For the short version, read the bolded sections

As I see it, there is no use trying to catch up right now. Too much has happened since I last "blogged", so I will start with this weekend. Be prepared, this one is a doozy, and I am tired so there aren't any good jokes.

After work on Friday, I came back to my room and watched an episode of South Park (streaming online) and had a ham sandwich with some carrots and broccoli--a normal afternoon. I was relaxing in preparation for what I was expecting to be an exciting night. But an hour-long bus ride to a no-name London suburb doesn't necessarily spark the fire that drives me to great things.

A guy in Wigram House, my housing unit, is on the Westminster Dragons, my school's rugby club. Though he was careful to warn me of the team's--shall we say--mediocrity, Erik invited me to ride the bus along with the team to the game. Because I have been yearning for some rugby action, I decided to tag along. Plus, a free ride on a coach bus is hard to turn down.

Well, the bus was really nice and the ride was expectedly dull, but not otherwise unenjoyable. Before I proceed, I should mention that my dad has instilled in me the importance of always bringing along your rugby kit...always. And being the respectful, attentive son that I am, I brought my kit with. Not only did I pack my boots, shorts, and mouth guard, but I also had the foresight to include a complete change of clothes for the journey home--how considerate of me.

Of course, as my luck would have it, there was not going to be a game for the "second side" because Westminster has no second side. In fact, the team's substitutes passed the time by drinking beer and yelling (in their view of things) amusingly degrading phrases to the opposing team. The few that did sub in seemed reluctant to do so, and were at best mildly prepared to join a game that had moments before been nothing more than a spectacle. And I'll tell you, it was quite a spectacle.

Boffed.

Boffed is the best way to sum up this match. Boffed passes, boffed kicks, boffed officiating. When I first stepped off of the coach bus and approached the very classy (honestly, it was a nice place) Metropolitan Police Sports Club, I was expecting a good show. I figured any match played at a place that has 4 or 5 nice pitches and a fairly sizable stadium (along with a Members Only bar) would be well worth the trip. But I was wrong--I was dead wrong.

It really is hard to explain how horrible both teams were. The game moved along slower than this blog entry. And added to the lack of skill were some 6 or 7 time stoppages for injuries (a concussion) and lost balls (the first went on the bleacher overhang and the second [which was pumped up and ready to use in a quick 20 minutes] was lost in some Dr. Seuss hedges that were easily 30 feet high--I really wasn't joking about how nice this place was/is). Both balls were lost because these two idiots attempted comically bad kicks, that were completely unnecessary. Also, finding a working pump took forever.

So by halftime, I was ready to stretch my legs and find some food. By the way, take a break from reading this, right now. But the pub food was a bit too pricey for me, so I set out on a journey to find something to put in my belly. About 5 minutes into my walk, I was quickly reminded that I was no longer in London. While London is packed with establishments selling snacks, in this particular suburb, cookie-cutter houses are the buildings-of-choice.

Oh, man, cookies. I was so hungry, but also feeling the adrenaline starting to flow as I was in a completely unfamiliar area with no phone and little confidence in my ability to find a store open at 10 pm. The darkness didn't scare me as much as the idea that, if I didn't hurry, I would be in a pretty bad spot. So I jogged--and then I ran. Dress slacks aren't designed for such activities. (This blog is so long already, I know. But understand that I want to cover some details.) As I quickly moved along, I was really at peace, only jarred by the occasional car's headlights passing by on what is still to me the wrong side of the road. It is hard to say exactly why I was feeling so good, despite my hunger. Certainly, being out of the city was a nice change, but I have to think there was something else at play. I was still riding high after some God moments that had taken place earlier in the day. As I passed over a small bridge, the water shot back one of those great moon reflections that will make your night.

Anyway, I made it to a downtown area, that I can only describe as a place that Genoa, IL would look down upon as inferior. But my hunger drew me to a Tesco (a big chain over here), and I was soon on my way back with peanuts and a sleeve of digestive biscuits (look them up). The game was still going on when I got back 45 minutes later.

Though both teams' performances were shockingly sub-par, the result was 25-5 in favor of the opposition. But who cares?

To be honest, I am not sure why I decided to tell this story. I like it, though. When I was running towards that town--and trying to avoid breaking into a sweat for the sake of not stinking up the bus--I was just absolutely thrilled at my situation. Here I was hoping for the best, and when it worked out, I was happy and eating peanuts and cookies. On the ride home, some guy struck up a conversation with me, and a girl nearby overheard (because she was eavesdropping [rude]) that I am "from Chicago", so I had to listen to why her being raised in Wicker Park helped to shape her into the "open and diverse" person she is. (For clarity on this joke, please familiarize yourself with Wicker Park.)

But all the time she was talking, I was still running down that dimly lit street, toward an unseen, yet trusted destination...and the metaphors, oh the metaphors.