THOSE WHO HAVE COME TO THE CONCLUSION that I have lost my marbles, might very well be right. In my youth, that is, yesterday, I suffered many injuries.
All of my fingers at one time or the other were broken; my knees were twisted so that they were in casts. I was awarded a fractured rib, compliments of an army corporal travelling at 9.8 seconds.
My right elbow was fractured, and a disfiguring gash adorns my right cheek. My right shoulder remains weakened from too much tackling, and I used to black out because the artery to the brain was traumatized by the constant crashes against the neck.
However, the biggest damage of all was a kick to the head that left me unable to feel anything when I comb my hair for six months.
All of these injuries were attributed to rugby, which I played from age 22 to 39. The doctor stopped me from playing.
If I had my life to live over, would I tread the same path? Of course! My youth was a kaleidoscope of beautiful experiences, and playing rugby was one. I gave as good, or as bad, as I got.
My first encounter with the sport was when a “compadre” in my class at UWI invited me to watch a practice match. The first fall that one of his players took shook the ground like an earthquake. I said, in no uncertain terms, that that game was not for me.
A couple of weeks later my classmate, who was captain of the UWI rugby team, came to me and said: “Harry, with your speed you will not have to worry about anyone tackling you, and besides, we shall be playing sevens not a full 15 – more room to manoeuvre.”
Me, “like an old foolish idiot”, agreed to try out, and the bug bit me. In the first seven-a-side tournament that I played, I scored seven tries. I was ecstatic. The accolades went to my head.
Shortly after that game, I went to England. I started in the Barclays Bank fifth 15 (they had six sides and the sixth side was reserved for Welshmen). I learnt a little that season, especially how to play in freezing temperatures. I got into a few fights.
The captain of the sixth side spotted me (this was not hard, seeing that I was the only black player), and said: “Harry, why don’t you play with us in the sixth team. I will show you the tricks of the trade.”
I accepted the offer, and spent an enjoyable five months with the sixth team. Lo and behold, that captain (he was an experienced player but past his prime) was invited to captain the second team in the coming season, and he took me up to that team.
Again, lo and behold, the winger from the first team got injured in the first match of the season. I was promoted, never to look back.
The first match against Cambridge University was a dream. My opposite winger got away the first two times that the ball passed along the line and he almost scored. My captain advised me in not printable language that that was my man, and that if I could not take him out “get the hell off the field”. That was a rough initiation.
The speed of the match was no way near that to which I had been accustomed.
I survived, and became player of the season in the first 15, and was selected to play winger for the all-country Barclays team which toured at Easter. The rest is history. Coming back to the Caribbean, I represented Jamaica and Barbados for many years here in the Caribbean and Miami. It has been a beautiful ride.
This article has been prompted by an oblique reference to me by fellow columnist Carl Moore in his Tempus Fugit, an appeal to the youth to enjoy their young days doing positive things. Later, they can look “upon that inward eye” with satisfaction.
It also calls into question the mischievous, malicious and gypsy meddling that I produce every week. This must be attributed to the mentioned injuries that had befallen me, especially the kick in the head from which I may still be reeling.
* Harry Russell [email protected]
