The women of rugby

Who won the Masaku 7s rugby tournament? The answer to this question seems to be: Who cares? 

The spectacle in Machakos County a fortnight ago wasn’t really about rugby. In fact, all rugby events are always about 30 per cent about rugby.

The rest is glitz and hoopla. At Masaku 7s I heard that some “fans” didn’t even get to the rugby grounds.

They got stuck in mad traffic, popped open their car trunks and got faded right on the road. There were rumours of the debauchery that took place in these trunks, in the grass, in hotels and lodgings (even in a church, as Mututho would have us believe.)

RUGBY BROADS

The aftermath was righteous indignation. Armchair analysts with their two-cent opinions and amateur sociologists linked this to everything that is wrong with the family unit.

Religious pundits announced the death of morals and The End of Times. Folk threw stones from the safety of their glass houses.

Rugby is the only game in Kenya that draws this level of insanity and emotion. Maybe it’s the physicality of it, the machismo behind it.

Take a bunch of guys with sinewy bodies and small shorts chasing a ball that doesn’t bounce evenly, and using every opportunity to tear the shirts off each other’s backs in a show of brutal might called a ‘scrum’, and you won’t believe the harem of women they attract.

We call them Rugby Broads. They are on the stands and on the grounds. Here is a profile of the women who frequent rugby matches.

Lovers of the game

Dyed-in-the-wool fans of the game. They will go anywhere to watch a game. Take a tournament to Turkana and they will take time off to travel. They know all the rules. And the players. And the players’ weaknesses. They have stats in their heads. They are one of the boys.

Groupies

Hangers-on. They want to be seen with the team members. The team members know them by name. One of the players has probably dated her. OK, maybe two, or five, but who’s counting? She loves the raw testosterone, the bulging biceps and the six-packs. 

The Girlfriend

She is a pretty little thing with wrists like a twig. She dates the full-back. Or the scrum-half.

She comes to the big matches. Sometimes she doesn’t even feel like it, but she has to, to keep those bloodhounds with hot pants and half their breasts out from getting fresh with her man.

She pretends not to be jealous about all the attention he gets, but secretly she’s seething when one of those tramps throws her hands around his broad shoulders in a hug that lasts longer than the first half.

The Fashionistas

They parade the grounds to be seen, hiding behind large stunners. They are mostly light skins because you will see them from across the pitch, floppy hats and all.

They look like they were headed for a horse-racing shindig but ended up at the rugby. They hang out like a pack of wild dogs, in groups of threes or fours.

Perfect teeth, banging bodies, taking selfies all through. They squeal loudly, acting like they are a bunch of girls just out to have their own fun as girls, but in essence, they seek attention.

They want to be admired. They want to be wanted.

The Drunks

They drink beer. Lots and lots of beer. Actually, they drink anything.

They aren’t fussy. And boy, can they drink! They will drink you under a bus any day – and they just don’t get drunk.

Either they are skinny or they are bulky women with wide girths. They will also fight you if you step up too close to their faces. They sing. They dance.

They crack the dirtiest of jokes. They don’t care for fashion.

In fact they hate the Fashionista. And they are fun. Too much fun.

The ones who are out of their depth

One of their friends convinced them it would be a great idea to attend a match even though rugby isn’t “their thing” but it isn’t going as well as they thought it would.

They sit there, sticking out like a sore thumb, hugging themselves, nursing one lonely drink, staring at the bedlam that rugby presents, wondering how to escape without looking foolish.

The Clueless

Rugby? What rugby?