Fuzzy yellow footsie pajamas, life with my host family, and how I became a charlatan rugby fan: a rambling blog post with an unnecessarily long title—by Erin

I never would have expected that my first few weeks in Australia would turn me into a rugby fan. 

Maybe it's just the excitement of being someplace new that did it, or maybe it's just my subconscious desire to be included in something that appears so important to the culture. Or maybe rugby is just awesome. It really is fascinating to watch all these gargantuan, hunky men ram into each other over and over again at full speed with NO padding and NO helmets.

One hit like the ones that those guys take every few seconds would be enough to put me in a vegetative state for the rest of my life. It's great fun to watch.

Whatever the reason, as I sat in a pub with some friends on a Sunday evening watching the Manly Sea Eagles play the Roosters for the NRL grand final, you would have thought I was a loyal, life-long Manly supporter. I was sitting on the edge of my seat, my gaze barely straying from the big screen, my shoulders moving slightly with the game as if I was out there on the field myself. I was urging them on under my breath, ooo-ing, awww-ing, screaming, questioning poor calls and explaining who all the different players were to my other American friends in the bar. All as if I knew what the heck I was talking about. 

This, to make a massive understatement, was completely ridiculous. Not only had I been living in Manly for less than a month at that point, but I was hardly familiar with Rugby, let alone the Australian National Rugby League, before I arrived. I know it sounds like I'm a total phoney (and please do not doubt that I am) but I was honestly so caught up in the game at that moment that I felt like I bled Sea Eagle red. I coincidentally do bleed red, anyway—so it works out.

So, I guess I'm a rugby fan now. I think that's alright to declare on my own blog, of all places. (Just please don't tell any of the real fans.) 

I'm more specifically a phoney Manly-Warringah Sea Eagle fan now. This is just because, for the time being, I live very near Manly—so it seems the appropriate bandwagon upon which to zealously hoist myself...

Go Manly!!

Sandy, my homestay mum, has lived in the Northern Beaches of Sydney for her whole life and she loves the team; "Ever since we we little kids It's just always been all about Manly around here," she explained.

 She also told me that everyone else hates Manly—a rumor which was confirmed when my school's librarian told me that I better not be rooting for those… rascals (I've censored the language there a bit) in the grand final. Turns out Manly has a bit of a bad rep for being the New York Yankees of the National Rugby League—buying all the talent and whatnot. But hey, that's okay! 

I think my interest in the game really started the first night that I watched a match with my host family and their neighbors, who are also Manly supporters. About 15 minutes after the start of the game I made my way over to the neighbors house, as per their instructions, crossing to the yard in the place where the fence between the two houses had been knocked down. 

There, beneath the stars and next to an outdoor oven with a glowing fire, there was a big screen TV. Seven or eight people were gathered in a semi-circle around it—some sitting in lawn chairs, some standing, others sitting cross-legged on the ground. Their hands held drinks and grabbed for snacks; their eyes stayed locked on the screen. 

"There she is!" Jerry announced as I emerged out of the shadows. "This is Erin everyone." 

I got a few very friendly hellos and even one "g'day," but no one chatted long—the game was on.  

The TV switched to commercials (they all scoffed among themselves about the advertised "Zinger Pies," KFC's apparently pathetic attempt at recreating the beloved Aussie meat-pie.) and someone pulled a chair up for me near the fire. Jerry grabbed me a beer, and I immediately felt like a part of the crew.  

I noticed, remarkably late actually, that one of the neighbors was wearing a furry, yellow onesie the shape of an animal whose species I cannot even recall anymore. I'm not sure how to include that detail any less abruptly in this account. So I'm just going to throw that out there and let it be. 

Anyway, It was nothing special—just some friends in the yard watching a game. It was just kind of a cool, random activity in which to be included. I kind of felt like I was getting an inside look at these people's lives, and although it wasn't much different than hanging out with a bunch of Americans watching an NFL game, I really enjoyed it.   

Sometimes, most often while I am traveling, I'll stop to think about my present surroundings and realize that a past version of myself never could have dreamed-up such a scenario. One of those times happened while I was being scrubbed down by a woman who spoke only Russian in a Turkish bathhouse in Kyrgyzstan. Another happened while I was walking through the streets of Paris late at night eating falafel on Thanksgiving. Another happened while I was just biking to class one day during my first year of college... 

One of the more recent of these profound moments happened that warm evening as I watched rugby on a big screen TV in a stranger's backyard, drinking a beer by the fire and sitting next to an Aussie in furry yellow footsie pajamas. 

I like moments like those.  

Anyway. Manly played beautifully that night, and I quickly became captivated by the game. The backyard spectators were cursing and cheering on the little figures running along the TV screen, and soon enough I was joining in—albeit a little less enthusiastically. I was spending most of the time trying to sort out all the rules.  

Every once in a while someone would turn their head just slightly towards me to quietly explain a rule or tell me an interesting fact about one of the players. They always made sure to point out that these players were all just regular blokes—many with interesting hobbies, histories, and even full-time careers outside of Rugby. 

"They call him the wolf-man," they said about a burly looking man with brown, wild hair down to his shoulders.
"He's actually a talented graphic designer." I was informed about another. 

"That's the equipment manager there. He bowls down at the local club." 

(I remembered these facts later, and then used them to assert my Sea Eagle fan-hood in the bar during the grand final. Any real phony sports fan would have done the same...) 

At one point, when the group got especially loud and rambunctious over a spectacular try, Sandy said aloud, "Erin must think we're all crazy! She's probably going to write about this later." 

...And I guess she was at least half-right about that! :)