Gay "ruggers" get respect in bruising sport

On the grimacing face of it, rugby wouldn't seem like something you just dive into, not with a reputation as one of the most physical of team sports. But members of the Seattle Quake have done basically that.

After years of lopsided losses, missed tackles and heated comments, the team finally defeated a division rival in April, making it clear it was done serving as the league's Division III doormat. Tomorrow, that victory will be on the minds of team members as they march for the third time in Seattle's Gay Pride Parade.

When the Pacific Northwest Rugby Football Union welcomed them to its fold three years ago, the Quake's lack of rugby experience set other squads on edge. But for some individuals on those teams, there was something else — the fact that most Quake players were gay.

In a sport whose battles are fought in testosterone trenches where trash-talking often targets others' masculinity, "there were individuals out there who didn't appreciate who we were," says Quake player George Zeno. "They took their shots when they had the opportunity."

"There was definitely that stigma from (other players) and from clubs as a whole," says Dan Smith of division rival Budd Bay, a predominantly straight team in Olympia. "They didn't want to give them too much respect: 'Come on, man, this is a gay team.' Saying they weren't as good as everyone else."

The Quake has defused misunderstanding with a common love of the game, and its progress on the pitch has shown that a team can build "ruggers" from scratch and play with anyone, gay or straight. That's what team founders had set out to prove — that people who aren't typically exposed to rugby's world of mauls and scrums can be coached to win.

"If (traditional) teams were the kinds of spaces that would attract gay men and people of color to play the game in the first place, the Quake wouldn't exist," says team member Derrick Mickle, co-founder of a pioneering gay rugby team, the San Francisco Fog.

"It takes a certain level of self-confidence (for them) to take up a game they know nothing about," he adds. "That's particularly true for a gay person, because let's be frank, you're dealing with a lot of guys who were last to be picked for the team in grade school... . But if you give them the opportunity to be around people who are just like them, their face lights up. We're tapping a whole new segment of people who never would have thought of playing."

Now, the Quake might well be top seed heading into next year's championship tournament of the International Gay Rugby Association & Board. But measuring up to their mostly straight Pacific Northwest union foes is what fuels their mission, and at times, the learning curve appears to have gone both ways.

"We may have educated some folks," says Zeno, a fund-raiser for the University of Washington's diversity efforts. "... They were as ignorant of our orientation as we were of rugby. We're all learning, in a way."

No babies allowed

Rugby's scrum is like a jump ball, monster-truck style. It's to people what hash browns are to potatoes — a thicket of scowls, cleats, socks and striped jerseys. At Seattle's Volunteer Park, two dozen Quake players break into two squads and huddle into face-off formation, chain-linking themselves through each other with feet firmly on the ground, ready to push.

"Wait, wait," comes a mumble from the mishmash.

"Ow!"

"Oh, sorry."

When the ref says, "Engage," the war is on. As one player describes it, rugby is "the fitness of soccer with the violence of football," only without the padding or constant timeouts.

"You can't have any babies on your team," affirms former teammate Ning Aguon, who now plays for Budd Bay. "Mouth guards are optional. Health insurance is also recommended. You could break a clavicle. Anything could happen."

You'd think this might persuade novice Quake players to focus on their jobs as social workers, property managers and technology executives, but instead they've come to love a camaraderie-filled, British-born game nearly two centuries old.

With the union's spring season over, the Quake's weekly, tackle-free practices are a good way to pick up new recruits, like the guy out there tonight running pell-mell in an orange shirt. Minutes later, he stands victoriously in the end zone having scored a "try," though he has to be reminded to touch the ball to ground to make it count.

With no Division III teams in Seattle, the Pacific Northwest union, whose three divisions reach from Bellingham to Eugene, added the Quake to its schedule in 2002. It wasn't easy at first: Other teams regularly fielded former high-school football players and replenished their ranks with college ruggers. The Quake was operating from tabula rasa.

The results were hideous: In that first year, the squad lost games by scores of 83-0, 110-0 and 116-0. Players didn't even score until the 2003 season. Gradually, the margins shrank.

"Rugby is a full-contact sport, and their biggest thing was, they didn't like to tackle," says Dan Santana, another (straight) Budd Bay player. "... All you had to do was give them a little stiff-arm and that was it. They've come a long way."

In February, the Quake edged the University of Puget Sound for its first win over a non-gay league team, albeit a collegiate one. Then came April's 22-0 division trouncing of Peninsula.

"That day, we told ourselves, we're going to win this match," says Quake co-founder Wade Henderson, a 33-year-old sales-account manager. "All cylinders were firing. They didn't go down easily, but I think they knew they were outmatched."

While emotions on the pitch may run high, it's all about post-game camaraderie. Host teams in the Pacific Northwest union sponsor socials after each match; for some Quake opponents, it's the first time they've ever been to gay bars. "We've earned respect over the years," says UW's Zeno. "They look at us as rugby players. Plus, they know we throw the best parties."

Inspired by the Fog

Gay rugby has grown to nearly 30 teams worldwide, from here to Sydney to Buenos Aires. The Bingham Cup, launched in 2002 and held every two years, is the International Gay Rugby Association & Board's championship tournament. San Francisco is the two-time defending champ.

The Cup memorializes Mark Bingham, a San Francisco executive believed to be among those who defied Sept. 11 hijackers aboard United Flight 93, prompting a crash far short of an intended site in Washington, D.C.

A few weeks earlier, Bingham had e-mailed fellow Fog teammates, thrilled that the team had been granted permanent membership in the Northern California rugby union — "a huge step forward," he wrote.

That meant, he wrote, that he and his teammates had the chance to be role models for other gays who never felt good or strong enough to play sports. "More importantly, we have the chance to show the other teams in the league that we are as good as they are... . Gay men weren't always wallflowers waiting on the sideline... . (They) were around all along — on their Little League teams, in their classes, being their friends."

It was the Fog's success and outreach to "underrepresented" communities that inspired the Quake to life. In May, the Quake hosted its second gay association tournament, dubbed "Magnitude 15.0," and featuring six West Coast teams.

In a thrilling final, the Quake bested the two-time defending champ Fog in overtime, 10-5. Says Mickle: "I think that tells you how far we've come." But what players also hope to say is that while gay athletes have always been part of sport, it's a bonus if the Quake can keep opening minds.

"The perception we want to change most is that of gay people themselves and what they can do physically," Mickle says. "That's more important to me than what happens with our opponents."

Marc Ramirez: 206-464-8102 or mramirez@seattletimes.com