Women's rugby club members combat stereotypes

Paused in a crouch, the Redstorm Rugby players glare into their opponents’ eyes. Inches separate them. Seconds pass. They lunge.

For Redstorm Rugby, IU’s women’s Rugby Club, there is no protective gear, no jewelry and no soft mentalities. There is a lot of pushing, pulling, shoving and bruising competition.

They play a game of respect based on laws (rules) and run by sirs (referees). They’re college women playing the game more known for European men with large chests and tiny shorts, but IU’s Redstorm has scrummed off North Fee Lane since 1996.

They might seem brutal on the field, but their car trips are filled with 90s hits, and nobody dares skip a Disney song. They giggle at the way their Irish-accented GPS says the word “hundred.” When the car stops for a rest in West Virginia on the way to a weekend tournament in Charlottesville, Va., some Redstorm players are afraid to get out of the car. They fear they look “too gay” for the place.

They stick with late-night practices and tournaments states away because they are obsessed with eating, thinking, breathing, dreaming, playing and partying around
rugby.

They are rough on the field, but off the field they’re just students pursuing degrees in subjects such as atmospheric science, athletic training and music. They’re a group of women who, contrary to popular belief, have all their teeth.

On the field, they’re the toughest women you never knew existed.

* * *

It’s a rugby Saturday. Senior Susan Werbe watches the game from the edge of the parking lot after she received a red card for stomping, an act of driving another player into the ground with a foot. Werbe admits it wasn’t her shining rugby moment. In rugby, a red card means the player must leave the field, and there are no substitutes for a player who receives a red card. Redstorm plays with 14 instead
of 15.

Werbe watches the teams clash. Despite being outnumbered, IU pulls ahead.

Werbe can’t stand the distance between the team and her. She throws on a sweatshirt, pulls up the hood so the sir can’t see her face and walks closer to the field.

As a freshman, Werbe was asked to join the rugby team. She refused, saying she was “too girly” for the sport. Now she doesn’t take a second look at the purple and green bruises from the hits she takes. She can’t get enough.

“I’m addicted to rugby,” Werbe said.

The team has found a family and bonded through acceptance and praise. They braid each other’s hair and scream at bed bugs in shabby motels together. Some of the girls have hidden secrets for years. They have had people project assumptions on them for the way they dress or style their hair and for the sport they play. In fact, some of the players are gay and some are straight. But that’s not what defines them as athletes
or people.

* * *

The Redstorm players are dressed in athletic shorts and T-shirts and let yawns escape periodically.

It is past 10 p.m. on a Tuesday. Drinks are on special for $2 at Kilroy’s, but the team doesn’t care.

On this night, they occupy half of the field inside Mellencamp Pavilion. The club baseball team practices on the other side. Both teams are cramped, leaving the rugby team to work with less than half of a field they use for official matches.

“Come on, ladies!” shouts one of the girls. “You don’t whisper in a game. Talk loud.”

The Redstorm players sling the oval-shaped ball across their bodies to their target. It’s a drill of choreographed chaos, and the lack of communication leads to a few overthrown balls hitting girls in the head.

In the middle of the madness is senior Tyra McGrady. The 5 foot 2 inch tall winger might not be the height of a dreamed-up rugby player, but as a two-time First Team All-American, she believes she has the potential to play for one of the women’s leagues.

While she knows she might have to use her degree in exercise science to find a second job to support her rugby career, she only wants to play rugby.

In the final drill of the night, McGrady somersaults and then springs into a full sprint without missing a beat. The rest of the players are so exhausted. They jog, flail and crawl between lines.

“I’m not going to be able to walk when I’m thirty,” McGrady says with a laugh after practice.

“They have a wheelchair rugby squad,” someone assures her.

“So it never has to end,” McGrady says. “Rugby’s life. After rugby, there’s death.”

* * *

It’s another rugby Saturday. Redstorm shows up to Mad Bowl Field along Rugby Road at the University of Virginia. The squad that made the trip consists of mostly rookies as tests. Personal reasons kept five of nine senior starters at home.

A rookie known as “Jacobs” sits by her teammates as they braid each other’s hair. Her arms are wrapped around her knees. She has a nervous smile on her face.

Jacob’s hands are everything. As a freshman in IU’s Jacobs School of Music — hence her nickname — her entire career rests completely on her 10 fingers. But rugby brings her joy. She loves rugby just as she loves music.

Vaughn Mitchell, the coach and former IU men’s rugby player, breaks her nervous smile as he gives advice.

“The key is to make your tackles,” he tells his rookies. “If you don’t, they’re going to be out to the races.”

During the game, Jacobs’ prized hands catch the ball after a Virginia kickoff. It is a play the rookie hadn’t accomplished in the last seven months. Vaughn cheers from the sideline in joy. The rugby girls hug Jacobs.

The celebration doesn’t last long. A few tackles later, the ball is back in Virginia’s hands and Virginia scores a try, which is worth five points.

In the end, Virginia scores 67 unanswered points.  

After the game, the team sits in silence, but smiles quickly spread through the team.
Sure, they’re upset about the loss, but they know how to celebrate the tiny victories.

“It’s all about adversity, how are you going to respond?” Vaughn tells Redstorm. “What can you do individually? We didn’t come all the way through the mountains for 10 hours to just lie down.”

Two luxury buses pull up to the field. Vaughn follows the glances of his players.

“Ya’ll, we ain’t got Ivy (League) money,” Vaughn says with a laugh.

* * *

Abby Yates leans against the edge of the third floor of the parking garage that overlooks the final pitch of a rugby tournament weekend.

As a bird chirps, Yates sighs. Earlier in the morning, she clambered to the floor-to-ceiling window of her Days Inn room only to peel back the curtain and see rain falling hard.

It could sprinkle or downpour — it doesn’t really matter. Redstorm plays in anything but lightning — especially downpours. Muddy clothes are encouraged.

Nobody wants to warm up in the downpour, so they share the lower level of the garage with some guys playing bike polo. Redstorm rugby always shares its space.

The rain continues to pour. Redstorm stays dry until eight minutes before the game.

Then Vaughn looks at his watch and says, “I kept you dry long enough. Let’s go.”

As they leave the parking garage, the team tries to run straight to the pitch, but Vaughn stops them at an open field beyond the gated playing area.

“Right shoulders, right shoulders,” he yells.

In pairs, the rugby girls crouch before they spring forward, tackling each other at the right shoulder. They fall to the ground. Mud sprays into the air and over their faces, making them look like battle-worn soldiers.

They take the field against Princeton just hoping to not miss tackles and to finish
the scrums.

Redstorm loses, scoring only once, but the  team leaves the field not really knowing the score.

The scoreboard isn’t used, but the score doesn’t seem to matter to Redstorm anyway. With Redstorm, it isn’t just about winning. It is about learning and coming together.

As they walk off the field, they think about the 10-hour drive back to IU in wet clothes. There’s no visiting team locker room in which to change. No bathroom is close enough — just the parking garage.

From behind their opened car doors, the rugby girls begin to change into dry clothes.

“Hey! Don’t look,” they giggle to each other as East coast girls in a red Ford Taurus drive by, wide-eyed.

Just one more thing they have to share.