Ayyyyyy ay ay, como me duele…

That Selena knew what she was talking about because that’s exactly how I feel, like there was a small war yesterday, and my body was the war horse. Or something.

Ayyyyy, me duele… todo.

Last night was our first night of rugby practice. I was half-expecting a tribe of Samoan-type Spanish girls to come herding onto the field causing a small seismic earthquake to scare us little Americans girls into going home. I was expecting war paint, grunting, missing teeth – well, you get the picture.

Instead, me and the other four Americans I went with waited around the field, tossing around the strange, egg-shaped thing they call la pelota and waited. And waited. And waited. Really, it was only a half hour, but it sure felt like forever. Once chicks started to arrive, I figured out that the supremely handsome man who had been staring at us since we’d gotten there was indeed a Spanish coach (not for the chicks of course) and that the women really weren’t that scary. A little standoffish, but not scary.

In fact, some of them were downright “shrimpy”. 🙂

Now, the separation between our two groups was obvious. The Americans stood behind me, chatting away, not listening to what was being said by the coach-type man who had strolled up while the Spanish chicks were actively listening. I stood in the middle trying to block out the talking behind me and process the gibberish called Spanish being given in front of me.

I’m not sure I succeeded at either task.

Anyway, what it came down to was that the team has to decide how to move forward. There aren’t many chicks on the team, the Americans aren’t going to be here the entire competitive season (except for me), and they plan to travel many of the weekends when the games will be held, and the other teams are supposed to be really good. And kinda like the chicks I imagined. What to do, what to do?

Hell, I don’t know. I didn’t come to make decisions. Let’s play the damn game.

We head to the field and the real coach (who appeared out of the clouds or the grass or la pelota, I’m not sure) begins to yell at us. We start running. How did I/we know that that’s what we were supposed to do? Well, the Spanish chicks started running. But I sure did understand when he yelled that our fat asses weren’t running fast enough and to pick it up on the second lap. He didn’t actually call us fat, but he did say we were slower than his grandma’s mierda. I’ve never had a male coach. They’re very graphic it seems.

So we’re stretching, and Johanna and I are whispering about something. We quickly learned there will be none of that.

First rule of the day: There is no talking on the field. YIPPEEE!!!!

Rule #2: BOTH HANDS, MON-I-CA!!! (this ain’t football, you dweeb).

Rule #3: When you keep dropping la pelota, you keep doing push-ups or sit-ups or throwing up.

And Rule #4: You learn everyone’s name, or you do more push-ups, sit-ups or that other thing.

Or, you just make up a name for the person coming at you. I may have been Suzanne a couple times, I’m not sure. I was somewhere halfway to the land of the unconscious.

But all in all, even though my back hurts, my legs are sore, my knees feel exactly like I was a hurdler for many, many years and I’m not sure if I’ll be able to sit fully erect tomorrow for the duration of my class, it’s probably the most fun I’ve had in a very long time. I was laughing and sweating and speaking Spanglish (they stopped asking me if I was “Espanola” right after I yelled “chíngale” after dropping the ball a few times). It was nice though. My accent is beginning to fool people. Or maybe it was the olive oil rinse I put in my hair. Either way, the chicks were chicks I think I could go grab beers with.

And I probably would if I could just get this damn pain to stop…


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