Meanwhile, we had made a lot of friends. I do not know whether it was through the capitalist, Rodolausse, or through the radical-socialist teamster Pierrot, that we got in contact with the local rugby football club, or they with us: but one of the first things that happened after our arrival was that a delegation from the club, the "Avant-Garde de Saint-Antonin," presented themselves to Father and asked him to become president of the club. He was English, and therefore he was an expert, they assumed, in every type of sport. As a matter of fact, he had played rugby for his school in New Zealand. So he became president of the club, and occasionally refereed their wild games, at the risk of his life. It was not only that the rules had changed, since his time, but there was a special interpretation of the rules in St. Antonin which no one could discover without a private revelation or the gift of the discernment of souls. However, he lived through the season.
I used to accompany him and the team to all the games they played away from home, going as far as Figeac to the northeast, deep in the hill south, a town with one of those fortress-churches and a real stadium for the rugby team. St. Antonin was not, of course, called in to play the Gaillac, first fifteen, but only to play an opener, while the crowds were coming in for the principal games.
In those days the whole south of France was infected with a furious and violent passion for rugby football, and played it with a blood-thirsty energy that sometimes ended in mortal injuries. In the really important games, the referee usually had to be escorted from the grounds afterwards by a special bodyguard, and not infrequently had to make his escape over the fence and through the fields. The only sport that raised a more universal and more intense excitement than rugby, was long-distance bicycle racing. St. Antonin was off the circuit of the big road races, but occasionally there would be a race that came through our hills, and we would stand at the end of the long climb to the top of Rochher d'Anglars, and watch them coming slowly up the hill, with their noses almost scraping the front wheels of their bikes as they bent far down and toiled, with all their muscles clenched into tremendous knots. And the veins stood out on their foreheads.
Believe it or not, I have never been a huge fan of organized sports. Not rugby or football or basketball. I know this revelation will come as a shock to some of you. When I was a kid, my parents had season tickets for the home games of the university hockey team. I spent many Friday and Saturday nights in a cold ice arena. And I ended up tolerating the games fairly well, with a steady supply of hot chocolate and an occasional hot dog thrown in for moral support.
These last few days have been brutally taxing. Still trying to recover from the string of unfortunate mishaps and malfunctions that have plagued my life recently--plugged toilet, broken furnace, hacked bank accounts, and a drug overdose. Tonight, sitting in the living room of my sleeping house, I feel like I've been playing my own little hockey game where I've been hit in the face by the puck about 50 or so times. I'm whipped.
The weekend is almost upon me. Spring break at the university next week. My life will be slightly less hectic for the next seven days. Hopefully. I'm still trying to sort out my bank account problems. Have to make some phone calls to Apple.com to get some money back from them. Hopefully.
I am a firm believer in trying to remain positive, even in the face of tragedy. I try to look for silver linings. I really do. These last few days, however, I've been wondering if I'm being divinely punished for something. It feels as though I've pissed off the universe. Sent to the penalty box, so to speak.
Now, I know that God doesn't work that way. The vengeful version of the Big Guy Upstairs kind of went by the wayside when Jesus showed up on the scene. It's all supposed to be about love and forgiveness. I've had to remind myself of this fact many times in the last five-plus days. God didn't hack my accounts, but He did make sure that I only lost less than $500, And He didn't break my furnace, but He did send my brother and sister to fix it. God is always at work.
So, Saint is headed into the weekend, hoping that God has very little to help me with over the next few days. Amen.
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