As a plague unto the world,
from atop inhospitable peaks,
a wicked rage unfurled and
came forth to proclaim superiority.
Fiction flags then built
a network of their Colonies,
and not an ounce of guilt
accompanied wretched policies.
How little men remember
of yesterday’s deceit, in the frigid dead December
of modernity’s defeat.
Humanity that were stripped
of it’s natural dignity,
too easily eclipsed
by our incivility.
When Brothers become alien
there can never be a Peace,
for hate is seed of warfare;
sowing season not to cease
The cool February desert air seemed to penetrate my scarf and jacket combo. I looked more like a haggard New York City bum on Christmas Eve than a spectator at a rugby tournament, and I felt like one too.
It had been a long succession of days and nights in Las Vegas. A string of 24 hour periods in that town can leave even the most resilient in an exhausted, immobilized state. But even now, as I sat slumped on the bleachers feeling the sometimes-warm-sometimes-cool brush of the Nevadan sun, a content smile crept across my face.
The action on the field these past few days had been incredible. The one major let down had been the United States’ game against Canada. A conversion attempt from directly in front of the posts sailed wide and sealed the loss for the Americans. It was easy to feel small in that moment, surrounded by foreigners in a crowded stadium. It was an especially easy feeling sitting next to my comrade Dos, who was draped in a vertically inverted American flag.
True, it would be unfair to take the Americans pitiful record during their time as hosts of the HSBC 7’s World Series at face value. A match the first night against the bone crushing Samoans ended in narrow defeat by a mistaken U.S. grubber out of bounds just before full time.
And the previous day a close loss to surgical Fiji in a similar manner (it was a punt out of bounds this time) proved the U.S. could hang with the higher echelons. They could even win, were it not for lethal mental errors.
Lack of discipline; it was the same disease that plagued my club at Rutgers. All of the pieces were always there and we certainly had the talent to compete, but we just couldn’t execute. It seemed that plight of Rutgers was echoed on the national stage. God help American rugby.
“No, no. All in good time,” I thought. “Perhaps we could make a statement in Rio. A strong Olympic showing might ignite some more interest in the United States.”
Indeed, the Americans had turned some heads with their play. Unfortunately each game ended up with the Eagles as the butt of many accented jokes. It was as it should have been. Chants of “Rutgers Rugby!” even came out of our demoralized little group after a while. It was the manifestation of the pure agony one feels when faced with unrecognized potential.
But now the Fijians were getting ready to take on Samoa in the 3rd Place match. As soon as the teams’ names popped up on the digital scoreboard, America became a distant memory. Samoan flags dominated the stadium. Massive crews of massive Samoans stomped and hollered in full throat as they waited for their ruggers to take the pitch.
When they did the place erupted even further.
“Christ,” I muttered under the Earth shattering roar, “we’re in fucking Samoa!”
For three days I had privately loathed the Samoan lot. I saw Samoans as brutish and over aggressive, ignorant and self absorbed. “Large and in charge,” a phrase Lauren had used when I was expressing my aversions, kept coming to mind. It was through only mere brushes with these people in the stadium and on the shuttle from the hotel that I developed this distaste, but it had been enough for me to make a fiery statement to my companions at dinner the night before.
“If I ever somehow stumble into the White House and find myself as president, we invade Samoa,” I said, slamming my fist on the table. “Forget all of that non-interventionism garbage! We invade Samoa!”