WE’VE PLAYED 30 seconds. I’m already glancing at the bench.
Merely keeping up with your opposition isn’t enough I’d remembered. You also have to grab that pink ribbon hanging off their shorts. It was going to be a long day.
It started with weak coffee and sausage rolls on the steps outside our old school canteen. When you hit that mid-20s mark and everyone starts getting scattered around the country – and for some the globe – reunions with the crew are few and far between.
We weren’t the only ones who thought of this. All around I was spotting faces from home, back for the weekend or back for the summer and one or two even back for good.
So there we were, straggling along in our twos and threes to the meeting point, each of us bringing a couple of new friends along for the spin.
The main competition of the festival was around the corner at Old Crescent Rugby Club, but we were based in Crescent College with the other social stragglers, a motley crew of ultra-competitive, ultra-organised teams showing up for the tag rugby, and others who are thinking more about the pig and the porter in the clubhouse later on.
Us? Well, we were somewhere in between.
Six of us had been knocking around in this school down the years, and nagged a few other friends and housemates to fill out the numbers.
What came together was a broad talent pool. We had two players with AIL experience (don’t worry, I’m not one of them), extending across to a Belgian girl who could count on one hand the number of times she held a rugby ball.
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The first game kicked off at 11am, but as we approached 10:45, we were still waiting on our quota. I’d been crystal clear about the drink ban earlier in the week. At least I thought I did.
The early games under way at Crescent College, with the main event at Old Crescent Rugby Club.
It’s hardly a surprise then, that within 30 seconds of kickoff we were behind. It wasn’t my finest hour.
I thought I’d box him in. I’d show him the sideline. The problem was that he just ran down it, and in for a try.
“What’s left, ref?”
“There’s no half time, it’s 15 minute games. So about 14-and-a-half minutes.”
We probably should have checked the rules.
Still, the longer it went on, the more we got the hang of it. We were even winning 4-3 at one point, a three-point girl try sent us into the lead.
Much like Westmeath on Sunday though, we switched off for 30 seconds and it was curtains. Two girl tries in the space of a minute, and we were handsomely beaten.
The next match was worse, as we came up against one of those ultra-organised teams who have the beating of you before the toss of the coin.
They even had customised jerseys, and small marquee to keep the subs dry. We had Penneys t-shirts, and some bananas.
But after that second defeat, things changed. We were joined by our good friend Bríd, this year’s Scottish Rose (20/1, back her now, thank me later), and a break in games allowed us to lay down a plan.
The team. The gang. Yours truly is out of breath, front row, second from the left.
And you know what? It worked! We talked more in defence, we rotated the subs more, and we suddenly looked like a team. We won two games in a row. We made it to the knockout round.
The bit of momentum had us flying, but the gap between the pool stage and our last 16 match floored us. We ate chips and we sat on the grass and by the time the next match arrived we were back where we started, a try down inside a minute.
Again though, we plugged away, and despite playing dreadfully we were level at 2-2.
It wasn’t to be though. An ill-timed goose step and hospital pass from yours truly had us on the back foot, and a 3-2 defeat signaled the end of the Pig ‘N’ Porter for the team whose name I will not repeat as it’s a little bit NSFW. Sure what’s a tag rugby tournament without a banter-laden team name?
Come nightfall, the Old Crescent grounds plays host to a hell of a party.
We may have been finished playing, but there was plenty still to do. The convoy took the short trip back home through Dooradoyle for the first team AGM and disciplinary hearing, where those that broke the drinking ban were ironically punished.
The Pig ‘n’ Porter festival is more than just tag rugby though, and the party that evening down in the clubhouse was special.
I spoke to the volunteers on duty at the carparks who had been directing traffic since eight that morning, making everything run along like clock-work until the thousands spilled out the club grounds with daylight ready to peak it’s way through the clouds.
A day to beat all days. We were goosed. We’ll be back.
'What's left, ref?' - The running diary of an unfit man at a tag rugby festival
WE’VE PLAYED 30 seconds. I’m already glancing at the bench.
Merely keeping up with your opposition isn’t enough I’d remembered. You also have to grab that pink ribbon hanging off their shorts. It was going to be a long day.
It started with weak coffee and sausage rolls on the steps outside our old school canteen. When you hit that mid-20s mark and everyone starts getting scattered around the country – and for some the globe – reunions with the crew are few and far between.
We weren’t the only ones who thought of this. All around I was spotting faces from home, back for the weekend or back for the summer and one or two even back for good.
For plenty of tourists, the Pig ‘n’ Porter weekend in Limerick is a weekend jolly, but for even more it’s a reunion.
So there we were, straggling along in our twos and threes to the meeting point, each of us bringing a couple of new friends along for the spin.
Us? Well, we were somewhere in between.
Six of us had been knocking around in this school down the years, and nagged a few other friends and housemates to fill out the numbers.
What came together was a broad talent pool. We had two players with AIL experience (don’t worry, I’m not one of them), extending across to a Belgian girl who could count on one hand the number of times she held a rugby ball.
The first game kicked off at 11am, but as we approached 10:45, we were still waiting on our quota. I’d been crystal clear about the drink ban earlier in the week. At least I thought I did.
It’s hardly a surprise then, that within 30 seconds of kickoff we were behind. It wasn’t my finest hour.
I thought I’d box him in. I’d show him the sideline. The problem was that he just ran down it, and in for a try.
“What’s left, ref?”
“There’s no half time, it’s 15 minute games. So about 14-and-a-half minutes.”
We probably should have checked the rules.
Still, the longer it went on, the more we got the hang of it. We were even winning 4-3 at one point, a three-point girl try sent us into the lead.
The next match was worse, as we came up against one of those ultra-organised teams who have the beating of you before the toss of the coin.
They even had customised jerseys, and small marquee to keep the subs dry. We had Penneys t-shirts, and some bananas.
But after that second defeat, things changed. We were joined by our good friend Bríd, this year’s Scottish Rose (20/1, back her now, thank me later), and a break in games allowed us to lay down a plan.
And you know what? It worked! We talked more in defence, we rotated the subs more, and we suddenly looked like a team. We won two games in a row. We made it to the knockout round.
Again though, we plugged away, and despite playing dreadfully we were level at 2-2.
It wasn’t to be though. An ill-timed goose step and hospital pass from yours truly had us on the back foot, and a 3-2 defeat signaled the end of the Pig ‘N’ Porter for the team whose name I will not repeat as it’s a little bit NSFW. Sure what’s a tag rugby tournament without a banter-laden team name?
We may have been finished playing, but there was plenty still to do. The convoy took the short trip back home through Dooradoyle for the first team AGM and disciplinary hearing, where those that broke the drinking ban were ironically punished.
The Pig ‘n’ Porter festival is more than just tag rugby though, and the party that evening down in the clubhouse was special.
I spoke to the volunteers on duty at the carparks who had been directing traffic since eight that morning, making everything run along like clock-work until the thousands spilled out the club grounds with daylight ready to peak it’s way through the clouds.
A day to beat all days. We were goosed. We’ll be back.
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Old Crescent Pig 'n' Porter TAG RUGBY