Come on Eng-a-land.

Today we practiced the other other religion--RUGBY.

Richard, Lizzie (my sister), and I headed to Fado, a local Irish pub that claims to have the best Guiness in North America, for the England v France semi-final game of the Rugby World Cup. For our part, we stuck with lager and ale. None of that Irish stuff today. We were channeling England all the way.

Before the game, Richard gave Lizzie a long tutorial in the rules. Before the game, I tried on four different outfits until I landed on the one that a) best represented the flag of St. George, the symbol of England and b) did not make me look fat. Hence, I still don't know the difference between a prop and a flanker. Nor do I appreciate the significance of the 22 yard (or is it meter?) line.

But, I am sure that Lizzie and I were the cutest ones in the pub.

Before you get worried that I have developed a big head, please understand that there were maybe 5 women in the place because most wives/girlfriends/sisters of the rugby fans at Fado would probably not have been caught dead in the mosh pit of men, sweating and screaming, "Come on England!" One guy scootched past me and the ripe stench that hung on the air after he was long gone suggested that he had been playing International Rugby, not watching it in an air-conditioned pub.

Even my darling mild-mannered husband transforms into a hooligan when it comes to Rugby. Once, when we were dating, he screamed in anger at my flatmate who changed the station while Rich was watching the rugby. I had run upstairs to put on a sweater and by the time I got back, Richard said, "Get your coat, Rach, we're going home." In that moment, he was Clark Gable or Humphrey Bogart--some classic Hollywood leading man, taking charge and taking care of the little woman. It might have been really romantic. Except I was already at home.

Today, Richard encouraged his team in his usual sweet way--most of the time. He was the only one in the pub saying, "Good play, lads. Keep it up" But when a Welsh man dained to cheer on France at a pivotal moment, I heard my darling husband yell back: "Traitor!"

I must say that this is not his normal attitude. In fact, we got home from the game this evening to find that a gift we'd bought for our newest nephew, Finnlay--who is a native of Abergavenny, Wales--was waiting for us in the "post box." Charlie and Sarah created this custom long-sleeved onesie for the little guy using a block printed design from their British Flashcard collection and I couldn't be happier with the way it turned out. I plan to buy a matching one for Rich soon so that he and one of his favorite Welsh citizens will match.




Finn--just remember that you may be "mini" now, but someday you'll be bigger and when the time comes, we'll be happy to watch you play rugby, even if you do play for Wales! (Well, at least Auntie Rachel will...)

But back to the game...after 80+ brutal minutes, England won! This is the face of a boy who has just pulled his wife to him in excited revelry (nothing to do with the beers he had--absolutely NOTHING):

I am now quite the fan of Rugby, myself. Anything that makes a man grab his wife like this has got to be good. Next weekend, we'll be back at Fado's for the finals and I'll be screaming, "Come on, England" with best of them.

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P.S. I know that I married the right man because of the following conversation:

Me: That number 11 guy is pretty hot!

Rich: Who, Josh Lewsey? Yeah, he reminds me of the guy on the Gilmore Girls that you are in love with.

What do you think?