A true story of grass roots rugby

At a time when the elite level of rugby (and I include RA) is at an all time low ebb. Even rusted-on supporters such as myself are in despair of our national team and everyone and everything about it, it seemed timely to remind oneself of what this game means to real people.

Many moons ago I was playing for the Australian National University (ANU) first grade team in the ACT competition.

The team was composed of a mix of undergraduates and graduates who had stayed on in Canberra after finishing their degrees. I was a relatively rare commodity in those days being a local who nevertheless chose to play for ANU, largely to enhance the Uni experience.

I moved out of home after my first year (relevance will emerge).

All players through the grades were responsible for washing their jerseys. The first grade jerseys were designated ‘first XV’ and had a specific badge and (would you believe) numbers!)

As you might imagine the quality of the washing of jerseys varied considerably. Indeed there seemed to be a number of occasions when the undergrads in the team may well have not actually got around to washing their jersey at all.

This was a source of some consternation to my dear late mother.

Now Mum was a mother of four. She worked full time as a school teacher and as was the case in that era, cooked all of our meals, washed (and ironed our clothes) and generally worked her backside off.

She decided that the ANU first grade team needed to look like a first grade team. She decided therefore that: 1. I would collect all of the jerseys post match and return them home – usually Sunday morning;

2. She would soak all of the jerseys in a bath filled with some kind of (no doubt toxic) substance to remove stains etc;

3. All the jerseys would be washed in what was by today’s standards, a pretty basic washing machine. Now bear in mind this was the early/mid 70’s and so the jerseys were made of heavy cotton;

4. The whole 15 jerseys were hung on the Hills Hoist – in a Canberra winter a relatively futile exercise in drying;

5. The jerseys would then be arraigned in front of the sole (coal burning!) fire in the lounge room to dry – there being no such thing as a clothes dryer;

6. Come Friday night she would drag out the ironing board and iron and – the Preen starch (!) and iron each jersey, carefully fold it in numerical order and stick them in two cardboard fruit boxes;

7. I would collect said jerseys Saturday morning for the selected first grade to adorn themselves with.

Rugby union at its finest (AAP Image/Ross Setford)

One of the pretty regular forwards Dave ‘Bung’ Priest was famously heard to say one week that and I quote ‘this is the cleanest thing I put on each week’. Those who knew him well confirmed that statement.

This went on for two full seasons until the incoming President decided that this was way too much of an imposition on Mum and that the first grade jerseys ought to be commercially laundered.

And here’s the thing. This very thoughtful and considerate Club President decided that some kind of recognition of Mum’s effort and contribution to the Club was appropriate. He invited Mum to the end of year dinner/awards night.

Which in itself was unusual in that in those times these were all male affairs with everything that goes with a rugby club end of season dinner!

As it happened my younger brother, who was also playing for ANU, and myself received awards. Mum was excessively proud and assumed that was why she had been invited.

At the conclusion of awards and before things got too messy, the President stood up and made a charming speech about the contribution of our mother to the club and how much it was appreciated.

Mum was extremely chuffed. He then announced that she was to be made an honorary vice president of the ANU Rugby Club. The entire club in attendance stood and applauded my dear Mum.

As she said on may occasions subsequently, it was one of the proudest and best nights of her life.

And that my friends is what grassroots rugby is and should always be about.