After 80 minutes of organized violence, two rugby teams cheer for each other, shake hands, and head out for the real test: the post-match drink-up.
The post-match drink-up is as vital to rugby as the scrum. Held for both teams and their fans, it is hosted by the home side.
In the rugby-playing nations of the world, the drink-up is in a comfortable clubhouse established generations ago, supported by thousands of retired players who remain integral members of “The Club.” On the other hand, America’s thousands of rugby drink-ups mostly happen in Irish pubs or dive bars.
For college clubs, they are lucky if it takes place in the dilapidated basement of a soon-to-be-condemned off-campus house. Often, they settle for a nearby clearing or parking lot. American rugby left behind the rich clubhouse of the old world, but gained its soul.
Players from rugby nations who come to the U.S. often have two reactions to the American post-match drink-up. Some are disappointed at the simple, rough feel of it; others are captivated by the sense of traveling back to rugby’s mid-19th century days—when it was all for the love of a game of ill repute.
Many foreign players love American drink-ups more than the polished clubhouses of home.
There is a saying in Britain that soccer is a gentleman’s game played by hooligans, whereas rugby is a hooligan’s game played by gentlemen. On-field fights remain forever—on the field. But nothing is more taboo than carrying a grudge into the drink-up.
In fact, I have never heard of such a thing.
A rugby drink-up resembles a medieval Norse hall, where warriors gleefully revel in the gashes and broken bones they have inflicted on one another.
One Saturday in the Bronx, a rather large opponent stood on my head with both cleats while I was pinned to the ground. Another time, a player from Rockaway Beach tried to dropkick a goal with my face. An hour later, we were joking and sharing beers together.
Time stands still on the rugby pitch, though. Twenty years later, if I see those guys on the field in an old boys match, I still owe them payment for past services.
After retiring from playing, I founded and coached a college rugby club while serving as the Catholic campus minister. None of the players knew anything about the sport or its culture.
As a campus minister concerned for my players’ immortal souls, I mentioned nothing about post-match drink-ups. It didn’t matter. Their new mates on opposing teams quickly educated them, including about sordid rugby songs.
Rugby players are famous for their hospitality. When I’ve met fellow rugby players in other countries, I’ve been immediately invited to stay in their homes, then introduced to fellow ruggers who showed me around their city.
Some months after 9/11, we flew out of New York City for a rugby tour. People were still deeply worried about flying. As more than 20 of us boarded in our jerseys and team jackets, a silent plane full of people looked up and started smiling at us.
As we walked down the aisle, a woman suddenly called out, “Thank God, rugby players!” The plane burst into laughter and applause.
The drink-up is the warm, living incubator of this global brotherhood.
Friends, family, and children are all welcome at the drink-up. No hostilities or tough-guy behavior is tolerated. Guests are under the protection of the gods themselves.
When the food is served, visiting teams eat first. Countless romances and marriages have emerged from rugby drink-ups as guests and players meet in a place uniquely generous and cheerful.
If you’ve never been to a rugby drink-up, have no fear. Google the local rugby club nearest you. Come watch a match from friendly sidelines.
At the final whistle when the players have all cheered their opponents and shaken each other’s hands, simply ask “Where’s the drink-up?” Someone will give you the address. Another will offer you a ride. Fellowship will follow.
But be careful … it’s habit-forming. I came for the rugby and stayed for the brotherhood.
It may just change your life.
