Fun Stories, great bars, recommendations
Welcome to the Pubs of Rugby Blog
With this blog, I’ll relate rugby stories, places visited and places worth checking out. Not every spot will be a rugby bar, but each one will have a special something that appeals to all of us in the rugby world. Thanks for reading. Enjoy!
Cheers, Dave
A visit to Pamplona, Spain
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1) If you look really hard, I mean really hard you can see my head in the upper left hand corner. It's there, trust me.
2) That's me in the center of the Plaza del Toros. We are the group of three in the middle.
3) The bull run from the balcony. After I ran i watched the run from above. Good I ran first. Watching it, it's over in a minute, when you are on the street, it doesn't go quite so fast.
4) Me next to the bust of Hemingway, his book "The Sun Also Rises" turned a small local party into a worldwide event. I had to at least pay my respects. His bust is just outside the bullring.
The Running of the Bulls, San Fermin Festival, Pamplona Spain, July 12, 2010, and I was there
To Run with the Bulls at the San Fermin Festival in Pamplona, Spain, you have to be in the streets by 6 a.m. There are two ways to do this, get a good or at least a decent night’s sleep beforehand, or just do what it seems more than half the crowd did. Get good and hammered the night before on the “official drink” of the festival, calimocho. For the uninitiated, the drink is, in my humble opinion, a fairly disgusting mix of red wine and coke. Two great taste that hardly go great together. You can tell who’s been at it a while by the red wine stains all over their white clothes. The other tradition is to dress in all white with a red scarf around your neck and a red sash around your waste. For those who this inspires to run, don’t get a sash at home, wait and get one once you get there. Make sure it’s the “official” sash. But I digress… So it’s about 6 a.m. and looking around you can tell who was probably up all night imbibing calimocho and may have actually run before. Those are the guys with heavily stained clothes, a plastic cup in their hands and dirt all over their white pants. Avoid them.
We walked thru the course in reverse. Starting at the Plaza del Toros, we walked down the Estafeta. That is the main street of the bull run. It is medieval in every way. First It was built around then but it’s narrow, no sidewalk, doors open to the street and there are no barriers, it looks old. We got the main square where city hall is. It’s a magnificent old building that is the center of the old part of Pamplona and the place where police amass, dignitaries meet and where all the drunks focus. It’s also uphill from the start of the bull run, which starts in the pen then the bulls run up a narrow street, of which one wall used to be the wall to the old military hospital, rather fitting I must say. We took our place in the madness and waited for the run to start. The cops are quite good at pulling out the stumbling drunks and for some reason they clear the street first, but we were behind them and waited. I was running with two friends, a fellow rugby player and San Fermin veteran, Fran Russell and his son, TJ, who was younger, bigger and faster than both of us. So we got in the massive cauldron of out-all night drunks, runners, veterans, wine soaked fools, and police and awaited the street clearing so we could take our place.
Here Come the Bulls
We picked a spot about halfway through the run. On the Estafeta, just past “the curve.” The route sort of zigs and zags. From the city square, they run to a curve, a large wall they build in the square, that sends them careening to the right, often times sliding on their bull butts and up the Estafeta. By now they are thoroughly pissed off bulls and looking for some payback on the narrow streets. At the top of the street they are corralled into a chute and right into the Plaza del Toros where they await their fate in the afternoon bull fights. Our spot put us just past the curve. Folks that line up early miss most of the run and the guys who start farther down really are running in front of the bulls. The crowd, however, is wise to the early runners and usually boos the guys that run in well ahead of the bulls. We were not in that position.
I admit it, we or at least I, was nervous. Going back to 1924, when they starting keeping track, 15 people have been killed, the last one in 2009. Each year some 300 or so runners are injured, mostly minor bumps and bruises, but gashes and being stomped by a bull hurts, a lot. We were waiting for the start. Was this really the way I wanted to celebrate turning 50? Well I have been talking about it for years, so there was no turning back now. We made some bad jokes, gallows humor and all that. There is some tradition where runners carry a rolled up newspaper. Some say this is to ward off a bull, more on this later. Finally after waiting around, sorta like waiting for your colonoscopy, we were close. We heard it, the first rocket blast to let you know that the bulls around out of the pen. A few start running. “Wait, just wait,” said Fran. A minute later a second blast, now the bulls were out of the pen and in the street. “Hold on,” he said. Now the runners were coming faster. “Ok, let’s run,” Fran said.
With that we were off and running, finally, 35 years after I read “The Sun Also Rises,” thought about it, watched it on TV and talked about it for five years, I was in fact, running with the bulls. Or so I thought. Within less than a minute of the run I turned and saw bulls hauling ass up the street toward me. But so did everyone around me. Fran had warned me, “Don’t get hung up on the side, you have no place to move and you’re a target.” But Fran hadn’t mentioned it to the other runners who pinned me against the wall. My run was over in seconds. But being a rugby player has advantages. I pushed a few guys out of the way and rejoined the run. A guy to my left was face down in the street and I saw a bull trample over him. Not wanting the same fate, I kept running. By now the first group of about three bulls was past me, but I was up and running. Suddenly another swarm of bulls made their way to me, I was still running on the side of the street, guys by me ran around me and past me and swatted the bulls on their hides with their hands and the newspapers. I kept running. After about and hour of running, ok about a minute, the bulls passed me. I caught up to Fran, his son TJ was way ahead of us.
“How did you do,” he asked. “Ok, I got pinned,” I said through some very heavy breathing. “Keep running we need to get into the ring before they close it off,” he said. We jogged up the street and saw the ring, we strolled in and there was TJ already in the ring, camera out. We jogged up to him. We all hugged, slapped each other on the back, high fived and looked around. I have never pitched at Yankee Stadium or run onto the field during a Florida State football game, but that’s what it felt like when you run into the bull ring in Pamplona. We made it, I did it and I was still standing.
Then right behind me I heard more noise and cheers from the crowd as the steers ran into the ring. I forgot about those. They do the sort of mop up work of the run. They make sure all bulls cleared the street and give runners one more chance to avoid a bull. I narrowly avoided a steer, just when I thought I was free and clear. An early wake up call, it turns out. “Now is when they release the baby bulls,” Fran said. After all the bulls and steers were in the ring and then the pen, a crowd gathered in front of a small archway. A minute later a bull, no baby bull, climbed over the bodies and into the ring. Now we were all amateur matadors. The bull ran everywhere. Guys tried to grab them, hit em, swat em, guys got hit by them, stepped on, pushed, shoved, butted, flipped and trampled. “This is where it gets dangerous,” Fran advised. Oh good, I thought, glad the other part was easy. After about 10 minutes, the bull tired, a cow herded the bull back into the pen and we relaxed. Until the next bull.
A way too close encounter with a Bull
Same deal, the bull jumped and climbed over the bodies at the entrance and we tried to avoid the bull. By then I had a strategy, keep the bull’s ass in front of you. If you can see his face, move sideways faster. About halfway through his turn, this bull turned and faced me, I started to sidestep away. Just as he got closer another runner sensing danger, moved and sort of fell in behind me partially using me as a shield, as he ran behind me he sort of pushed my left arm for extra balance, putting me right in front of the bull. About two feet away I am guessing. I looked right into his eyes and he into mine. I didn’t see terror, he no doubt did. Completely forgetting the rolled up newspaper I had to ward him off, instead I turned to run, I made it oh, two steps when I got hit, HARD, damn hard, real hard, harder than any tackle in 29 years of rugby, I got hit and then I was airborne. For you readers who don’t know me, I’m a big guy, 6’-2” and all I will cop to is XL, but I’m not small. Unless you’re a bull, to him I was a runt. I felt myself go up in the air instantly I hit the ground HARD, right on my ass, left side, right near where I had my hip replaced just nine months before. I heard the crowd roar. Hey, that’s for me, I thought, and then I got up faster than I have ever gotten off the ground before. I looked around for the bull. I had seen guys get hit, go down and get hit again. I didn’t wanna be that guy. I was standing, my parts intact. “That was awesome, that was great,” TJ yelled. “Did you see it,” I asked. “What did he hit me with?” TJ grinned, “he tripped you, his head, what did you think? Are you ok? That was great,” he repeated. I was looking for the bull. So how did I look,” I asked. “Cool,” he said, “cool.”
I looked down, I still had the rolled up newspaper in my hand. What a stupid tradition. At the moment I was supposed to use it, I didn’t and I doubt sincerely it would have done me a single bit of good. Hey bull, I hit you first, yeah sure, that would stop a charging bull. I dodged the bull for the rest of his run. I dodged the next bull. I was halfway through the six bull run and I was done. I could feel the pain in my ass and back. I was looking for an exit. I squeezed behind the small wall where real matadors hide from bulls. They have training. I got behind the first wall inside the ring. I put my arms up on the wall and breathed a sigh of relief. A minute later a bull slammed a guy right into the wall. I dodged that bull too, although a wall separated us, it felt close. A guy in front got wedged in the wall by the bull. Another guy tried to climb over, we tried to help him but the bull got his ass first. One guy standing inside the ring said, “Hey you’re the guy that got hit over there,” he pointed to my area of impact. “That was cool.” My first fan. We talked, we dodged bulls. Fran and TJ joined me. We hugged, high fived and congratulated ourselves again. We made it. A few bulls, a few trampled bull runners later, the Running of the Bulls for the day was over.
Raise a glass, I'm a celebrity
We walked out of the tunnel we had just run through and out onto the street. Now I was looking for my wife and daughter. But then my day took a stranger turn. I started to get recognized, really. I was suddenly a one-day, bull running honest to goodness star! A French woman made a sign of bull horns on her head and pointed to my ass. Another woman took my picture. People pointed to me, I waved, they waved. We walked over to the bull runner’s statue. We took pictures, people pointed to me. I waved. I had my picture taken. Someone shook my hand. “Your fans,” Fran asked? “Guess so,” I said.
We took a few more pictures by the Hemingway bust. We walked by the younger guys, some runners, most not, pouring their second calimochos of the day. Eventually found we found a spot in the Plaza del Castillo and raised several glasses. Later we went over to a shop that had pictures of the run, in a few TJ spotted himself clearly running, I had to look harder for myself, but I found one. It’s really me in the upper left hand corner. Just look. I did it and now I have proof. If anyone is thinking about running with the bulls, do it. It’s the most amazing five minutes of your life. That night, we again paid our respects to Hemingway and had a few drinks at the Cafe Iruna, his favorite haunt in Pamplona. We toasted our good luck again. If you ever get to Pamplona, make sure you stop in for a drink or two, it doesn't have to be calimocho. So for my next adventure, I'm thinking of climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro, when I’m 60.
A true Trident
(Gary, Max Martin, Ann, me, your author, Dave Martin)
On May 16th the game of rugby lost one of the best, Gary Zanakis. My captain with the Miami Tridents, Gary was a hard-nosed player, but a true ambassador of the game. He welcomed every new player to the team and with his wife Ann, had an open house policy to ever player. The last time I played with Gary was at a Trident reunion. He had enjoyed his spirits and I feared not quite ready to play rugby. He scored two tries.
He will be missed by friends, family and the Trident family. He was layed out in his Trident jersey, holding a rugby ball and someone managed to slip in a can of beer. Gary will be waiting for us all at the great pitch in the sky.
In the words of Jerry Garcia, "May the four winds blow you safely home."
March, 2010
A visit to a New York City landmark
At Florida State, we called him Spike. His real name is Robert, not Bob, Robert. A great guy and a tough second row, Spike comes from Seneca, S.C. He used to say just write me a letter, address it Spike, Seneca, SC and I’ll get the damn letter. I did and he did, that’s a small town. After college Spike would throw this huge Fourth of July party at his lakefront house. Somehow, Spike got us all to come to from all over the U.S.A. Spike threw a helluva party, the barbecue was always going, bands played, a beer truck was parked on the lawn and a fantastic time was had by all.
Despite his rural roots, Robert is fairly well traveled; he’s been to Europe, skis in Colorado and came to New York regularly to buy clothes for his chain of stores. He has slacked off on the New York trips and we have slacked off on the late night pub crawls we used to do. On a recent visit, we decided to meet up and have a few drinks and a dinner, not too late, Spike said, we both had to get up early. Times sure do change. We met up at O’Brien’s, just off Times Square on West 46th Street, www.obriensnyc.com , which the unofficial home of the New York Rugby Club. We settled in upstairs at the Sin Bin and caught up over a few pints of Guinness. For dinner, I picked P.J. Clarke’s a New York City institution and a piece of New York City dining history. www.pjclarkes.com on East 3rd Avenue at 55th Street.
Frank Sinatra used to have his own table always ready for him. It was one of Jackie Kennedy’s haunts. Buddy Holly proposed to his wife there and Ray Milland nearly drank himself to death there in the film classic, “The Lost Weekend.” If any place might impress an out-of-town visitor, P.J.’s should do it. The fact that actor Tim Hutton is a part owner is just a little bit of icing on the cake.
Chicken Pot Pie
Before you walk in you can tell from the outside you’re going into someplace special. The red brick three story townhouse looks oddly perfect between the modern buildings that have sprung up behind it. You actually feel like you’re stepping back in time as you walk up to the long wooden bar, seemingly unchanged over the past 120 years. Pictures of old sports legends adorn the walls and in the back main dining room the tables are covered in red checker cloth. The menus are written in chalk on the walls and I bet if Ole Blue Eyes walked in today he wouldn’t notice a thing out of place. Spike just looked around and said, “Cool.”
I started with the cream of tomato soup. The dish is just the right mix of thickness, tomato and not too much cream. Nice and warm on a cold night. P.J.’s is famous for many things, including their burgers. I have had them before, nice and thick, juicy, good beef and definitely, the “Cadillac of burgers,” as Nat King Cole pronounced them after having one, but tonight I ordered the chicken pot pie. It came out piping hot. IT’s a classic mix of chicken and vegetables served up in a thick hearty broth. Anyone can make this, but somehow they do it a little better.
This is a perfect “Guy” restaurant. You can easily imagine guys with cigars making deals over plates of freshly shucked oysters back in the 1940’s or Frank holding court at a table over late night burgers. So when in New York, step back in time and taste the real old New York and good luck deciding between the chicken pot pie, the burgers, or the daily special. It’s all great at P.J. Clarke’s.
A Rugby Reunion in Boynton Beach, Fla.
I started my rugby playing career at the Florida State University. After college I lived in Miami before moving up to New York City where I now live. But, through tournaments, weddings and reunions; I manage to get down to Florida pretty regularly and we have all stayed in touch. So it was not unusual for my old team mate and friend Dave Beaumont and I to find ourselves sitting at the bar at the Two Georges Waterfront Grille located on the Intercoastal Waterway in Boynton Beach, Fla. (About a half an hour drive south of West Palm Beach.) The Two Georges is the kind of a place you want to visit when you’re in Florida. Once a former bait shack, it has evolved into a full restaurant. It sits out on the end of a dock, but has tables, a full bar and a full menu. www.twogeorgesrestaurant.com
We had spent the day on the water diving in the amazingly clear reefs and caught five lobsters. By happy hour we were out of Red Stripe beers and found ourselves heading down the Intercoastal toward the Two Georges. We tied up and made our way to the bar.
About one Planter’s Punch into it, Dave and I turned our heads and saw waking through the door an old teammate, also named Dave. It had been years since either of had seen him and about 20 years since the just arriving Dave and I crashed, yes crashed, the other Dave’s wedding. His bride wasn’t pleased. We told folks that didn’t know us we were “Wedding Busters” who attended rugger weddings to try to talk the groom out of it. But if our mission failed, we went to the reception anyway. So where we were, three ex-teammates from about 25 years ago, right back where we started, at the bar.
Pass the crab dip
We caught up, remarked on hair loss, the amount of gray in our hair, and who played last… me. Just arrived Dave’s girlfriend was standing there looking none to pleased to have her romantic dinner on the water invaded by rugby talk and so Dave excused himself for dinner. Just as well, we were running late ourselves and finished up and headed back to the boat. However, Dave was right in our path and instead of leaving, Dave sat next to Dave’s girlfriend. We all realized we were in for a session. Then the waitress stopped by, we ordered a round of Irish whiskey, to toast the old FSU team and then told some old stories. One drink later Dave’s crab dip appetizer arrived, we all tried it, definitely order it, and then another round of Irish whiskey and drinks were ordered.
It was well past time to go, the sun was down to we had to make it back down the Interncoastal in the dark, not a big deal, unless you’re already a few beers and rum drinks into the cocktail hour. As we left, they were getting their dinners, the fresh dolphin entrée, it looked good, but we had freshly caught lobster to prepare.
So if you ever find yourself, either by car or boat near Boynton Beach, head to the Two Georges, the seafood is fresh the mood is Florida beach casual and you never know who you might run into.
