I can’t believe my luck. My return to rugby has come rather suddenly and rapidly to the fore. Regrettably it is at the ground that - if I did believe in jinxes - and I don’t - has jinxed me, and if I did believe in curses - and I don’t - would curse me, and if I did believe in superstitions - and I sometimes do - is as superstitious as it gets.

The clusterf-ck of all clusterf-cks, H.G Smith reserve. The day of my 40th birthday where I nearly snotted Jim Roy at half time and it took Matt King to save me from myself and a beating I’d still be remembering today. Jim Roy. J.A.Roy my mate from Newport Wales- now Flemington Jim Roy. You wouldn’t credit or believe it today, but I was there and it did happen.

The day 12 months later where I nearly snotted Tommy Gunn and my cousin Warren watched the barney. The same day I gave Elvis (the player and captain that day who mimes the musician) the bird. The ground some 12 months after that where I really was in no condition to play a game of rugby, drive a motor vehicle or indeed hold a coherent conversation. The ground some 12 months after that where I just couldn’t be arsed showing up.

H.G.Smith reserve. And come tomorrow (oh my God! Tomorrow?!?) I’m going to be back at H.G.Smith playing for not my rugby club but the rugby kit of the club I hate with more passion than Quins. Effing Melbourne University Rugby Club, the home of that shitty annoying Irish prop I nearly snotted in 2006. The home of that tighthead prop who made me his bitch in 2005. The ground where there has never ever been a good memory. The club that shares the name with my Alma Mater, the place where I won the best lecturer award in the department eleven years out of twelve. Why not Box Hill? It’s the unfinished business of my rugby career. I’ve never played at Box HIll. Why not Romanis? Why not Powerhouse or the Quins ground? Why oh why H.G.Smith reserve?

Will this be redemption for transgressions old and some relatively new? Will this be more fuel for a funeral pyre of bad memories & moments? Will this be the one game too many that rugby players are cursed to retell in their old age? Or could this be Karma?

Who knows, I’ll dust off the rugby boots tomorrow, and find the mouthguard (aka gum shield) in the sock drawer. F-cking H.G.Smith reserve is as good as place as any to find redemption and start the conclusion of unfinished business with the MRUFC and me.