses; those of us who love it will comment on the beauty of the pass or the power of the maul then, when the softcocks are out of earshot, celebrate the big hits and the sickening thud of a disintegrating front row. And the occasional punch-up. The fact that the game has rules does not make it less violent; rules serve only to regulate the violence. To give it the shiny, polished veneer of semi-respectability to which the repulsed can apply their blow-torches of sanctimony. It is also tribal, as team sports are. It doesn’t matter if you don’t much like your teammate or if you know little about him outside of the arena – he is your teammate and for this reason alone you will support him and – when necessary – protect him if you perceive him to be under threat.

Herein lie two facts of nature: one, many people like violence because it speaks to a darker part of us that we are, rightfully, required to suppress in the interests of social harmony; two, people like to feel a sense of belonging. On the first point, most of us have been sufficiently inculcated into understanding that violence serves little social ‘good’ and a lot of social ‘bad’ but – although we might not like the sight of high school boys punching the bejesus out of each other – we still watch. This watching is motivated by the same instincts that lead many of us to watching sports. If rugby or other combative sports didn’t exist, we’d invent them…kind of like we have.

However, the second point illustrates that we also quite enjoy the idea of group loyalty. Paradoxically, being part of a group helps us to validate our sense of individuality. It makes us feel like we matter – which we don’t, of course; at least, not any more than the dust on our mantelpieces, the cows in the fields, or the dogshit on our shoes – but we needs groups to validate our own wee roles in the world and whilst those loyalties rarely require us to punch other people, they do on occasion lead us into conflict. It is natural, then, that the rugby field is one of the places that these two facts of nature merge and occasionally spill over. For this reason, rugby specifically (and other sports generally) is frowned upon by some sectors of society. In their attempts to demean the game, people will point to its baser aggression as an exemplar of what is wrong with this particular expression of masculinity. A small number will continue to demand its complete cessation; others will enjoy it up to the point that it does spill over and, when it does, in their shock will look for someone to criticise. This is understandable. Our need to attribute blame is almost as natural as our attraction to violence. It is also pointless. No coach or manager or school instructs their charges to go out and punch people. Indeed, they always have and always will instil in their charges self-discipline because self-discipline contributes to the common cause of the team, and 99% of players will exercise that discipline 99% of the time.

However, as those of us who have played the game know and understand, there will always be the occasional fight. Indeed, considering the nature of the game, it is surprising just how few fights there are. Most of the boys who were involved in the Kelston Boys’ v Auckland Grammar ‘brawl’ deserved no punishment. They were guilty of no more than adhering to the principle of supporting members of one’s group from threat – a principle that is considered noble in business, politics, family, nationhood, religion, ethnicity &c. and one which communists and unionists call ‘strength in numbers’. These were the boys who tried to restrain others from fighting, and comprised most of the players involved. A small number of boys used attack as a form of defence. They punched, rather than restrained, other players. At some point, attack as defence became attack only, as it tends to do. They deserved punishment commensurate with their indiscretions. If an international player is given eight weeks for eye gouging, as happened recently, then that should act as some sort of guide. It didn't. Those boys who received suspensions of up to 16 months were guilty only of overstepping a mark that is already etched pretty far into the patch of territory marked ‘violence’: a patch where the sport of rugby operates. A separate group of those involved – the spectators who fought as distinct from the vast majority who attempted to restrain – deserve punishment beyond that which the schools or Auckland Rugby Union are entitled to administer. They were not gladiators; they were poofs. They should be gassed.

All of the players felt a sense of regret at what they had done. The handshakes and embraces at the end of this game were heartfelt and genuine and involved all of the players from both sides. What none of these boys deserved was the trial by media and public: one is left with the uneasy suspicion that the biggest crime they committed was to fight in the presence of a camera. These lads are sent the message by the rugby public that they shouldn’t take a backward step, that they should stick up for their mates; then when they do, they’re shunned and attacked by people who haven’t played the game or by people who have but who have grown older and more self-righteous and who then have the audacity to criticise the next generation. Rich.