Daughters and Rugby

Isabelle has discovered rugby. This is something her rugby-mad father is extremely pleased about as he now has someone to watch the week's recorded matches with at weekends. Over the years he has tried to turn me into a rugby groupie, but to his frustration the level of my interest tends to be directly proportionate to the ease of the players on the eye rather than how well they play. On this basis, France is always worth a watch, Wales rarely so and New Zealand has been disappointing since Dan Carter got injured.

Isabelle, however, seems genuinely keen on the game. Her interest was piqued a few weeks ago when she played for Ian's office team in a touch rugby tournament at the Bahrain Rugby Club. Any tries by women or children scored double points, so she was forcibly enlisted to maximise their chances. It worked: she scored a fabulous try.

The next day she signed up for the touch rugby club at school and last week took part in a skills day for kids at the rugby club hosted by Jason Robinson, the English former international rugby union and league player. I went along to watch because, as these photos testify, Jason still looks bloody good in a pair of rugby shorts. The day was brilliantly organised. Jason gave the kids some personal coaching, they had a go in a specially constructed skills zone and each came away with a signed rugby ball.

The rugby ball now has pride of place in Isabelle's room. Perhaps it marks the beginning of an illustrious touch rugby career, or maybe just the start of an armchair rugby career. Either way, her father will be happy.

All in a good cause - possibly

About a year ago, two employees of Ian's company were shot dead while working in Afganistan. Last weekend, the company organised a fund-raising rugby match at the Bahrain Rugby Club in their memory.

Now rugby is Ian's sport. He loves it and watches whenever he can. It doesn't seem to matter who is playing and in which league or competition or indeed which code - union or league, both will do. The only reason we pay a flogging fortune for a gazillion satellite channels of utter rubbish is so he can savour the two sports channels which show the rugby.

Many years ago he used to play too, starting off as a flanker when a young lad and progressing to hooker as the years and kilos took their toll. He last played about 15 years ago; a memorable match in which he dislocated his shoulder.

So it was with some trepidation that he signed up for the charity match squad, but peer pressure is a powerful thing and I have to admit I too was keen for him to have a go and enjoy a game again. I dutifully sourced boots and a mouthguard and was to be found in the stands among the keen rugby groupies last Thursday night.

He spent the first half on the bench, running through tactics and limbering up for his second half guest appearance. As the half time whistle blew, I was gasping for a drink. I trotted off to get two wines for my friend and me and upon returning discovered the second half was already in progress.

"Ian's on - quick!" yelled my friend. Sloshing wine as I went, I hotfooted it back to my seat and frantically surveyed the pitch for my rugby hero. Where was he?

"He's not the guy on the ground, is he?" I asked her nervously. We both peered. Yup, it was definitely him. Out cold.

"What happened?" I demanded.

"I've no idea, I wasn't watching," she admitted. Well, that made two of us.

The medic came on and he was hauled off the pitch by two of his team mates. I rushed to his side (as a good wife should).

"He was tackled from behind, knocked out and then had his head rammed into the ground by four guys jumping on top of him," summarised the medic. "Oh, and he's concussed. Listen!" she continued and to prove her diagnosis asked him, "What's your name, love?"

One of Ian's Indian colleagues, who was clearly baffled by why anyone would want to partake in such a dangerous sport and was very concerned for his boss's wellbeing yelled, "Ian! His name's Ian!"

Once said colleague had been muffled, the questions continued. We discovered Ian didn't know what had happened, had no idea what day it was and was showing alarming concern for the whereabouts of his mouthguard. I timed it: he asked for his mouthguard five times in as many minutes and there was no calming him. If only he would show such concern for me now and again.

So it was off to hospital for us and off to the bar for his team mates. As these things are in a rugby club bar, the accident was relived, analysed and exaggerated beyond belief. Ian is now a DHL rugby legend. But he's never being allowed to set foot on the pitch again.