There comes a day when you suddenly realise you're the oldest one on your team. All your rugby friends and obviously all the newbies are fresh-faced youths who seem to get better and better every week. They run like gazelles, chin up like marines and squat challenge eachother just for the hell of it. One day (soon) they have mastered the art of tackling, a struggle that has taken you eight years and still resembles a drowning person desperately trying to cling to a float. They GET IT. At this point, it's not strange that you get pushed into a (too?) early midlife crisis.
Pass me a drink please. And fuck you - I'm not leaving!
