In our country, true teams rarely exist. Social barriers and personal ambitions have reduced athletes to dissolute cliques or individuals thrown together for mutual profit. Yet, rugby players with their bruised, broken bodies, are struggling to hold onto a sense of humanity that we in America have lost and are unlikely to regain. The game may only be to move a ball forward on a dirt field, but the task can be accomplished with an unshackled joy and its memories will be a permanent delight. The women and men who play on that rugby pitch are more alive than too many of us will ever be. The foolish emptiness we think we perceive in their existence is only our own.
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