Blog: Learning to Love America through 'Sport'

Meeting the rugby team was a life-changing experience when we first moved from London to Chicago. My husband had played rugby for years in England (as had I) and was anxious to find a club in Chicago as quickly as possible. Before we left London, he found a couple of numbers on the Internet and called them soon after we arrived.

Within hours, his phone messages had been returned and he was set up to train and play his first game the following weekend! It didn’t take long before we were welcomed into this new family with open arms.

Not only were the Chicago Griffins one of the top clubs in the country, they were one of the most social, too. In a matter of weeks, we had gone from not knowing anyone to being in the middle of all kinds of exciting events.

We got up at the crack of dawn one Saturday to watch an international rugby game in a bar owned by one of the players (back home pubs don't open until 11 a.m. so sipping on a cocktail at 6:30 a.m. was sheer decadence!). And we spent Thanksgiving with one of the team veterans, who generously and enthusiastically welcomed all of the ex-pat "orphans" to his home for the occasion.

At the time, I was still a bit vague on what Thanksgiving was (they don’t teach American history in English schools), but I had no problem getting into the spirit of things. A whole day spent eating, drinking and watching sport with a bunch of Australians, Irish, English, South Africans and New Zealanders, as well as Americans -- what was there not to like?

Equally exciting was Jimmy O’s infamous annual "Drink The Tree" party before Christmas. The holiday tree is decorated with miniature bottles of liquor and enthusiastically undecorated by the invited guests. Effortlessly, our respective cultures had been thrown together and united under the banner of sport. Well, that and drinking of course, but mainly sport!

On that note, it wasn’t long before I realized I was utterly clueless when it came to understanding American sports.

To me, football involved a foot and a ball with a net and a goalie, not huge blokes in helmets and pads chasing each other around the field, seemingly trying to kill each other. Basketball and ice hockey were also confusing. I’d gone through high school playing netball (kind of similar to the former) and field hockey (a less slippery version of the latter), but it wasn’t until we arrived in Chicago that I even learned you could play hockey on ice.

Our first Soldier Field experience was mind boggling. A huge collection of rabid fans all rooting for the same team was something I could identify with. The frigid Chicago-style weather, however, was a different story. To say people were wrapped up is an understatement. We didn’t even own enough warm clothes to have been prepared for the four freezing hours it took to complete the game.

Being up close to the enormous Bears players was another eye opener. I had always thought of American football players as rugby players with pads, but I quickly realized my mistake upon seeing them in the flesh. The big ones were like several rugby players molded into one, and when I saw what they were capable of doing on the field, I instantly developed a new respect for the game.

Just as I was wondering how it was possible for anyone so large to participate in a contact sport for such a long time without collapsing, the whistle blew and everyone stopped for a rest. Ten seconds later, the whistle blew again. And again! And again! I was starting to understand how a 60-minute game could take four whole hours to complete.

Several times the game stopped dead, for no apparent reason, almost as if the power had gone out. The first time it happened, I looked at my husband for an explanation and he smiled knowingly. “Commercial break,” he said, and pointed to a light in front of us.

As surprised as I had been by the sudden stoppages, I was equally amazed at how, out of nowhere, the game would suddenly be back on. Within seconds, the players were in position, the referees were ready to go and the atmosphere in the stadium was once again electric! I had absolutely nothing from my past life to compare this to.

Standing in the crowd at the United Center waiting for the Blackhawks to start their game was another experience I will never forget. The excited fans were living it up before the players even hit the ice and there was loud music, blaring horns and an enormous four-sided television high above the rink continuously picking out audience members in order to capture their reactions when they realized they were being broadcast live.

Sipping on a drink and wondering why the vendors kept shouting about male reproductive parts (it was a while before we realized they were selling "peanuts"), I remember feeling suitably awed when the lights went down and the players skated out to glorious roars from the crowd.

"Talk about full blown passion," I whispered to my husband, who had grabbed my hand in excitement. It wasn’t until the National Anthem began, however, that I had my first taste of what American passion is all about.

Instantly and as one, the crowd -- in a state of wild hysteria just moments earlier -- stood, removed their hats and turned to face the flag. To stun such an excitable crowd into silence showed a level of respect I had ever experienced before.

That’s not to say we aren't passionate when we come together as a nation at home to sing -- we are -- but with this there was a difference I couldn’t explain. As the woman singing hit the chorus, the crowd started cheering and whistling. You'd think this would detract from the sound, but somehow it managed to enhance it.

It was profoundly moving. Before I knew it, I had tears streaming down my face and the respect I had for this country and its people was enormous. The experience made a deep and lasting impression.

I had no way of knowing then that, just three years later, I would find myself living in with my three American children. But there was one thing I was sure of at that moment: This was a place where I really wanted to stay.