They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions. A neat phrase, warning us how even the best plans can go sideways. But if I’m honest? I’d rather take my chances on that road than stand still wondering “should I/ what if.”
At the end of the day, I want to know I lived on my own terms. That I took the hits, made the tackles, pushed through the pain, and didn’t just play safe from the sidelines. My love of rugby, instilled in me as a child by my Dad, taught me that.
I’ve never played myself, but I’ve lived rugby with passion and emotion, either in front of a TV screen or sometimes at various ground, watching either Sale or France/Toulouse battle it out on the pitch. However, some of my favourite memories take me back to those crisp, days at Ernest Wallon, where the air starts buzzing with anticipation as soon as the season ticket holders turn up and put out the communal pre-match table d’hote.
The build-up to a match there, is almost as much of a show as the game itself. I always find my usual spot to watch the players arrive, get my hugs from Ovalion, then go over to the bar before heading to the stands, often sitting next to my bodyguard; ever since our history book re-opened, he’s been my constant witness to the many games’ highs and lows over the past 18 months.
There is this unique energy in those moments: the collective pulse of the crowd, the clatter of boots in the corridor from the changing room as the team walks past all their history on the wall. It never is just about the game, it’s about the stories unfolding on that pitch, the friendships forged in mud and sweat.
And then, after the final whistle on the day, the game wasn’t over.
We head to a local bar, where the air is filled with laughter, the clatter of glasses, the smell of Gauloises and endless storytelling. Those post-match nights are a mix of fun and reflection, sometimes light-hearted banter, sometimes a moment’s quiet between friends who know what had been worked on in the many hours of training that season. You’d feel the bond, the unspoken respect for the game and for each other.
For me, these rugby days aren’t just about sport. They sre about connection, the thrill of being part of something bigger, even if only as a spectator. And in a way, that’s life too: watching, waiting, sometimes close, sometimes distant, but always feeling the heartbeat of the moment.
It wasn’t just about winning, though the thrill of a hard-fought victory is like no other. It was about showing up, giving everything you had, even when your body screamed to quit. Those moments carved the blueprint of my work ethic: discipline, resilience, and a dash of stubbornness.
Translating that spirit into the office, the same rules apply. When the workload piles up, when deadlines loom like defenders charging in, you don’t back away. You roll your sleeves up, face the challenge head-on, and keep your eye on the goal post.
I’m no stranger to long hours or messy problems; if anything, rugby prepared me to navigate the chaos with a clear head and steady heart. Because at the end of the day, it’s about integrity and doing what you said you would do. The results? They follow.
But it’s not all blood, sweat, and spreadsheets. Those post-match laughs, the banter over a kir, the cheeky high five after a well-executed play, that grin from a player on the pitch you know was for you alone; those moments remind me that life needs its lighter side.
Fun isn’t just a break from seriousness; it’s the glue that holds the hard stuff together. It’s how we stay human, connected, and sane.
And then there’s him; the one who holds back, keeps his distance when things get real. Like a rugby player who suddenly dodges making a tackle instead of meeting it head-on. I get it: it’s a defence mechanism, a way to protect the vulnerable core based on old wounds. But from where I stand, life’s too short to keep sidestepping the moments that matter. Because even with all the good intentions, if you don’t show up fully, then you never rolled the dice…
So here’s to playing the game, with heart, with grit, with a smile, and maybe, just maybe, learning to stay close enough to feel the warmth.
When the time comes, I want to be able to say: I didn’t just intend; I worked. I laughed. I cried. I loved. I lived.
And you?
