Blood, Mud & Maxi Pads: My Short-Lived Rugby Career

A coming-of-age humiliation I’ve never outrun—though I’ve definitely outgrown it.

It Started With a Zoom Call

I just got off a call with MG, a Platform Partner of mine based in Australia. We were having an intro meeting with a mate of his—very experienced in the medical products and solutions market there.

The meeting was exploratory. It went well.

As we were wrapping up, MG turned to his friend and asked,

“You playing football this season?”

They had played on the same team.

“Nah,” his mate replied. “Body can’t take it anymore.”

I asked the obvious:

“Footy or Rugby when you say football?”

“Rugby, of course.”

I had to go. But I couldn’t help myself. I told them:

“I have a rugby story.”

Melbourne, Early ’90s

Joseph W. was the new kid. Recently moved from Sydney. Built like a tank.

Legend had it his father played for the Balmain Tigers. Joe was obsessed with rugby.

This was before Melbourne had its own team. We saw rugby as barbaric. Footy was our game. Rugby was for yobbos.

Rugby players were savages:Ears taped down. Broken noses. Bloodied and wild-eyed.

Joe fit the stereotype. Angry. Determined. Wanted to prove himself.

So he convinced us to join a local league.

“It’ll make men of you,” he said. “Put hairs on your chest.”

So we joined.

Week 1: The Bloodbath

Drills. Practice. Tryouts. I didn’t make first string. I was benched.

Game day came. We rolled off the bus. Huddled.

“Take no prisoners!” Joe shouted.

Then we saw the other team.

Maoris.

Double our size. Tree-trunk thighs.Shoulders like wild buffalo.

I thanked G-d I wasn’t starting.

What followed was a massacre. One by one, our players got bloodied and bruised.

I sat frozen. Not breathing. Terrified I’d be subbed in.

The whistle blew.

I had survived.

This time.

Week 2: My Turn

I was starting. Left wing. Far from the scrum. But still in play.

I stared in the mirror that morning and whispered:

“I’m not cut for this… I’m too young to die.”

I needed to look bigger. Tougher. More imposing.

Then I remembered the shoulder pads I’d seen under my mum’s bathroom sink.

I ran and grabbed them. Peeled the adhesive. Slapped them onto my shoulders.

“Not bad.”

A second layer? Even better.

“Boruch! We’re leaving!” my mum shouted. I puffed out my chest and got in the car.

Game On

My opposing number was… a girl? I think.

Neck the size of my waist. A five o’clock shadow. And a glint in her eye.

She licked her lips. I swear.

The whistle blew.

Ball rolls free. I see it. I grab it.

I run.

Then—

WHOMP.

She flattens me like a steamroller. I can’t breathe. I’m face down in the mud.

Then comes the laughter.

“OH DAMN, THIS PANSY IS WEARING TAMPONS!”

Confused, I gather the pads that had spilled from my jersey.

I limp off.

The Van Ride Home

Back in the car, it’s quiet.

“How’d you play?” my mum asks. “Did you win?”

“Mum… what’s a tampon?”

She looks at me.

“Why do you want to know?”

“Everyone was laughing at me because I was wearing one.”

And I handed her a shoulder pad.

She had to pull over.

She was laughing. Crying. Shaking.

“They’re not tampons! They’re sanitary pads. And they’re NOT for your shoulders!”

The Aftermath

My mum is a teacher. She tells this story every year in her Mikveh and ritual purity class.

And now? I work in the absorbent hygiene industry.

So maybe I’ve come full circle. Maybe I’ve earned back some dignity.Maybe.

“And now you know why I don’t live in Australia,” I laughed.

No Lesson. No Moral. Just a Damn Good Story.

Sometimes, the story is good enough on its own. No takeaway needed.

Just tears. Laughter. And a box of pads on your shoulders.