Before Lomu smashed over Mike Catt, rugby may as well have been played in black and white. Lomu's performance against England that day, scoring four tries in the 1995 World Cup semi-final, was so influential to the game of rugby that it was without comparison.
Between sublime and messy, there is bristling; standing up to every encounter, relentless, bleeding, battered and without a whimper. No leaping into the air in absurd spasms of fake pain. They are quite simply, epic.
When the Rugby World Cup came around I was very excited but also disappointed to be so far from the action. I love Rugby. The game evokes fond memories of cold winter days firstly watching with my father, and latterly working for, Saracens RFC.
Four years ago, I thought I was signing up for a sport that may or may not matter to me in the long run. It was something to do, a way to meet people. Four years later, and I've realized I signed up for so much more than just a sport.
William Henry Hunt, president of Racing Club Stéphanois, bid adieu to his rugby players as they departed St. Étienne for the battlefields of northern France a century ago. He did not see most of them again as so many perished in the Great War's carnage.
For 14 years, I identified myself as a soccer player. I played year-round on multiple teams, dedicated endless hours to practices and games, and thought I loved the sport. But then I realized something: I just wasn't that good.
If you are in the middle of an awkward silence with someone you just met, bring rugby into the conversation. It is bound to keep, or at least start, a conversation since it is still not overly common in the U.S.
Sydney, Australia, and New York are superman destinations, wrestling for attention and flying onto the world's front page. Boston and Melbourne? They're more like spectacled Clark Kents. And each is secretly glad.