It's so good to be a man
Yet another major sporting weekend on the immediate horizon and I am dreading it. Not from the perspective of the sport itself, but from what it entails in my circle of friends.
My girlfriend is already giving me the eye as if to say… "You’ve just spent a week in the Cape and on your first weekend back, you are spending it with the guys”.
I know deep down inside that I should be saying no to the guys and take the time out to nurture my relationship. But somehow I cannot get myself to do that. Very few men can and I, it seems, am not one of the few. I love sports and I love rugby and the fact that we are playing the mighty All Blacks this weekend makes it so much more important to me. Even if I decide not to watch the game, my thoughts would be with them and she would end up telling me to go and join my posse of delinquents. How lucky am I? Extremely lucky, I would say.
We are all meeting up at my friends Alan’s place. Ten of us and everything has been planned to the last detail. This is about the only time you can expect a guy to plan an event and not screw it all up. The booze, the beer, the snacks, the big screen TV, the braai, biltong and everything else that goes with it has been organized.
Judging from previous experience it is going to be a rough one. The last game we had had against Australia (not the Tri-nations game) turned into an all–nighter and I ended up nursing a hangover the size of Mount Kilimanjaro.
The antics we get up can only be described as juvenile and immature, even though they seem like the biggest deal at the time. There’ll be loud screaming and shouting, singing, dancing, jumping, larger than life gestures and lots of hugging and back-slapping. One would think that the whole outcome of the game depends on how enthusiastically we can cheer our side on. There's nothing like a game of sports to bring out the worst in us. Of course there are also the obligatory alcohol fueled arguments and debates during and after the game. None of which are particularly exciting, but as a whole are such key ingredients to whole male bonding sports phenomenon. Yeah, I will have many flashbacks on Sunday that will make me wish I had not been born and many more moments when I will hold my head and utter the words…. “Oh, please God… no... we did not do that… did we?!”
Last week in Cape Town was no exception as my brother-in-law, a group of his friends and I invaded the local pub and proceeded to behave in manner that would have made the women in our lives blush and made the pub owner smile for ear to ear. We finally managed to crawl (in the literal sense) home at around three in the morning(!)… my BIL having made numerous sacrifices to the knee high white porcelain god. Being with a somewhat strange group of people I had managed to keep myself in check and behave decently. Besides, someone had to drive home and explain to the sister why her husband looked like he had just played an extra in The War of the Worlds.
Having made it through last Saturday one would think that I would have learnt my lesson. But that is the thing about being a man… we never learn. We bitch and moan about the stupid things we did and then go right back to doing it the next time around. There is no logical explanantion for this behaviour... we do it, because we can.
Every embarrassing moment begins with a lie told to oneself. Unfortunately I am no exception and my love of sport and of big events will always get the better of me. Convincing proof once again that I'm a jackass... hehehe. Even now, the prospect of going to work on Monday seems a daunting one indeed.
Uh.. I hope the maid remembered to wash and iron my Springbok rugby jersey.
Go Bokke... go!!!!
