April 9, 2021 - From Issue No. 8 - 2020 - “Bill and the Pandemic Sports Drought” - Karlton Miko Tyack.

George Bernard Shaw referred to Great Britain and the US as two countries separated by common language. This is also true of rugby and American football. In football and rugby, scoring touchdowns and tries are more important than kicking goals. And in football and rugby, downs and tackles are limited. Yet this similar exchange only makes spectator fans of one sport more confused about the other.

When the pandemic hit New York and sports were cancelled, my friends and I eventually turned to English Premiership Rugby ––– re-watching old Super Bowls got stale. My friend Bill, who lived in England for four years, explained that I shouldn’t expect watching rugby to be at all like watching NFL games.

First of all, there are no individual superstars, just teams. Premiership Rugby doesn’t have an equivalent to Cam Newton or Peyton Manning. American football fans enjoy the human stories played out on the field (it’s why Disney makes so many feel-good sports movies). As a Patriots fan, each Pats game I watched was a chapter in Tom Brady’s journey, a legend that started with him as a mere sixth round draftee.

The irony of this is that NFL players, once armored up, are nigh identical to each other. Rugby players only wear mouth guards, so you can visually distinguish the individual characters on the stage. Is this difference in ecological focus due to American individualism? Maybe it’s because of smaller salary caps in Premiership Rugby?

From a game-play perspective, the ball is easy to lose track of when you don’t know who’s who. Learning to watch rugby was like learning to hear a new dialogue for me, which is sometimes more difficult than learning a brand new language. At least with a new language you have no expectation of what a word should sound like.

After a few games, I started to recognize individual players, but only in context with the other team members. That’s when I started to understand. No, there aren’t single superstars the way we have them in American football. Rugby features an ensemble cast, like Friends.

Today, I very much love rugby as much as football. One thing they, and all sports, have in common is the ability to bring people together. There’s also less pressure when you aren’t relying on just a few heroes on the team. After all, Brady left me for the Buccaneers this year.

_______

Bill wondered if it would be creepy to watch the same game at the same time as his neighbor. Bill’s hypothesis: I can recall what certain aspects of Rugby mean, based on my neighbor’s un-Englishly big gesticulated reactions. Also, maybe he’s Irish?

Joe Marchant, center, scored for Harlequins. Neighbor violently threw his left arm in the air, clearly in frustration. Saracens fan.

Alright, Bill thought, I’ll root for Harlequins. Friendly pub rivalry, like when I watch Pats versus Eagles with Ken at Dorrian’s. Bill found the same Premiership Saracens versus Harlequins game from 2018 and fast-forwarded to the same point that his neighbor was on. The Harlequins lost.

______

The next afternoon, Saracens got pounded by the Exeter Chiefs. Sorry Neighbor, but they didn’t deserve it this time, Bill thought. Chiefs turned down two kickable penalties in favor of touch; as David Flatman commentated, “fortune favors the brave.” Bill liked the eloquent British commentators and that the audience members held beer cups with teacup-like handles.

In the following days, Bill watched a few more Harlequin games and started following them on Instagram. He also liked that Harlequins had thirty-something flanker Chris Robshaw on the team among younger bucks. Bill had already turned thirty-six.

Towards the end of a Facetime happy hour with me and Ken, Bill signed out by jokingly saying he had a rugby date with Neighbor, “Harlequins versus Bath, guys.”

“Bro,” Ken said. “I don’t have bail money FYI.”

One afternoon, Bill noticed his neighbor watching Saracens versus Harlequins again. This time from Round 17 of the same season as their first game together. Rematch! Bill poured himself a Glen Garioch. This was a special occasion.

After the kick, Bill’s neighbor started cooking something in his kitchen. Dude, Bill thought, just grab some crisps and get back here. Bill’s neighbor started fanning his kitchen stove with a pillow and ran over to open his window.

Bill’s neighbor grabbed his stepladder from his closet and placed it beneath the smoke alarm. And as he took the first step however, the stepladder slipped beneath him. Gravity then choke-slammed him onto the floor, pass the bottom of the window below Bill’s sightline. Five minutes later, Bill hadn’t seen him get back up yet. Bill refreshed his drink in the kitchen. When he got back to his seat, he could see smoke wafting from Neighbor’s window.

He found the phone number of Neighbor’s building online and tried calling. No answer. Surely one of the neighbors will hear his alarm and come knocking on his door? Then he noticed on the browser that the building was described as, “exclusive with only one unit per floor.”
Bill left his apartment and crossed an unusually empty Seventy-first Street toward his neighbor’s building.


“Do you live here, sir?” the doorman asked.

“No,” Bill said. “I actually live across the street and noticed smoke coming out of the fourth floor.”

“Thanks for letting me know,” he said. “I’ll call up to Mr. Grey,” first name Earl perhaps, Bill thought. He was drunk. “You can go now, sir.” “Just want to make sure he’s okay,” Bill said.

“Oh, you know him!”

“No, but-”

“No answer,” the doorman said.

“So when his alarm went off, he fell off a stepladder. He might not be okay.”

“You saw all of that?”

“Big windows. Go up and knock on his door or something.”

“I can’t leave my post”

“I can do it.”

“You can’t come in without a mask, sir. And you can’t come in unless you’re someone’s guest. Do you know Mr. Grey by chance?”

“I said no, man.”

Black smoke was now visible from the first floor.

“Okay,” the doorman said. “I’ll run up.”

Fifteen minutes later, Bill was smoking a cigarette outside the building when he saw Mr. Grey, arm around the doorman’s shoulder for support, emerge from the hallway.

“Hey you okay, man?” Bill said to Mr. Grey.

“Fine. Who are you?” Definitely English.

“He saw smoke coming from your apartment from across the way,” the doorman said.

“Samaritan over here,” Mr. Grey chuckled. “I appreciate you, mate. I actually hit my head badly earlier, so I’m going to the hospital now.” “Oh man, good idea. I’m Bill, by the way.”

“James. Usually I’d shake your hand.”

“Different times.”

The doorman helped James into a taxi. After he shut the door, however, Bill put his hand on the vehicle and asked, “you’re not coming with him?” “I can’t leave my post, sir.”

“If it’s a concussion, he needs to stay awake. Someone needs to come with him.”

Bill knocked on the cab door prompting James to roll his window down.

“Hey bud, you got any friends nearby that can come with you? Friends with any of your neighbors maybe?” “Please. This is Manhattan. I’m just going to Lenox Hill. It’s not far.”

“True,” Bill shrugged. “I’ll go with you then. No big deal.”

“You sure?”

“If it isn’t weird for you bro. I’m a pilot, actually. I have a medical certificate. You have to stay conscious.”

“Yeah mate, that’s fine. Thanks! Again.”

“I’ve got time anyway. Furlough.”

“Me too.”

“As soon as we get to the hospital, you can head home,” James said, as the cab drove off. “So what have you been doing during furlough?” Bill asked.

“Drinking whiskey,” James laughed.

“Yeah! same.”

“Watching old sports.” “Yeah man, same.”