Sunday Rugby and "Houston, we have a problem"

Sunday, rugby!!!! One of my favourite characters at the training sessions and games for the Camborne junior players is Kevin. Hard as nails, no messing about, little if any sympathy for malingerers. His son, Jack, is smaller than the rest, not much but you would think it makes a difference, not a bit of it. He’s tenacious, fast and hangs onto the opposition as if his life depends on it. 

Extras.

James, playing well, enjoying his time back on the pitch but Grandpa has not told him yet that his best position may be in the forward pack as a flanker. He entered a ruck this morning, lifted one of the other team out of his way then went for the ball. Technique and a tad of aggression, all done within the laws. 

Dan is three years younger but needs to play at an older level as he gets bored. He wants the crash, bang of the game, runs brilliantly and last week scored eight tries. Unfortunately he will have to curb his impatience. His time will come. 


Last week I wrote about a hero, Coke Snelson. My account left out one tiny story that had us all in fits at the time. We had returned onboard HMS Bulwark, (the old Bulwark) from dusty manky places. Weeks living under bushes had left us in such a state that the Navy, having polished their ship while we were away playing Cowboys and Indians, used a fire hose as we left the heli-deck to get rid of the mud which encased our lower halves. This little game ended when blokes did two things, one, sliced through their laces and threw their boots over the side; two, threatened the sailors with similar treatment if they tried to hose the remainder of us. Bootnecks 1 - Navy Nil.
Once we got down to our messdeck we immediately stripped to shorts and flip flops, raced to the Chinese laundry to drop off our Dhobi (washing) then attacked our kit and weapons. The messdeck contained a whole company of 110 men, in a small confined area. As we cleaned a taut Brummie voice behind me said, “Lads, sorry, I think I’ve got crabs,” Coke was distraught, our personal hygiene in the field was second to none. 
Phhhooooomm. Space was created around the doomed man. We feared crabs. Being good mates we all dived in, helped get his kit sorted and left him well alone! A quick trip to the showers, a slower trip to the sick-bay and he was on the mend; his sleeping bag was deep-sixed in the Med. Nobody fancied becoming a crab trainer so the little sods were killed by medicine. It transpired that the last night out he had slept under a bush that must have been crawling with the things. 
Onboard in such tight living spaces anybody who doesn’t come up to scratch (pun intended) gets a very hard time. Coke was one of us, he only got stick for about three days, a lifetime as far as he was concerned. For the next 12 hours or so it only took one man to scratch his nether regions and he was stared at hard, very hard!!!!!