Confessions of a Rugby Girl: The Return of the Six Nations

To most people, February means the end of long dreary nights which commence at 3pm, it’s the time of year when loved-up couples pay for Mr. Hotel Chocolat’s holiday home in St Barts and pancakes are launched from frying pans with more force than NASA's latest spacecraft. For me however, February doesn’t symbolise a time of year to show my appreciation, respect and admiration for one man, but  for 15. For me, this time of year is only about one thing – the return of the Six Nations.

 

Rugby is in my blood. My grandfather, father, uncle, cousins and sister  have all played rugby. Although I myself do not play, I am a commentator, referee, and number one supporter all wrapped up in one. I take as much pride in donning the red kit as I would in meeting the Obamas and sing "Bread of Heaven" with as much passion as any X Factor finalist. For those who haven’t experienced the atmosphere at a home game, it is hard to put into words the feelings and emotions that come along with watching Wales play. Once I enter the rugby ground, it’s as if a surge of electricity hits me and I become the best version of myself. I’m easy-going, I speak to passers-by, join in with chants and Mexican waves  - rugby girl mode is activated.

 

For some girls, their Cinderella moment comes when they get to dress-up and go to the ball, and I too enjoy the paraphernalia that goes along with picking a dress and choosing the right shade of lipstick. But, nothing beats wearing jeans, vans and the scarlet jersey. I feel no more at home and comfortable in my skin than when I’m part of the sea of red. It’s safe to say that my favourite type of ball is the oval kind which meanders between two posts.

 

Last year’s Rugby World Cup was all I dreamed it would be. Being at the epicentre of the rugby action in Cardiff was a privilege. I would walk through the city centre and be greeted by a wall of black jerseys and Dan Carter towering over the awed crowds. I joined in with the 'ball in the wall' fun and spent the best part of ten minutes trying to master the illusion of holding it in mid-air. I was there when Georgia scored their first ever try against New Zealand and giggled with delight watching  Argentinian players and spectators alike celebrate victory by bouncing from pitch to post. I cheered on the Brave Blossoms as they defeated the Springboks and participated in Cardiff’s harmonised roar which reverberated around the city when Wales held their nerve to beat England on their home turf. I can say that I was there and I loved every moment of it.

 

After a well-deserved break, I can’t wait to see the boys back in action on Sunday. I can’t wait for the buzz, the energy, the comradery. I can’t wait to smell tipped beer, hear the rapturous sound of the national anthem, see trailblazing tries, drop goals and fancy footwork. Most of all though, I can't wait to watch the Welsh underdogs storm the Aviva Castle in their first battle to be crowned Six Nations champions once again.