Some exclusions apply.
Blood, Sweat And...Is That Mud?
Let me paint you a picture: I'm your typical old school type prop—more like a Gareth Chilcott and Jason Leonard than a Dan Cole or Alex Corbisiero. My first day of practice my Coach gave me the nickname of “Fat Joe” to differentiate between myself and the other Joe on the team. I was that prop. The one that you’re pretty sure broke every law in the scrum, you were unsure of hygiene habits (I once made a teammate throw-up on our way to practice because of the smell of my jersey), and was known for being just as much of a personality off the pitch as on.
My second year with my club, I was the Captain. We had a match in a very rural area one Saturday against a rival college. It was the kind of pitch you could drive by and never know you missed it. The uprights were made of 2x4s and the try line was 10 meters in front of the posts. Needless to say this place had very little going for it, let alone a bathroom.
We started the match and began playing. It was a typical match with nothing out of the ordinary. The first half was winding down and we were closing in on the last ten minutes. We were making our way to the opposition’s try line, I took a pass and went barreling through to the try line until I'm stopped about a meter short. A maul ensued and my teammates crash into me to put me over the try line. But the try was held up.
You can only image how crushed I was. This was to going to be my first try, something I would never forget. Well, once I stood up, that would be true. It turns out, that when the maul occurred, the force of my team behind me and the opposition trying to bring me down in front caused me to crap my shorts. I got up from the maul with what could only be described as a sick baby diaper full of diarrhea.
Whether I was lucky or unlucky that my compression shorts worked so well at containing the destruction of my bowels I cannot say, but there are others who may dispute either argument. At first, it didn't seem that bad, until we had a scrum. The minute my lock and flanker bound in, the smell came wafting up and made both teams immediately gag—not mention the fact that my second and back rowers were mere inches away from the scene of the crime. There was an infraction in the first scrum, and we had to reset.
By this time it was no secret that I had crapped my pants, and everyone didn't know whether to laugh or cry, except for the referee. After the second reset, I looked at him and said, "Sir, I've shit my pants. May I have a minute?" He quickly replied with "No, Captain. Play on." I laughed, the back rowers cried, and the opposition squirmed. Needless to say, I played the last bit of the half with a putrid smell and shorts full of excrement. Every time I went into a scrum or ruck the anal destruction that was my shorts was transforming the end of the half from an unfortunate event into an apocalyptic legend.
The second half wasn't nearly as exciting. I did remove the soiled undergarments during half time, and cleaned up with a roll of paper towels during coach's halftime talk. I played the rest of the match with no compression shorts, which made for many an uncomfortable scrum and ruck. My Lock did receive a slight concussion early on in the second half, which to this day he blames on the mustard gas-like affect my insides had on his senses. But both he and the flanker were both groomsmen in my wedding this past fall, so they can't be too mad (although while playing years later on the local men's side, they were always keenly aware to locate all bathroom facilities for me at every away match...).
Needless to say to this day I always bring two pair of compression shorts and roll of toilet paper in my kit bag...
Submitted By Fat Joe