I am the eldest of seven siblings, with six sisters, four surviving, I have a wife, two daughters and two granddaughters. As you can imagine, the desire to enjoy some “Bro Time” can be rather intense at times.
A few centuries ago, the concept of male bonding was vastly different to what it is today. Back then, men would have gathered, donned a few respective tons of armour, mounted powerful, feisty battle steeds then ridden off to sow mayhem amongst the poor folk living in some rain sodden, rural enclave.
Whilst not being scared of horses, I have ridden my fair share, the idea of my body being encased in steel plate holds no appeal for me. Not that I am a prude, being adventurous is in my nature, but if my body were to be encased in anything, possibly a few microns of latex would be the limit. That being said, besides the armour, the sight of blood and the screams of agony, especially my own, are things I would rather avoid at any cost.
Thankfully, today the chest beating alpha male can achieve a similar testosterone fueled experience with way less bloodshed. For the last 100 years or so, warfare has largely been replaced by sport, not that you would notice with humans finding any reason to slaughter each other, often with little or no reason, but by and large, instead of competing on the battlefield, most of us compete on the playing field.
Recently, three fellow team mates and I undertook one such sporting adventure. Disclaimer: Names have been omitted to protect the not so innocent, suffice to say the team was made up of G, M, P and yours truly.
It was a bright and sunny Saturday morning as we gathered at a central point from which to leave. Our wives, each looking unsettlingly happy at our imminent departure, fussed around us making sure nothing was forgotten. Toothbrush… check, underpants…. check, mobile phone charger… err.. ummm… check!
So it went on, until, laden with suitcases, beer, scotch and cooler boxes stuffed with scrumptious delights that we would enjoy around the braai fire (BBQ) every night, and with cries of “drive safely!”, “play well”, even “don’t’ come home if you don’t win” ringing in our ears, we set off.
An hour away from home, my mobile rings, it’s my wife:
Wife: “Hey Love ask G where his wallet is.”
I dutifully comply.
G: -who was driving- “In my pocket”
Me: “Love, he says it is in his pocket”
Wife: “Really?? Then why is it on the dining room table in his house?”
A reasonable question I deduce.
Me: “G, how can it be in your pocket and on your dining room table at the same time?”
G: -after some frantic pocket patting and centre console exploring- “F@*K!”
Anybody who has been on a sporting tour knows that discretions of that nature do not go unpunished. Team: 1 G: Nil
After a second outstandingly unsuccessful day, day two of the tournament drew to a close. We enjoyed an after match drink with our victorious opponents and then made our way back to our accommodation where we were going to sit around the pool, light a fire and continue to devour our way through the various cooler boxes. Needless to say, one beer turned into two and two into three, soon P and G were entertaining us with reminders of their heroic plays of the day and tales of herculean feats. Quite how M and I, despite being right there, did not witness even one of these match winning shots, and the fact that the scoreboard told a completely different story, was completely lost in the fervor of the moment.
Yes, we were bonding and, despite being off the field of play, still competing. No blood had been shed, no village burned and we would live to fight another day, but first there were some fines to be paid, least of all for the, since reunited, wallet. We drank, used bad language, passed wind, burped and displayed our masculine prowess in every inappropriate way we could think of.
The wonderful British novelist Iris Murdoch once said: “… male company, sheer complicit male company: the complicity of males which is like, indeed is, a kind of complicity in crime, in chauvinism, in getting away with things, in just gluttonously enjoying the present even if hell is all around.” … and so it was.
…… 6 am
The sound of a phone ringing propels me upwards, through the murky waters of alcohol induced sleep, to the surface where semi consciousness awaits me. I recall the events of the evening and surprise myself by thinking that my wife, and Iris, are correct when they imply men are just big children, but where is that bloody phone? P, my roommate, stirs but I realise it’s my phone, I answer….
Me: …. Mmmmm
G: “D, you awake?”
Me, contemplating my chance of entering a successful insanity plea after murdering my teammate: “It’s 6 am Dude, who died?”
G: “I got a problem, I’m locked in”
Me: “What, you locked out?”
G: “No D, I’m locked in my room!”
Me: “Where is M?”
G: “He’s locked in with me! We can’t find the keys”
Me: ————–
G: “Please find the manager and ask him to come let us out”
Me: “G, I hope your liver in in good shape, because I can see yet another fines meeting in your very near future!”
It is said that being successful at sport is about consistency. If this is true, then we were successful, having consistently underachieved all week and by the end of day five, our tournament was over. We spent our last evening with new and old friends, clinking glasses and promising to meet up again next year. M and I had proceeded to finish every last drop of rum that the club had, which is very surprising seeing that I don’t drink rum, but hey, we were on tour.
It was at that moment, when we had both decided that the club’s stock of scotch was our next target, a beefy man of similar age to us comes up to M and says ‘Hey, I recognise you”
M: “Oh?”
Beefy Man: “Yes, from the army, Special Forces.”
They begin to discuss various units and areas of operations, M mentions names and the guy nods vigourously in agreement. This goes on for a few minutes and the beefy guy eventually moves off.
I turn to M: “I didn’t know you were in Special Forces.”
M: “I wasn’t.”
M continues: “but I’ll tell you what, neither was that guy!”
It was classic M humour, he had sensed the guy was not legit and had set the trap, which Beefy Guy had walked into hook line and sinker. The mirth rose up from deep within me, bursting out in a crescendo of sprayed whiskey and snorting, we laughed till we cried, unashamed tears of joy at just being in the moment and the sheer complicity of it.
It was a fitting end to a week of being big, childish men, and while we hadn’t done as well as we were capable of on the field of play, we went home with a renewed appreciation of the value of bonding with fellow men, and oh, nobody had died, surprisingly.
In a few days we would pick up the trappings of our various respectable jobs, but right then, our glasses were empty and it was my round.
