One thing I learned at a very early age growing up in Aspen was that rugby players are not to be messed with. I arrived at this conclusion after watching my very first Ruggerfest in Wagner Park, as the helmetless bruisers collided with each other with terrible brawn and might. It was like watching big horn sheep square off, or an ongoing, chain-reaction car crash. Suddenly an oddly oversized white football would pop out of the scrum, as one of the brutes would thunder down the field and slam the orb onto the ground in the end zone. If you look closely, you can still see some of the former local rugby stars limping around town with most of their teeth.
Our physical education instructor at Aspen High School, Coach “D,” was a rugby player, so he made a noble attempt at teaching us kids the nuts, bolts and nuances of the old-world game. The ironically named “Gentlemen of Aspen” rugby squad shared the Aspen Skiers trademark red-and-black uniform colors. It was common to see bumper stickers on cars locally urging fellow motorists, pedestrians and passersby to “Give Blood. Play Rugby.” One time we threw a water balloon into an open window of “The Pub” where a bunch of rugby players and other assorted hooligans were gathered after a game — the place erupted like a hornets nest as we sprinted away on our BMX bikes.
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