About the Author

Mike Dunafon is credited as the lead developer of Infinity Park – the first full service sports complex dedicated specifically for Rugby in the USA – located in Glendale Colorado. A self-employed businessman, he has numerous domestic and international holdings including newspaper, nightclub, clothing import, transportation and telecommunication businesses.

Dunafon, 54, has a BA from the University of Northern Colorado where he lettered in football for four years and was named to the all conference team. He signed contracts to play with the Denver Broncos in 1976 and 1977. His rugby-playing career began in 1978 with the British Virgin Islands RFC and continued until 1992. He has a USA Rugby Level 3 (The USA’s Highest Accredited Level) Coaching Certification and is currently an assistant coach with the Denver Barbarians and head coach of the Denver Barbarians Colts. He was Manager of the United States U-19 National Team from 2000-2001, taking them on three international tours to Australia (7 wins 2 losses), the World Cup Qualifier in Trinidad (3 wins, no losses), and the 2001 Junior World Cup in Chile (2 wins, 2 losses), where the US qualified for 2002 World Cup.

Mr. Dunafon is the founder of the USA International Youth Rugby Foundation and has extensive association with nonprofit organizations. He has served as City Councilman of the City of Glendale, Colorado, the city’s alternate representative to the Denver Regional Council of Governments and Vice President of the Greater Glendale Chamber of Commerce. Currently, he holds the office of Mayor Pro-tem, and Chair the Glendale Planning and Zoning Commission, as well as holding the office of Chairman of the Glendale High Commission on Rugby.

Cowboys, Football and Rugby

I saw a game of American football for the first time on a black and white television. The mahogany block loomed in the corner of the formal living room like some kind of piece of granite wearing its wire bow antenna. Across the room, Grandpa slept in his green leather recliner. All afternoon they were quiet; one in the past, the other a product of the future; they would both awaken just before dinner.

I was never bored during those long, uninterrupted silences, watching him sleep in that old green chair. In fact, I didn’t know what it meant to be bored. When circumstances required that you act a certain way – in this case, doing anything but awakening Grandpa – the mind finds outrageous and exciting ways to pass the time. The responsibility was mine.

Sitting in silence amplifies the senses and the real ability to analyze and think. Today, we have relinquished responsibility for our thoughts and, with it, the training necessary to make decisions. Our senses are bombarded with so much useless information that we have found it necessary to create new terms such as “sensory overload” to describe a state of scrambled reality that, until maybe 50 years ago, was only felt by those in combat. Ironically, we now find ourselves in withdrawal when the massive external stimuli around us are suddenly absent.

Today, turning on the TV is responsible for much of that external stimuli. Back in the days of my black-and-white images in that living room, this was not yet the case. The TV wasn’t about stimuli then; televisions began as a human connection, an extension of your family to a larger world. The TV held a place of respect and esteem. It demanded attention. It could, in fact, interrupt one’s sleep. On the TV, a person spoke to you and it was rude to interrupt or ignore what that person was saying. In those days, you see, conversations were centered on people. Your view of life was shaped by the people with whom you spent your time.

During the few hours that TV programming was initially available, people would gather, sit in silence, and watch intently. It was as if an honored guest has entered the room.

The same respect and attention was expected of me when my “extended family” of uncles, aunts, fellow ranchers and cowboy friends of my father’s entered the room. And, like the television, these people in my life were the first to teach me what an “extended family” was all about.

An extended “family” is nature’s way of ensuring lessons taught and lessons learned.

The men on my father’s side of the family were ranchers and rodeo cowboys. Their peers, of course, were much the same – strong-willed, stubborn, physical, and seemingly devoid of emotion – except when it came to humor.

Practical jokes were an art form and usually based on testing one’s ability to recognize danger. In today’s world, I’m sure these “practical jokes” would, at the very least be called hazing. It has taken me many years to understand the value of these lessons, learned at my expense. At the same time, I came to realize that most of those giving the lessons were unaware they were teaching anything. It was a cultural norm to engage in these games, a manifestation of patterned behavior that ran as strong and deep as a DNA chain.

A 1200-pound gelding standing on my foot while being shod was hilarious to the cowboys leaning on the fence. This, however, was not funny to me. I soon learned where to stand when holding a horse.

The ability to recognize danger is best taught in small doses. Danger taught in large doses usually means that you are in the middle of an emergency and faced with survival – and that’s not funny to anyone. Understanding the brute power and size of a horse, one foot at a time, was the cowboy equivalent of testing the water one toe at a time. On the other hand, learning about the mass and rage of a 1,500-pound saddle bronc upside down and on top of you in a chute was not a lesson many students had a chance to study twice.

In our cowboy world, a mere instant could turn a lesson into a life-threatening situation. At those times, the same men leaning on the fence dispensing witticism, advice and arguing about the weather immediately became a family of unified action. When called upon, they acted in unison, directed by some unseen authority, each person knowing his role and playing it perfectly. Individual opinion, rhetoric and group chaos becomes a single-minded purpose in an instant. In those moments, friends and even strangers instantly create a bond that likens itself more to “family.” They have stepped across an invisible line to aid and support.

Later in life, it became evident just how important the “Cowboy Gallery” was to me, and the critical role it played in the human connection. We rely on one another for every aspect of life.

What I remember most about those early lessons was not the physical painful moments or the embarrassment that surrounded my naive mistakes, but how people around me reacted to a situation, depending on its severity.

Laughter at your expense over those non-life threatening lessons is not ridicule. You were expected to respond in same fashion. Self-deprecating humor was an integral part of the lesson. If the cowboys saw you laugh at yourself, they knew that you did not resort to anger or self-pity. Those emotions close off our ability to make decisions, which is not at all beneficial in any situation requiring action. Laughter has the opposite effect – it opens you up to many possibilities – and empathy toward others – as your life unfolds. As a youth, molding my behavior after the adults began to teach me where my place would be as an adult … where my behavior would immediately extend that family connection for another human being.

Unfortunately, societal evolution has radically affected the manner and frequency of interaction between generations in this manner. In my lifetime, the concept of apprenticeship and role modeling – that connection between generations – has nearly disappeared. These days, we have arrived at a time where there is no one to stick around with … few role models to truly learn from … and no place to learn many valuable lessons.

Back then, asking any one of them to explain what just happened would get you a recap of the circumstances, i.e., “Didn’t you see old Skeeter was hung up in that bailing wire that some dumb S.O.B. left in the arena? That dumb S.O.B. wasn’t you, was it? (They would say with a grin.) I’d reply, “How did you all know what to do with Skeeter – and at the same time?” Their return: Son, everyone knows what to do; don’t worry about it. Just stick around and you’ll get it.”

And so began my experience of understanding what the extended family connection really meant. What I learned from the Cowboy Gallery at the fence set my path for me – for life.

Lesson learned, age 8: We rely on one another for every aspect of life. It’s a necessary human connection.

The human connection is all about the team.

Before I was 10, I was exercising bulldogging teams – horses used in the rodeo event to “dog” any mad bull. If you were a Bulldogger, you sat on your horse in the left box with the steer in the chute between you and the Hazer on his horse in the right box. When the Bulldogger nodded his head, the man controlling the chute opened the gate and out came 700 pounds of denuded bovine with a rack like a two-point elk … and it didn’t just stand there. Racing away from the sound of horses closing in from behind, if the steer turned left or right the fun was over – he’d “train wreck” with one of the horses and it was not a pretty scene.

To avoid the train wreck, it is the job of the Hazer to keep his horse on a dead run, just inside the peripheral view of the steer’s right eye as the Bulldogger does the same on left, effectively boxing the steer in. Then, the Bulldogger slides down from his horse, running his right hand down the back of the steer until he completely leaves his horse. While the now rider-less horse and the Hazer thunder away in a cloud of dust, the Bulldogger is left behind holding the steer’s neck in a convoluted three-quarter nelson as his boots skid in front of him like Fred Flintstone trying to stop his car. Before they completely stop, the cowboy uses the steer’s momentum to bring his flank around while reaching over the horns to grab the steer’s nose. Then he twists, creating leverage on the steer, ultimately bringing him to the ground.

Now, how you train your horse is how you run your horse when the show is on. If you ride your Bulldogging horse clockwise around the arena during exercise, that horse is going to have a tendency to turn in the same direction when you’re getting ready to slide down on the steer. If your turn the horse against what he’s learned in hours of exercise, he will promptly launch you mid-air at Mach 10 speed into nothing but hard-pack dirt.

The converse is true of the Hazing horse. If he ducks out in the opposite direction while the Bulldogger is moving from horse to steer, the steer will see an opportunity for exit and will make a quick dodge in that direction. This leaves the poor Bulldogger suspended in mid-air with nothing but – again – hard-pack dirt to look forward to.

It would be years before I understood the metaphorical significance of this 5-second opera. The classical conflicts would all unfold in a blur of action with a great performance unfolding in slow motion.

Whether you were Bulldogger or Hazer, you were never an individual – you were a team. In an unspoken celebration of higher purpose, the common goal was to become part of the perfect run; thus the perfect team. For the Hazer, the experience of doing the right thing was like being in a Broadway play – and walking away without the girl. This team sport hands the glory to the Bulldogger.

But when the crowd was not around, the emphasis on “glory” wasn’t even mentioned. It was never discussed in private or in the honkytonks after the rodeo. For these cowboys, doing the right thing meant never letting someone down who was counting on you. It was yet another example for me, as a 10-year-old boy, of how an “extended family” defines itself. But it wasn’t until I played Rugby that lessons I’d learned about real teamwork came back to me in full.

Lesson learned, age 10: It’s not about the individual glory. It’s only about what you can do as part of the team.

When the value on “family” loses its priority, a lot about your life can be lost or mangled pretty quickly.

In 1964 - the year I turned 10 - my Dad and uncle entered a rodeo in Cheyenne, Wyoming, known as Cheyenne Frontier Days – the “grand daddy of them all.” My Dad (Skeets) and his brother (Wayne) has been riding bulls, saddle broncs and bareback horses, and had been roping calves and Bulldogging with their oldest brother, John, prior to World War II.

It was the same year the William Morris Agency made arrangements to run screen checks on real cowboys. They had an idea that an image might sell a filtered cigarette to women - the Marlboro. My father and Uncle Wayne became two of the original Marlboro men. The brothers each chose a different path with their newfound fame. Uncle Wayne built a cattle ranch in Kansas, and my Dad built a little black book of adoring fans in Colorado.

As I sat between two modern-day folklore heroes, I watched fame unfold through the window of an old pickup truck, living my life’s journey from alfalfa fields in the flint hills of eastern Kansas to the roadhouses and honkytonks on the Great Plains and Rocky Mountains. While my uncle’s family and extended family grew stronger in connection, my own family fell apart … and, strangely, the “extended family” I had once enjoyed and revered began to fall to the wayside, too.

Family Dissolution

In the early 1960s, most of the families I knew had both parents living at home. Divorce was uncommon and illnesses like cancer were never discussed in public. The family down the road had just put the finishing touches on a shiny, new bomb shelter, and in school we practiced the duck-and-cover technique under our desks in case The Big One hit in the playground. P.E. class was mandatory and Wonder Bread built strong bodies 12 ways. (I’m glad P.E. was mandatory as that was the only way we could have possibly digested that day’s Wonder Bread).

So, while other families did their “two parent” correctness and faithfully bought Wonder Bread and Quaker Oats for their growing children, my parents divorced for the second time. Even Wonder Bread couldn’t change the world back again. Quaker Oats, however, came to my personal rescue.

My first football was a cardboard Quaker Oats container that, with some practice, could be thrown in a reasonably magnificent spiral. It went unnoticed around the house that consumption of oats was way up – it was necessary to keep a “new ball” on hand as the cardboard container didn’t stand up well in kicking practice. It was, however, just the right size to tuck under your arm to score the winning touchdown.

I took to spending many afternoon hours sitting alone on a fence, weighing matters of the world in my mind. And it was one such day that introduced a welcome sound to my ears. From a distance, I could hear a faint whistle and the sound of cheering. Just over a mile and down the hill, kids were playing football at a junior high school.

In the afternoons, I would sit on my fence, watching them scurry back and forth in the distance. On the days the breeze came my way, I could hear the excitement and imagine the joy these kids experienced playing football. I started watching it on TV every time I had a chance, and consumed even greater quantities of Quaker Oats to keep my cardboard football supply fresh.

The difference between decent teachers/coaches and extraordinary mentors

Through those days, my life was held together, one cardboard Quaker container at a time. As I was finally able to play on that very field, my life was held together one practice at a time … one game at a time. Coaches and teachers became my parents and, on many occasions, the school buildings and locker rooms became my home. My fear, anger and aggression were conquered bit by bit on a daily basis. Misunderstood feelings were brought into focus by coaches and teachers armed with big hearts and books of platitudes:

… “Luck is when preparation meets opportunity”

… “There is no ‘I’ in team”

… “When the going gets tough, the tough get going” … “All you have to do is want it bad enough”

… “All you need is heart.”

High expectations were common and the occasional consequences for not meeting those expectations were extreme. Back in the day, my appointed Dispenser of Consequences was more commonly known to others as the Assistant Principal. And, in my day, the chosen tool for attitude adjustment was a 3-foot oak plank in the shape of a cricket bat with Semper Fi proudly displayed on one side, and “you play – you pay” scored in the wood on the other.

The Dispenser of Consequences would sit in a chair across from me, leaning back casually, testing the fat end of the bat on the floor while discussing my infractions and number of negotiated “at bats” warranted. Being tardy three times – the bat meted out one. Fighting – never more than five. (Fortunately, the fighting infraction could be negotiated down, depending on the circumstances, the size and attitude of the other kid, and who picked the fight.)

While the rules were always enforced, there was an odd sort of fairness involved. If I did everything I could do to avoid the fight, or if I refused to back down from certain defeat, I would usually leave the Office of the Dispenser of Consequences with a warning and some words of wisdom that would take years to comprehend … like, “Son, you’ve got to learn to look before you sit down.”

Young people feel life and react to it viscerally without forming the conscious thought about what possible effects or consequences could occur. It was the job of mentors in our lives to recognize our danger zones. Great mentors are experts in the art of separating the good brush strokes from the bad in a young person’s life, and their greatest tool lay in leading by example.

It wasn’t until years later – when I discovered playing the game of Rugby – that I remembered the significance of a mentor or teacher who led by example … but also let you choose your own way.

Lesson learned, age 13: As a mentor in children’s and young athletes’ lives, it’s not about finding the “best” to work with the best. It’s about finding the best in every child you meet.

Where teamwork and mentoring can go sideways

As I enrolled in high school, the competition for a position on the football team became more demanding and intense. Unlike the “everybody gets to play” mentality in one’s pre-teen football years, high school football quickly dispenses with the boys who do not meet strict physical requirements. Football requires that you endure tremendously painful impact. Some players, built like compact cars, are the first to be loaded on the flatbed bound for the body shop. The little train that could in midget leagues – just can’t in football. As a young high school player, you quickly learn that you have to be built to withstand a train wreck … or fast enough to outrun it.

As the competition for football positions increases, so does the desire to win. As Coach Lombardy said, “Winning isn’t everything; it’s the only thing.”

Lombardy’s comment was taken out of context to mean that the only important aspect of competition is victory. This is a flat misinterpretation! As a mentor, Lombardy knew that the “only thing” is the willingness to play with the motivation to win.

But if they were teaching Lombardy’s quote correctly, my fellow football peers and I weren’t hearing it. For us, it wasn’t about the emotional or mental growth or stretch – it was only and always about the win – beating every opponent out – no matter what the cost. The competition was the thing and, as it loomed every day at practice and every Friday night at game time, it began to skew my concept of what winning should have been about.

Lesson learned, age 15: Winning is about the process of applying lessons and overcoming personal walls and barriers of defeat.

In football, the competition increases the longer you play.

Playing football at the post-high school level represents another of the publish-or-perish opportunities for both players and coaches. The pressure to win reaches a new level and players distinguish themselves in some very primal ways, usually receiving the most recognition and adulation for total and reckless disregard for one’s body. It doesn’t matter though – in football, everything is expendable but the win.

Football is a game of down and distance. Each team is given four chances to drive 10 yards. If successful, they are given four more chances to go another 10 yards. In my day, many hard-nosed coaches adopted the “three yards and a cloud of dust” offense.” In other words, line up nose to nose … make every battle one-on-one … and gain at least three yards so you would win a new set of downs every four plays. Failure to do so rewards the ball to the other team at that point on the field.

Life or death revolves around maintaining possession of the ball as long as it takes to renew your chances (downs) or score.

If your opponent is in possession of the ball and needs to move forward to win a new set of downs, score, or become champions, what are YOU willing to do to prevent him from gaining half-a-foot, and what technique will you use?

Face-in tackling.

As the game of football has evolved, many things have changed. In the early days, the legends of the gridiron had no graphite-molded helmets, and composite facemasks did not exist –probably because “face-in tackling” didn’t exist either.

The “face-in tackling technique” was one of the first drills I learned in football. Simply put, it’s the game of “chicken” played over and over again between the opposing goalposts. And, I might add, it certainly did provide the opportunity to separate those who would from those who wouldn’t. There was a tremendous satisfaction in overcoming the natural inclination to avoid this type of confrontation. After all, it’s counter-intuitive to meet someone face-on and slam into them at full speed.

In the perfectly executed face-in tackle, the defender drives his forehead into the chest of the ball carrier as he whips both arms forward, driving the runner into the ground. In an exhilarating survival-defining strike he has stopped the enemy, emboldened his allies, and struck fear into the other side – shock and awe.

The ability to mow down my opponent earned me points in the football world. (How strange is that?) In the early ’70s, I was given a “walk on” tryout at the University of Northern Colorado. For the next four years, I avoided injury and played as a starter … probably because I’d mastered the face-in tackle … or had found ways to avoid it.

In 1975, I signed to play football for Rocky Mountain Empire Sports – The Denver Broncos. In my first game, The Denver Broncos played the Detroit Lions in a Pro Football Hall of Fame. It was the highlight of years of play for those being inducted into the Hall of Fame …

For me, the highlight of the game was dropping a pass on national TV …

Two days later, my first year as a Bronco came to an end, and with it, ten years of daily ritual. John Ralston was the coach that year and players that “walked the planked” did so from Captain John’s office. The words, “Son, Coach Ralston would like to see you – oh, and bring your playbook” marked the end of your days as a professional athlete. You were walking the plank. When I told Coach Ralston that I did not want this to be the end of my football career, Ralston assured me, “Don’t worry you’ll be playing city-league softball in a week.”

There it was … the defining commentary on just how much I would be missed by my football “family” after 10 long years of commitment and physical sacrifice to “win” … and a decade of trying to prove that I belonged with them.

I walked out of his office and across the parking lot to the locker room to find my

locker empty except for my weekly camp check, minus fees for toiletries. I asked to use the phone and was told that the presence of a person no longer on the team was a distraction and that it would be best to stop somewhere along the way to make my call.

I made my phone call from a gas station headed south on the outskirts of Fort Collins as I drove back to Golden. The trip felt like a hypnotic trance. I was in a void. Consumed by an overwhelming nothingness, thoughts drop like falling stars, leaving only traces of their presence on your frozen brain.

In what seemed like moments, I was driving through my hometown. On each side of Main Street were the taverns where old war stories were told and feats of the past went to die. I recognized the cars and pickup trucks angled in along the street and knew I could not stop – the loss of my surrogate football family meant an even larger loss of peers I had gathered around me.

Lesson learned, age 20: When you have to constantly prove yourself to your extended family and still you get dumped, you probably chose the wrong extended family.

When your family deserts you, you can resort to mighty strange measures to win them back.

I needed to complete my student teaching requirement to finish my education degree. On short notice, the football coach at my old high school made space for me that Fall as his teaching assistant. As I drove through my old UNC Greeley campus to enroll for the final time, many of my old teammates were preparing for their last season of college football. I did not stop to see them. After registering, I dropped in on my old weight-training partners at a favorite gym. After the obligatory condolences about my meteoric fall on national television, the discussion focused on one of the Bronco players and how he “made it.”

One of my buddies who had known Lyle Alzado in high school said that Lyle was always very aggressive, but not a great player. He lost track of him when he was cut from a Junior College somewhere in Texas, and it wasn’t until he was drafted by Denver that he saw him again. When he did see him – he was blown away! Lyle had exploded; he was huge! He had gone from being cut from Kilgore Junior College to the AFC Defensive Player of the Year. Steroids had turned him into a great player.

The conversation went on to extol the virtues of Dianabol, Winstrol, and Deca. And all the while, my mind was racing. I was triumphant. I was back in the game – there was HOPE.

I trained two times a day, six days a week for the next year, along with rotations of eight-week cycles of 10 mg. of Dianabol in the morning and 10 mg. at night. Then I stuffed down as many calories and supplements I could ingest. I didn’t even think about the side effects or the long-term effect a single year’s use could possibly have on my body – my only focus was getting back to where I thought I belonged. Being accepted again into the only “family” I’d known from 10 years of age.

Thirty-one pounds heavier with body fat just over 4%, I received another tryout with the Broncos. The Bronco trainers knew what I had done, but said nothing.

Sadly, my newfound body looked strong and seemed to feel strong, but it was like playing in someone else’s skin … skin that my body didn’t care for. Within a week, I had strained my right hamstring. I managed to hide the strain with ice and stretching and began to compensate with my left leg … at which point I strained my left hamstring. A few days later, I tore the right hamstring and my leg was black down to my calf muscle. There was a no hiding this and, a few days later, I was cut again.

Football is a lifetime sport for spectators. As a player, though, driving toward your goal – one-four second play, one 15-minute quarter, one game, one season at a time – is blindingly short in retrospect. When you’re out, you are out.

A short time later, I finished my degree and accepted a job teaching and coaching football at Fairview High School in Boulder, Colorado. Two weeks later, I called and withdrew from the position. Somehow, I just didn’t feel that I belonged to football anymore.

When you’re picking up the pieces without a family, the trek can be a lonely one.

In less than two years, I had two jobs in four states, first selling giant bush-cutting machines to the good ol’ boys of the South, then moving into Nashville for another sales job. During my travels, I spent a great deal of time writing poetry, prose, and songs to avoid the fine dining opportunities in small towns where the only cheese on the menu was sliced.

Music and writing became my salve as I wandered from place to place, never quite sure of my home … still searching for a family to which I’d belong.

Through a serendipitous set of circumstances, I ended up on “The Flying Cloud” – a 208-foot, three-masted schooner – playing guitar for its weekly complement of tourists. Initially bound for the British Virgin Islands, we set anchor in Cane Garden Bay, Tortola, the capitol of the British Virgin Islands, 12 days later.

In those first few days, I had become friends with an affable Englishman name Mike “Muffy” Royal, the operative in charge of dive tours aboard the Flying Cloud. Under his tutelage, I received my master certification and had a second job working for Blue Water Divers – music at night, diving by day.

Muffy’s other love was Rugby. A strapping five-foot, 5-inches tall and, as the English say, “9 stone in weight” at 133 pounds. Muffy was no Rugby spectator. He was an avid participant and played every time the island team could get a game. As he explained his love for the game, I couldn’t imagine someone Muffy’s size playing a contact sport. Unbeknownst to me, this was going to be the first of many wake-up calls around the game of Rugby.

As we hung out on Tortola, another serendipitous event came my way in the size of a British warship on maneuvers. The HMS Broadsword commanding officer sent his second-in-command to the island’s Rugby club with an invitation to play Rugby on Saturday and attend a captain’s cocktail reception aboard ship that Friday evening.

Muffy added me to the Rugby players’ list and the captain’s on-board guest list. Little did I know that, in a single day, I’d be meeting new teammates and opponents - who would become instant and lifelong friends.

I arrived on the dock to be greeted by the captain of the BVI Rugby Club and the Captain of HMS Broadsword RFC, an enlisted Royal Marine. I was asked by our captain, Sam Welch, if I would be kind enough to join him for a moment just outside the gate where he retrieved a sports coat and a team necktie from his Mini Moke car. The coat appeared to be salvaged from a large fellow’s steamer trunk in the late ’50s but it didn’t matter – I was now properly attired, and without a single harsh word about my ignorance to dress code.

Once aboard, greetings were made by the captain of the ship, the Governor of the BVI, and the captains of their respective Rugby teams. In coats and team ties, the opposing sides were chatting … with each other … and drinking and downing finger food.

Men from all walks of life were there as Rugby representatives: Elvet Meyers the sail maker, Peter Sorrentino the mechanic, Joe Giaciento the dive shop owner, Sam Welch the ex Royal-Navy guy, Robin Tattersal the plastic surgeon, Efram Hodges the dock gofer. They immediately took me in as a fellow player and teammate. We became friends that night and they have remained as such ever since.

Coming from the only sport I knew back home, I could only imagine this surrealistic coat and tie gathering taking place before a rousing round of lawn darts at a fraternity house. Royal Marines and the sailors aboard British warships were indeed a fraternity – one straight out of a Sir Arthur Conan Doyle novel – but they weren’t attired in their Royal Navy dress. This night, rank and years didn’t matter. Rank never plays in the game of Rugby itself – the Rugby uniform makes equals of all.

In the next few moments, the Rugby captain of The Royal Navy issued a toast in a deep rolling Scottish accent wishing us safety and good fortune on “the pitch” (the field), followed by something I could not have imagined – a request that our side sing them a song. In a moment, under our Captain’s direction, we had broken into song. Both teams joined the chorus, and next, a song for the other side. Then, the ship’s captain wished us all well in the competition the next morning, and asked in advance for forgiveness regarding any embarrassment they may cause us the next day. With that, it was three cheers for the Skipper and off for the evening.

When you first see Rugby, it won’t make any sense. Trust me.

The match was set for 10 a.m. the next morning. Muffy collected me at 8:00 a.m. for a cup of tea and a brief primer on what he called the world’s only game. After a 25-minute crash course, it was time to go. The lads, as Muffy put it, would be at the grounds, striping and putting up posts.

Much to my amazement, they really were there – my teammates – lining the field and erecting the goal posts. Further, as part of the duties of hosting the match, we provided ice, water, and later had the privilege of cooking for, and serving our “opponent” guests.

While the trade winds stood still, the whistle blew at 10:00 a.m. under the Caribbean sun – 80 degrees and 80 percent humidity. I stood, facing the sun, and watched in awe and befuddlement as the game of Rugby unfolded before me. After 8 1/2 minutes of uninterrupted possession (“Eight-and-a-half minutes of constant sprinting??” my brain screamed at me), they scored a try (touchdown). It was eight-and-a-half minutes of pure exertion – more actual playing time than two complete football games.

“Not to worry, the sun will soon shag-em,” said one of the spectators. Twenty-eight minutes in, the score was tied 5-all, with the visitors in sweat-soaked jerseys that hung from them like a wet chamois. (Later, we learned that the “lads” aboard ship had not set foot on land in nearly five weeks and practiced their rugby on deck.) With less than three minutes in the half, BVI took the lead with two quick tries and a conversion.

Forty minutes done and a 17-5 lead, the teams take five minutes for water (standing right there in the mid-day sun – no cushy locker rooms for you) and here we go again.

And this time it’s my turn. They let me on the pitch.

In a rush, all of my years of training came back to me. It had been three years since my last game – I thought I would never play team contact sports again. It was pure exhilaration. I had a chance to MAKE another team – the primal proving-ground animal had reawakened with a snarl. I was going to WIN.

As I had observed the first half, it seemed obvious that these were some of the worst tackling techniques I’d eve seen. In fact, it appeared to be pure chaos. Here’s where I could show them something … the ol’ face-in tackle.

In the rush to play again, almost everything Muffy told me earlier about Rugby was forgotten. All of the habits that I spent years blazing into my muscle-memory were acting independently, standing out now against the backdrop of Gridiron’s ancestor – Rugby.

Sure enough, the skill returned like magic. I steamrolled the ball carrier, dumping him to his back and leaving him gasping for air … but the ball was nowhere to be found. I must have caused a fumble!! BUT … not so in Rugby. My opponent had passed the ball before I’d even made contact. The play had gone by me and continued to rumble downfield in my opponents’ favor. And there I stood, 15 yards offsides.

When I ran back to my side, our captain let me know how he felt about hitting a man with out a ball.

Was I ejected from the game? No. The lesson had been taught and the team moved on … with me. They left it up to me to decide how I’d take the lesson.

I had just learned the first and largest difference between Rugby and American football … and the schooling had just be

• The most significant and immediate difference between the two games was the continual movement in Rugby. There are no huddles or breaks between plays, no stopping to move the chains. You don’t sip water while you wait for the other team’s coach to converse with the quarterback. The game of Rugby never stops. Like life, it blasts on … with or without you.
• There are no forward passes to gobble up the easy yards.
• There is no blocking.
• Your place is in support, slightly backward and off to the side – just like the hazer in bulldogging. Without support, the team goes nowhere. When a player is tackled he must release the ball, and if he has support, the ball is picked up by his teammate. Play in his direction continues – everyone leads and everyone follows all at the same time, in a cosmic dance of chaos and organization.
• Every player on the pitch is expected to pass and kick with either side of the body.
• Everyone is a decision maker and a try-scorer. At that pace – like life – decisions are made under pressure.
• Infractions of the rules “like tackling the man without the ball” does not result in a game-stopping assessment of lost yardage. Oh no. Life doesn’t stop after you’ve been slapped in the face – it keeps moving. It’s up to you to decide if you want to stand there – alone and whining – while life blasts on ahead of you.
• The referee simply points to the fouled team, giving them the advantage. Should the fouled team fail to take advantage in a reasonable amount of time, the referee’s arm goes down – time is up, you had your chance. Move on. No one to blame either way, no mandatory sentences – life goes on.
• The Rugby coach takes on the rule of true Mentor … he sits in the stands. He has no head phones or flash cards because, for now, the teaching is done … he’s focused on the best in each player and conveyed fast, decision-making skills … and now it’s up to the player to make those decisions on his own.

Amazingly, no one got hurt. In fact, in comparison to a single game of football, I was amazed to play and watch hundreds of subsequent Rugby matches where players emerged with nothing more than a few minor bruises that could just as easily happen in soccer or basketball. Why, when it looks like such an aggressive sport, is there very little occurrence of injury? Recent medical safety studies, commissioned by the United States Rugby Football Foundation, indicate Rugby is safer than most other sports. A combination of fitness and finesse protect players from serious injury. See www.usrugbyfoundation.org.

As I stood there on that humid field under the Caribbean sun, all the lessons I’d learned thousands of miles away in Colorado came into play that day in the guise of Rugby:

1. We rely on one another for every aspect of life. It’s a necessary human connection. Though we might be temporary adversaries, we’re always, always playing on the same team.

2. It’s not about the individual glory. It’s only about what you can do as part of the team. In Rugby, everyone gets involved in carrying the ball to the goal.

3. Mentoring an athlete isn’t about recruiting the “best” to only work with the best. It’s about finding the best in every athlete you meet. In Rugby, every player plays … because everyone has something to add to the game.

4. When Coach Lombardy said, “Winning is not everything it is the only thing,” he meant that winning is about the process of applying lessons and overcoming personal walls and barriers of defeat. In Rugby, the coach sits in the stands while the players apply the lessons they’ve learned through their own decision-making process.

5. When you have to constantly prove yourself to your extended family and still you get dumped, you probably chose the wrong extended family. Ask any Rugby player and you’ll hear the same answer – when you play, you’re instantly accepted as “family” in any Rugby club around the world. It’s a time-honored tradition that extends back several generations. When you play Rugby, you’re in – for life.

Rugby puts a product on the field we can all be proud of.

It’s been three decades since that day I discovered Rugby. Since then, I have played Rugby on five continents, gaining lifelong friends at every match. The Game for Life completed the connection I’d been seeking since my childhood. It was the surrogate family – the extended family – that welcomed me instantly and has since instilled in me an inherent respect and acceptance for people. It was if I came to realize my place in the links that connect us all.

We often speak in amazement of the theory behind Six Degrees of Separation – the theory that every person on earth can be linked to any other person by just six people or six connections. In other words, no person is more than six "steps" away from any other human being on Earth. In Rugby it is One Degree of Separation … One step to the Rugby Pitch, and you join millions of people worldwide as a family member. In Rugby, when you’re in, you are in.