Lost - RWC Spectacularity

I joined the clan with no fears upon whose side
I played, of battles lost or victories dismayed;
and in the lugubriousness of one hour and 20
minutes learned the whole, undeniable truth...
The Rugby game I know is gone.

The game we knew no longer unfurls a noble
spell – hijacked to marketing Hell by gurus of
international repute in ermenegildo zegna
suits who never kicked a ball, ran breathless
in pursuit.

The era of bright lights and attacking skills with
ball irreverently balanced is buried in an ogre’s
avalanche of dour defensive. Too much to lose
strategists reply – let referees blindly apply rules
which sanction it.

And in the maul any beauty of players poised
afoot to break free ball in hand is stalled by
bodies hurled to like cannon balls with dismal
intent to crush and maim – the ruck bent with
arguably sinister contempt.

I don’t see a spectacle in sweaty grace where
players grapple in gangs embracing stationary
siege-warfare like mentalities; referees who
see nothing unseemly have lost their place,
and, sadly – the game.
© 22 October 2007, I. D. Carswell