Confession of an American Rugby Addict

Epiphanies are usually the stuff of mornings. Picture this particular morning: me, perched on a barstool, gulping down Guinness and Bloody Marys, surrounded by screaming expatriates. It's not even nine o'clock when the realization strikes.

I've got a problem.

There was a time in my life when bars were synonymous with the night. That was before the addiction, before the cravings - back then, I didn't even know what a rugby field looked like.

Yes, it's a tangled lot you'll meet here on a Saturday morning - like a theme park for Anglophiles. The only thing more colorful than the accents are the incessant chants and taunts they frame. Bellowing together like a drunken choir, we sing our discontent or celebrate our victories. Yes, we've all got a problem. We all love rugby.

Of course, it's only a problem because we live in the United States. Here we're at the mercy of time zones and satellite television. If I'm drinking at nine in the morning, it's only because the Six Nations tournament starts at two in the afternoon, Greenwich Mean Time. If I find myself in a pub at all, it's only because no other establishment bothers to cover the games. Hell, I'd go to church if they would only set up a live feed.

That I have never been a sportsman makes the scene all the more unlikely. I was raised, for the most part, in the United States, and I have my obligatory favorites - the Forty-Niners (born in San Francisco), the Trail Blazers (lived in Portland), the Yankees (college in New York City). Right now I'd have trouble naming three players from all three teams combined - and I certainly wouldn't lose some Saturday morning slumber to worry about their shifting fortunes. While I gave American sports an honest chance to captivate me, they were never quite up to the task.