Rugby is often described as organized chaos, and for quite some time I found myself wondering what part of it was organized. You wouldn't think that it would be all that difficult to master the intricacies of a game that at its heart involves beating the crud out of people, but I still often wonder what's going on.

All my teammates will suddenly line up in offensive or defensive posture, and I'll think: "Ooh, that was classy. I wonder how they knew to do that?"

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Then I wait for a teammate to yell at me and tell me where to be. To make them think that I am learning, I try to run around in circles a lot. See, if I'm constantly moving around, it's less obvious that I need to be told where to go. That way, when they yell at me to be at a certain spot on the field, I can knowingly say: "Ah yes, that's where I was headed."

For a while, I wondered if I even had the mental capacity to ever do more on a rugby pitch than try the patience of my teammates. Sport involves a different line of thinking than I am used to, and I have found it to be incredibly humbling.

While I'm not the smartest bloke on the planet, I have never considered myself to be too stupid. I can hold my own in a philosophical or political discussion, I'm good at figuring out how things work, and I can make a little origami basket out of notebook paper, but when they put the rugby ball in my hands on that first day I became the dumbest person to ever breathe without assistance.

When I'm out on the field, I struggle to comprehend what is happening; what my role is in it all, and how I am supposed to react to that situation.

For example, I'll tackle a guy -- just like they taught me in practice -- but then I'll just freeze up.

"What do I do now?" I'll think to myself, staring down at the ball that I have knocked out of my opponent's hands.

"Get the ball!" a teammate will shout.

And that blatantly obvious suggestion will appear in my brain as an entirely novel idea.

"Oh, wow," I'll think. "What a really great idea -- get the ball. I never would have thought of that" -- and I really wouldn't have.

But as my comprehension of the game has slowly increased, my life has deteriorated into the pursuit of just three things.

OK, well, four things -- any male that's breathing is in pursuit of nookie.

But those other things are: food, sleep and painkillers.

All the energy I burn running around in games and practices leaves me constantly hungry, but often too exhausted to eat. Or in too much pain.

Here's a list of the parts of my body that currently hurt: My left toe, my left heel, both ankles, both shins, both calves, both knees, my right lower quadriceps muscle, both hips, my lower back, the left side of my rib cage, both shoulders, my left wrist, my left pinkie, my left ring finger, my neck, and my head.

But by rugby standards, I am "healthy." Indeed, the above list is set to expand because I have just come off a week of rest.

I took that week because my right leg had become intolerably painful -- with knifelike pain shooting through my thigh each time I attempted to do anything more than hobble around. But even then, I was better off than some guys on my team.

During a game against an extraordinarily strong side from Chicago two weeks ago, I had limped out after only one half. Five minutes later, one of our guys dislocated his shoulder.

Fortunately for him, I had thought to steal a roll of gauze bandage from the first aid kit at work just a few days earlier -- it came in real handy as we wrapped him up.

I had also thought about stealing the "bodily fluid disposal kit," but I don't want to use that.

Then, just 10 minutes later, we had another man down, with a dislocated knee.

We had already burned up our only first aid item and while a few guys carted the poor bloke off the pitch so that play could resume, my team captain and I searched frantically for some sort of item that might be beneficial -- a bandage roll, a knee brace, something to fashion a splint out of, duct tape, maybe a bit of rope or some string.

While we searched, the injured player was propped up in a lawn chair (why go to the hospital when you could watch the rest of the game?).

"I think he needs some whiskey," somebody said.

Instantly, no less than three flasks of the stuff were produced, along with a bottle of beer for the guy with a dislocated shoulder.

Booze: it's the only first aid you need.

Despite its Civil War-like approach to medical care, I stick with the game. I still don't really have an idea as to why.

I don't particularly enjoy the running, I don't particularly enjoy the hitting and I'm particularly not good at either. Indeed, "not good" would describe all aspects of my game. Yet, I show up every week, and find myself strangely looking forward to it.

I wish I could put my finger on what it is that consumes me so much about rugby. I suppose that part of it is that desire to get my mind around athletic thinking, hoping that it will offer up some sort of epiphanous experience and greater awareness of myself and the world around me.

Although, it's quite possible that it won't. David Blaine has almost completed his "sitting in a box and being hungry" stunt, and I wonder how much he has learned.

"This is my exploration and new discovery of how strong we all are in mind, body and spirit," he said.

But I wonder if the only thing he's actually learned is that it really, really, really sucks to be hungry -- something most of us don't need 44 days to figure out. Rather than a greater appreciation of the universe, he'll be left only with a greater appreciation of KFC.

That's not to say that rugby hasn't been a learning experience for me.

They say "there's no 'I' in team," but there is that "eeeee" sound, which, I have learned, is the same sort sound I am inclined to make when a big guy is running straight at me -- only I make a sort of high pitched: "Eeeeeeeeeeee!"

I make these sounds, too: