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For a country that gave rugby its oldest trophy, the Calcutta Cup, that does seem strange…until you start digging into the history. And that history is coloured white.More about the interesting backstory to the Calcutta Cup in a moment, but first let’s look at why rugby never became popular in India, when other British sports like cricket and soccer did.1. It was off-limits to Indians.The first ever organized rugby match in India was played on Christmas Day 1872, after a few alumni of Rugby and some Englishmen who lived in India decided to arrange a game. The English made up one team; the Scots, Irish and Welsh banded together to form the other.The game was so successful that a rematch was held a week later, and shortly after, the players decided to form the Calcutta Football Club. If you thought the “Football” in the club name referred to soccer, think again. It was about rugby football. (The club would reinvent itself as a soccer club 12 years later).The Calcutta FC had 137 members at the outset, all British. The club’s rugby fixture list revealed just why the sport was so elitist in India: Calcutta FC vs Calcutta Volunteers. Calcutta FC vs The Military. Public Schools vs The Rest. Scottish and Irish vs England and Wales. Merchants and Brokers vs The Rest.All players overwhelmingly white.​​This illustration of Europeans playing rugby in Calcutta appeared in The Illustrated London News in 1874. Note the lack of Indians and the round (rather than oval) ball. The dragons on the shirts of one team’s players seem to indicate they are Welsh. (Public domain image)Meanwhile rugby was taken up at a few other clubs, including Bombay Gymkhana and later Madras Gymkhana. Again, the players were all white. Bombay Gymkhana, formed in 1875, notoriously had a sign that read “Dogs and Indians Not Allowed.” (Even Ranjitsinghji, a prince and later a Test cricketer, was barred in the club’s later years). Madras Gymkhana, formed in 1884, was only slightly better—blue-blooded members of the Indian gentry were permitted, but the rest were mostly Garrison members or British executives.Since games were not only played exclusively by whites, but also mostly at venues that were off-limits to Indian spectators, there was little chance that the sport was going to become popular with the locals.2. It wasn’t terribly popular with most British in India.While rugby might have been followed by the British, there weren’t too many who were keen on actually playing it. Rugby is a contact sport and a physically taxing one—far more so than cricket or football (soccer). India’s hot, humid climate combined with the paucity of good grounds to play on meant that the colonists themselves didn’t take up the game in large numbers.Fixtures would mostly be arranged for the early mornings or late evenings (because of the hot weather), further limiting the availability of players. While inter-club games would continue to be held until India’s Independence, the number of clubs that actually participated were limited.Meanwhile the place where it all started, the Calcutta FC, suffered an early demise as a rugby club, only a few years after it was inaugurated. When the club was formed, one of the perks of membership was a free bar for all members. Two years later, the club decided to stop the free bar, and several members quit as a result. The steep drop in membership led to fewer games being played, both within the club and against other opponents.Officers began teaching the game to lower ranks in an attempt to shore up the numbers, but by 1877 there were so few members that they struggled to even get a team together. Finally, a decision was made to abandon the rugby club, which allows us to segue nicely into…The story of the Calcutta CupThe Calcutta FC had about £60 left when it disbanded, and members had to decide on what to do with the money. A special meeting was called, and suggestions ranged from a gymkhana and dance to a formal dinner for all.Then G.A.J. Romney, who was the club’s captain, secretary and treasurer, proposed that they do something tangible with the money that would be remembered in history. Three years previously, the Calcutta FC had become a member of the game’s governing body, the Rugby Football Union in London. Romney suggested they commission a cup of Indian workmanship which they would donate to the RFU, to be used for a similar tournament as the FA Cup.The members agreed. The money was withdrawn from the bank in Silver Rupees, and was melted down by Indian artisans who turned it into the trophy known today as the Calcutta Cup. England and Scotland compete annually for the cup, which is the oldest trophy in rugby anywhere in the world.​The Calcutta CupReferences:A Short History of the Origin of Rugby Football Soccer in South Asia: Empire, Nation, DiasporaHistory of the Game in India

He was a young Mexican man, just a kid really, nineteen years old and in the prime of life. He had come to the United States, running across the desert like a lot of guys his age, found a job, worked hard and had begun to achieve the American dream. He made enough money to send some home to his parents in some little town in Mexico every month and he had Sundays off so he could enjoy a game of soccer in the park. What more could a guy want? And there he was, not a care, not a worry. A perfect day. When it happened he wasn’t even moving, just standing there at the goal waiting for the ball. Then he went down. Brain aneurysm.Nobody knows for sure why aneurysms happen. They just do. Nature’s little time bomb, just waiting to explode. On that sunny Sunday when it seemed like nothing could go wrong, the young man’s life began to end as the part of his brain that made him be the guy his friends knew faded away. When we checked his pupils we saw they didn’t respond, they remained large and unchanged. His friends found it hard to understand. He had just been standing there and then, so fast, he was gone. It was too nice a day for that to happen. He hadn’t done anything wrong. He was just standing there.The first night in the hospital was terrible for everyone. The friends had all shown up with high hopes that sophisticated American doctors could save him. They didn’t have any idea as to what the outcome to this tragedy could be and we were too aware of what it would. For almost all intents and purposes, the young man had already died, yet he looked so peaceful. He just looked asleep. But his brain was dead.We had two good reasons to use all of our high tech machines to keep the rest of him alive. Both, in my opinion, very good reasons. It is in the best interests of the family to have a body to embrace and say good-bye to. There is a need for closure, especially when there has been a separation of time and space between loved ones.The second good reason we had to keep the patient alive was that he was the perfect organ donor. From the neck down, he was only nineteen years old and everything worked perfectly. Only his head was hurt and we couldn’t do anything about that. But if everything went well we could save his organs and give them to someone else.If we can get consent from the family, we call an agency called ROPA and they figure out who will match up with this person’s organs. Then the “harvesting” team flies in from different parts of the country, goes into the operating room and takes the parts they need. When they’re done they fly back to where they came from, straight to their own hospital, where an anxious patient is waiting for their lifesaving skills and a fresh organ.The nurse called me to the dying patient’s room when the father showed up late that night. I was in the middle of dinner and wasn’t looking forward to what I knew was going to be a difficult situation, having to face the father who hadn’t seen his son for three years and when he finally did it was only to watch machines breath for him until he died. It would be a sad good-bye and I would have to watch it.Medical ethics and the law say we have to approach every family of a dead or dying patient about the possibility of organ donation. There’s even a place on the paperwork to be completed for each death in the hospital. “Was the family approached about organ donation?” “If not, Why not?”There’s no place on the form to explain you just weren’t up to it or you had already done it enough that week and it was somebody else’s turn. There’s no place to write “I was afraid I’d start crying” or “The patient looked just like my brother or mother or father or someone else I love”. There was only a box to check. Sometimes life is just that simple. It doesn’t matter how you feel, only what you do. And that night, it was my turn to do.When I came into the room, the father’s pleading eyes caught mine and there was no place for either of us to hide. There was only that damn box to check. Did I do it or not? It didn't matter how I felt or what I wanted to do. There was no way around it, there was only through it. Everyone else in the patient’s existence until that time was about life. Not me, I was about death.We knew neither of us wanted to be there, that both of us wanted to go backwards in time and try the day again and have it turn out a different way. We knew we couldn’t. I could see the tears in his eyes and he could see the tears in mine. He didn’t want me to start and I didn’t want to start, this dance of death, this inevitable quest to check the right box, to save some lives and for him, to lose one.Slowly I explained what had happened. I told him death was imminent, that even with all our machines we could only keep his son alive a little bit longer. He seemed to understand that death would come no matter what we did and his face ever so slightly signaled acceptance. He quickly made his peace with death. And then he looked me in the eyes again as if to say, “Now what?”I had to check the box.“Mr. Lopez,” I said, “how would you feel about letting us take your son’s heart and lungs and some other important parts?”“What would you do with them?” he asked me.“Save lives,” I answered.I explained how that worked and he looked truly amazed. I could relate. I’ve been doing this for a long time and I am still truly amazed by the concept of organ transplantation. I could see from the way he held his chin in his hand, I was getting close to a yes and I could almost visualize myself putting that check in the right box. I knew he just needed some final piece of understanding, and after thirty years of traveling in Mexico, I knew exactly what it was. This man would not return to his little village in defeat, sad and grieving. He would go home the proud, respected father. We could make his son a hero and send him home in glory. So we talked.“When your son came to this country, he had dreams and plans. He wanted to be a success in America. He wanted to return to his village in triumph and make you proud of him. He wanted to come home a hero and a real hero is a man who doesn’t think of himself first. He is a man who is willing to make sacrifices. A hero is a man who will give up his own life so others may live. That is what a hero is.”The old man looked deep into my eyes.“I will tell you in the morning” he said and then he left.The next day when I went to meet with the old man he greeted me with an embrace. “Let us talk of heroes,” he said, “How many lives can my son save today?”“He can save two lives with his kidneys, two lives with his lungs and another with his heart. He can save a life with his liver and help a diabetic with his pancreas. With his skin we can heal the burns that otherwise would be forever painful and with his bones we can help many people walk. And with his eyes he will bring sight to two people who would be in darkness without him. He will save many lives and change many more,” I said.“Good, then we can put up a plaque in the church by the plaza so that everyone in the village can see. My son will come home a hero. I hope you will do our family the honor of coming to visit the plaque sometime and see the place where my son grew up.”That night when I filled out the death form, my tears fell on the part that asked if the family was approached about organ donation. I had never felt so good about putting an X in the right box. I had never felt better about what I do and who I am. It just doesn’t get any better than being on a team that saves lives and at the same time, helps ordinary people become heroes.Some day I’m going down to that place in Mexico. I’m going to see that plaque and meet that young man’s family. I need to tell them again what a hero he was. They all need to know he saved so many lives.

I like to say jokingly that I hit “second puberty” about a year and a half ago, since my facial structure suddenly emerged. I don’t live at home anymore, so I can’t post as many pictures as I’d like, but I think even what’s on Facebook tells a decent story.Me at about 4:Me at 5 or 6 with my mom:Me at 10:Reading Twilight, which I got for Christmas (who let me read that??)Me at 12:Me with my baby sisterI think my Halloween costume was supposed to be a butterfly??Me at 13:Holding my baby brother, who I remember being ENTHRALLED with the tractors at the farmBig ol’ brace faceI felt super grown up at my 8th grade danceMe at 14:I was suuuper skinny and gangly looking this year, 5’6” and 100 poundsI dressed up as Weird Al for Halloween and my parents took me to an Olive Garden looking like this~Quirky~Freshman Turnabout danceMe at 15:Took an actually cute candid in a dress I made myselfI played a nun in The Sound of MusicSophomore HomecomingI joined the Winterguard team this yearFelt very cute at a weddingFell asleep in class (ope)I got to go to prom since my boyfriend at the time was a seniorMe at 16:I was really busy with school this year and none of the pictures look much different than 15 or 17, so here’s a picture of the horrendous “shoulder length” mushroom head haircut I got after I donated my hairMe at 17:Proof that I did my anatomy extra credit assignmentMy colorguard uniform for the West Side Story showHorrendous form, I needed to tuck my elbows inMy youngest brother was completely uninterested in this pictureCan’t forget about Prom!Me at 18:Marching Illini Colorguard✨I got caught mid-sneeze at the dining hallMe at 19:The reason I had a package of sausages at the stadium on game day is… a long story19 is bar age in Champaign, but of course I didn’t drink ;)Sleeping on the bus when I went with the Marching Illini to IrelandMe at 20 (the year of second puberty):Purple hair!!!Lost a buuunch of weight after I started working outWe went to a Diamondbacks game when we vacationed in Arizona, so I was repping my sweet (knockoff) jerseySilliness in physics labSemi-formal with my current boyfriendMe at 21 (this year!):I went as “Raining Men” for Halloween (also peep the gnarly scar on my knee that I got from tripping while playing Pokémon Go)Took a couple pictures after my (virtual) interviewI turn 22 in about two months and I couldn’t be more grateful for everything that’s changed! I know who I am now and feel comfortable in my skin, I have a Bachelor’s degree and got lots of important experience along the way, and now I have an assistant scientist position in a new city.