Someone may be laughing, but for how long?

By Rick Nelson

Some prophet I am. When Donald Trump announced his bid for presidency last year, I broke out in a spontaneous laugh of disbelief. He's completely untrained for the job, I thought to myself.

Who's laughing now?

Right.

I still believe he's completely unsuited for the presidency. A majority of voters seem to agree, but with our nation's 19th century electoral system, it doesn't matter: He'll be our president.

I've always said the voters deserve the people they elect; the trouble is that the people who voted against a candidate pay the price, too.

Stepping into the role of a prophet again, I wonder if our nation's future won't be like the first time I played rugby.

As a teenager, I saw rugby on ABC's Wide World of Sports and thought it looked like a lot of fun. When I headed off to college, I joined the soccer club and was well into that program before I discovered the college had a rugby club. I stuck with soccer in my 20's, but in my 30's, I met some fellows from Portland who, upon learning my interest in rugby, invited me down to play in a JV game. I was still athletic at the time; I had an understanding how the game was played; I had read the rules and had an understanding of what to do, so I joined the fun even though I had never trained in the sport.

The warmup before the match was in itself a good long workout. Then we went out on the pitch to play. The Portlanders--they were funny guys; let's call them Jesters--asked what position I played; I replied I had never played before; they looked at each other and said I should play tight head prop. That is one of the forwards who takes one of the front row positions when there's a minor infringement and the forwards form a pack of three lines each and try to push each other off the ball in what's called a scrum.

We lined up for the opening kick off, and suddenly I asked myself, "What have you gotten yourself into?" The opposing team's kicker (they were the Portland Pigs) looked at me and kicked the ball to me. I watched the ball coming toward me and stepped aside so it could go into the hands of a player who knew what to do with it, and the game began.

There was a lot of running around, tackles, piles of players and whatnot. I even made a tackle, and the players piled over me and the ball carrier, trying to push the other team off the ball.

And then there was a minor infringement and the first scrum. I looped my arm around the hooker (the player in the middle of the front row); we looked our opposing front row in the eyes and engaged, that is, we stood about an arm's length apart, bent so that our backs were horizontal, and smashed into each other. It felt like my shoulders went in and out of joint. I collapsed and the scrum went down. We lined up again, and the same thing happened. The third time was a charm; I concentrated on keeping my back straight, made a spirit yell, and away we went.

At the end of the match, my shoulders wouldn't work. Muscles were torn, and the joints were out of commission for the moment. I learned what happens when you can't move your arms. I could only raise my hands at the elbows. I couldn't sleep lying down for a couple of months. Basic grooming was a challenge, if you know what I mean, and I think you do.

And that's what happens when you think you know the rules and have an understanding of what to do even though you've never trained in a particular activity. I sure hope that's not what happens to our country and the rest of the free world at the start of The Trump Administration.

Back to rugby. Of course, I was hooked. When I could start to move my arms, I resumed training. I adopted a workout much more rigorous than what I had done before, and when I showed up for the following season, I held my own. With my inexperience, I made a few mistakes, but my teammates were happy to advise me with loud shouts, and the experience turned out to be fun.

I just wouldn't recommend that kind of regimen for the leader of the free world.