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Playing Rugby With Dyspraxia by Tom Remp

Saturday, as the song goes, is a rugby day. For every rugger that means the shrugging off of our every-day facades and becoming, for a few brief hours, someone different. Investment bankers morph into bleeding-headed warriors, marketing experts throw themselves over heaped humanity with barrel chests, lawyers claw forward up the field with hands grabbing desperately at their ankles, and school teachers sit and spit blood from torn lips, eyes blinded by sweat. From the blow of the first whistle, to the final seconds before the sound of the last, and the beer swilled, mud caked drink-up that follows, we feel special. Other men, our friends and colleagues, sit at home at their televisions while we run through sleet and snow, rain and sun, braving the elements for the chance of a glory, few but us care about or understand.

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