Introduction – I am a Rugby Mom. Damn!

I am hugging my son. I try to hold back the tears. He is standing on the brink of manhood; puffed with pride. I know I have to say goodbye but how does a mother cut the umbilical cord. 600km will separate me from my son. How did it get to this point? How did my son grow to love a game I thought was barbaric?

I am standing at the petrol station within walking distance of the Sharks Academy in Durban. It is a beautiful day. Paradise in the tropical South African city. I do not notice the coastline to my left. The gentle ocean breeze lifting my sons golden fringe. It is a welcome respite to the relentless January humidity that is Durban's trademark. My son had been accepted at one of South Africa's prestigious rugby academies. He was excited. His dream stretching in front of him rather like the ocean meeting the horizon. Endless. How could I stop him now? I feel a measure of satisfaction as I notice my husband, Craig, hiding his tears with sun glasses. Big boys do cry.

Rugby had consumed my son, Matthew, during school. A passing phase I thought when he was 9 years old and left a note next to my bed.

'Congratulations. Your son has been selected to play in the U9A school rugby team…'

'Aah,' I thought.' One tackle and he will come off the field crying.' I could not have been more wrong. Matthew thrived on the tackles. The harder the better. Bring on the rucks. The knocks. The bigger the guy the harder they fall, he would tell me. Each bruise and cut a testimony to his strength and courage. I am a woman and a mom. I am born and bred to nurture. I kiss the wounds better. I soothe the pain. Rugby was antithesis to everything I believed in. My husband held his breathe until my son reached matric. He won't play rugby once he leaves school my husband assured me during the ten years of schoolboy rugby. I felt comforted. My husband was a man. He understood these things. But, we were wrong. So very wrong.

This story is about my journey with my son and rugby. Rugby ticks all the boxes that represent life's challenges. Small body. Check. Wrong culture. Check. Wrong skin colour. Check. Small English school. Check. I have walked this path with my son. The physical damage that rugby hammers on the body was not the only thing I had to nurse. The emotional pain that my son experienced through his school years was much harder for me. But rugby has taught me so much about life. I have had to step back and allow my son to run on the field as he faced the enemy. (Isn't it amazing how much bigger the opposition always seems to look?) Being a good mom is about support and not standing in the way of your children's dreams. Damn! It was hard. I realised then that rugby was a metaphor for life. Not only did it teach my son, Matthew, about overcoming challenges but also taught me what it meant to be a mother.

This is my story about Matthew and his passion for rugby and how I had to learn to let go with love.