The West Chester leaper seems to have control of the ball in this photo, which he did -- momentarily. But in truth, as courageously as the Chester County college boys fought for 80 minutes against their Eastern Pennsylvania Rugby Union rivals, they were no match for the rugby juggernaut from the Berks County town with the funny name. (Kutztown. . .I can almost hear Beavis and Butthead laughing, "Heh, heh. Heh, heh. He said Kutz!").

Kutztown swallowed West Chester whole, scoring a dozen tries and conceding none, on its way to a 74-0 shutout. The Kutztown B side nearly equalled that triumph against the West Chester seconds, scoring more than 60 points while allowing none. All and all a formidable showing by a college side representing the very toughest ethnic group ever to settle in this commonwealth -- the Pennsylvania Dutch. To give you an idea of the difference between the maurauding spirit of the rugby club, sprinkled with foreign-born students, that represents the university and the town from whence it takes its name, consider the hometown cheer that once echoed at football games played by Kutztown High School:

"Ring Baloney Once! Ring Baloney Twice! Hey, Yah, Kutztown Sure Is Nice."

Kutztown University Rugby Club isn't nice. They get ther not-niceness from their coach, Dr. Gregg Jones, who was never accused of being a nice rugby player, or for that matter, a nice human being. The word "nice" fits Jones the way the word "brassiere" fits a Humvee. Nevertheless, several of his surviving teammates from Whitemarsh Rugby Club came out to support Dr. Jones (he's not a real doctor, but he plays one everyday in his chiropractic offices). There was Shakey, and Wolfie, and Jimbo, and El Mike-o, and Chicken George and a few other guys with real names, who all played together during a glorious time to be rugby teammates on a team called Whitemarsh.

Today, the spirit of Whitemarsh Rugby is but a distant blip on the radar of a lifetime . Two, three decades have passed since last we bled and frolicked in earnest together. But, oh, the times we had. What stories! What feats of madness! What magnificent nonsense! And all the while we played the game of rugby football with all our hearts and cartilage. living relatively normal lives with jobs and families during the week, and then risking it all -- ridiculously. . .irresistably -- weekend after weekend, year after year. For what?

What was it all about? Who were we, really? Why am I asking these questions?

Well, sir, there was a young writer who took notes during the highwater days of Whitemarsh Rugby Club from the mid-70's into the early-80's before Whitemarsh merged with Philadelphia Rugby Club. This writer wrote weekly reports to his teammates filled with passion, sarcasam, truth and self deprication. There was nothing he'd say about a teammate that he wouldn't say about himself. If you must give him a name, call him the Tin Man.

I, I mean, the Tin Man wrote a weekly newsletter for the club called the Whitemarsh Lineout. He would write game reports, party reviews, criticism, gossip and pep talks. For instance, after a road trip by bus to play Providence Rugby Club in Rhode Island, the Tin Man wrote on Oct. 27, 1975:

"It was, by most accounts, the sweetest victory of the season. Sweeter than the Lehigh Valley Tournament championship, sweeter than any other match we will play this season. Why? What could a slim 7-4 win over a team we've only played once before be so fine? Could it have been the field conditions, the incessant rain that flooded the pitch for the entire first half and most of the second. Could it have been because we won this game with a side that was almost half-and-half A and B side players against a strong Providence club on their home field? Could it have been the way we won it -- coming back from an 0-4 hole with five minutes renaing to tie the score, and then go on to win, ending the match with a furious goal-line stand? It was magnificent, Whitemasrh, and I'm sorry for the players who weren't there to witness it."

That same Lineout continued:

"As for the party. . .well, the Whitemarsh Travelling Road Show and Gynecological Institute has never been in better form. Providence put us up for what was probably the best spread we had ever seen (roast beef, ham, macaroni salad, potato salad, salad salad and more). We repaid them by putting on a vintage performance. Providence is obviously a team that doesn't sing that much anymore, but our enthusiams was infectious. Cock Robin, Rodine's School, Twelve Days of Christmas, Allouette, Let Me Lick Your Vulva, Old McDonald were all great. I was standing in front of one guy from Providence who shook his head in disdain when the singing began, figuring, "Here goes the same old shit again." But when we had finished, and were being applauded by Providence as we left, I heard him say to a friend, "That team really has its shit together." And we do. Even better than the party was the epic songfest on the bus on the way home. Never have so many had so much fun singing off key for so long. It was a good four hours before the singing exhausted itself (not to mention six cases of beer and several bottles of wine.). The bus finally stumbled in to Gustine Lake around 3:30 a.m. -- almost a 24 hour odyssey."

That's what I'm talking about -- OLD SCHOOL RUGBY. And those of us who were there to enjoy it. . .to live it. . .to make it. We few. We happy few. We band of brothers. . . We are about to be blackmailed by the Tin Man who threatens to publish excerpts from the Whitemarsh Lineout -- NAMING NAMES! This could ruin marriages, or worse, turn brother againts brother ("How come YOU keep getting your name in LINEOUT!?") but that is the risk, the madness, that the Tin Man is willing to unleash unless his demands are met.

His demands are simple: Dime out your brother ruggers, even the ones who aren't actual siblings. Request favorite Lineout stories featuring your exploits, or offer cash payment to have them stifled. The choice is up to you. Just remember, there's nothing that can be done to the Tin Man that you haven't done already. He lived beyond pain, beyond fear, beyond trashcans over his head.

But not beyond memory!