The banquet room of Mama's Italian Restaurant, in case you haven't been there, is distinguished by a lifelike mural of a Mediterranean bay taking up the entire back wall. A protective railing, keeping the incautious from falling from the cliff, terminates at the bar. For the occasion, a reflective sign which read "Happy New Year" was hung, as if by magic, from a passing cloud.

Suburbans began arriving and gathered for casual chat at around 7:30, when pizza and appetizers were served. My wife, who is half Italian and a superlative cook (and who regularly makes her own pizza from scratch), declared the pizza delicious.

After a half hour or so, Kevin Corry, El Jefe, rhetorically rang the dinner bell by announcing that it was time to eat. (He calls himself this and sometimes "El Presidente." I tried to get him to adopt the style and title of "El Supremo," which I think is much more magnificent and suitable, but he declined.)

The food was also very good, and the forwards were invited for second and third helpings. (Okay, nobody really invited us. We just went up and took them.) I embarrassed my poor bride by returning to the buffet with my dirty plate, indicating that while I may be a fledgling player, my lack of couth suggests a great career as a rugger (a sport where the niceties are optional).

El Supremo, that is, El Jefe, rose to make the annual awards as follows:

1998 Western Suburbs Awards pour le Merit
Best A-Side Forward: Brian George
Best A-Side Back: Chuck Coleman
Best B-Side Forward: Nels Erickson
Best B-Side Back: Scott Bacon
Most Valuable Player: Matt Clark
Coaches' Award for Forward: Tom Loesel
Coaches' Award for Back: Jeremy Cecil
Most Improved: Wes Clark (!)
President's Award: Matt Clark (This one came with a fifth of whiskey!)

In keeping with the spirit of rugby, special awards were also made as follows:

To Sean Page, a hearty, strapping fellow who always shows up to practice wearing little bootie socklets of the type my daughters wear, a pair of proper rugby socks. (Besides, his legs aren't all that much to look at.)

To Jeff "Stax" Carrington, who always seems to require tape, earwigs or some sort of headwear to keep his ears from getting ripped off during play - an earwig.

And for being a mentor, teacher, friend and soulmate, Kelly Watkins received a big framed rugby picture. (To this I add a hearty personal "amen.")

Driving back home I asked my wife Cari what she thought of the Western Suburbs RFC. Her comment was "I was suprised to find an eclectic mix of urban sophisitication and wit that is seemingly at odds with the hurly-burly, two-fisted sport. Mr. Watkins, while sporting a goatee and shaved head that suggested a Manson cultist, offset this impression with the tweed coat and turtleneck of the academic; his apres-dining chat was informed and entertaining. Mr. Panigot assumed a becoming, understated presence, and Mr. and Mrs. Bunch, with whom we sat, were lively and vibrant socialites. It is clear that the organization is well led with Mr. Corry at the helm. Overall, I was quite impressed with the evening save for the fact that you returned to the buffet table with a dirty plate. Please do not repeat this performance in the future."

I had a great time despite the fact that Steve McNair and Art Steffen tried to convince me that the best forward position is flanker. Not a bit of it; it's lock forward for me. Where else can one be a major player in the scrum - the most noble of all sports activities - and never have to touch the ball?

By the way, I counted 30 players and about 7 or 8 wives and girlfriends - a pretty good show.

The slip of paper in my fortune cookie earlier in the day read "Keep your butt down in the scrum."

I remain your obedient servant,

Wes Clark

p.s. It really didn't.