Anyone who can’t throw, catch, or touch someone without crashing into them like a concussed bull can derail the whole thing. I was that person
There is an elbow of the Thames that is so full of sporty types – towpath riddled with joggers, hockey clubs to the left of you, rowers to the right – that by the time I reached the rugby club, I was sort of done with fitness. It’s 8pm on a Wednesday, I thought; when I was the age of these rugby players, I’d have been out drinking for at least three hours by now.
But the O2 touch rugby club is disarming: small – there were six of us, but usually there are twice that – zesty and welcoming to newcomers. Touch rugby, a scaled-down version of the sport with no tackling or scrumming, is great fun. But one person who can’t throw, catch or touch someone without crashing into them like a concussed bull can derail the whole thing. I was that person. It sounds quite easy, but if I mangle it here, that is partly to indicate that it is not easy, and partly to show I never fully understood it.
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