The Win That Got Away

We won this past weekend, like really won.

Not a nail-biter, not a lucky break. A full, decisive, 36–12 statement over a team that’s either edged us out in the final minutes or completely steamrolled us in the past.

It should’ve felt like the kind of win you bottle up and sip from on bad days.

And for a while, it did.

I remember feeling this deep, glowing pride while watching our forwards grind through every ruck, hearing the sideline erupt after every big carry, knowing we were finally putting the pieces together.

Then I watched the game film.

And somewhere between the tries and the turnovers, I started to feel… small.

Because in between the cheers were all the other sounds the yelling, the barking, the endless commands from the sideline.

Come up harder on defense!

Tackle lower!

Do better!

Ironically, I never heard any of these comments during the game anyway.

[For the record - yes, I think especially the lower tackle comments are warranted, but I can also almost guarantee you that if someone tackles high in a rugby game...they probably know it, and it was probably a mistake. There was even one instance in the game film where I went in for a strip on a tackle assist and succeeded in turning the ball over, but in the background people were yelling at me to get lower even though it wasn't even my hit.]

And maybe it was all meant with love. Maybe it came from passion or nerves or the heat of competition. Maybe sometimes it wasn't even directed towards me. But when I listened back, it didn’t sound like support. It sounded like disappointment.

I’m normally okay with criticism. I actually like it when it helps me grow. But rugby is grueling. It’s body-breaking. It’s lungs on fire, vision tunneling, and legs that stop listening.

Especially for a tight-five player.

Sometimes just getting up again is the best you’ve got in that moment.

When I review game film, I track my personal stats: tackles made, rucks hit, carries, everything. And this game, somehow, had my lowest numbers all season.

My first instinct was to take that as a personal failure...to assume I hadn’t worked hard enough, hadn’t contributed enough, hadn’t been enough.

But the more I looked, the more obvious it became: my “low stats” were actually a reflection of how well everyone else did theirs.

We didn’t need any one person to carry the game, we did it together.

That’s the real success. And still, I can’t lie...it’s hard to hold onto that belief.

I played tighthead prop for 80 minutes in a match that had 21 scrums...at least that I counted (I might’ve missed one or two while too engrossed to mark them down). [For perspective, most matches average around 15–20 scrums, so this was no small shift.]

So no, I didn’t have the biggest hits or the hardest runs or the flashiest stats. But I did my job. I held my ground. And that’s something to be proud of…but I just wish I actually believed that.

Because as much as I try to tell myself it’s true, the voices from the sideline replay in my head louder than my own. The self-talk turns sharp. The belief starts to crumble. And that kind of negative noise, internal or external, doesn’t help anyone. Not me. Not my team. Not the game.

There’s no room for self-doubt in rugby. Sometimes you even have to fake it ’til you make it. Convince yourself you’re larger than life, even when you feel like a ghost of yourself.

I don’t think anyone meant harm. I think everyone just wanted us to succeed. But watching that film made me realize how much words, along with their tone, timing, and delivery, can change how a win feels.

I want to remember how that sounded.

Because the next time I’m the one on the sideline, I want my words to lift, not weigh down.

I want my teammates to know they’re doing enough...even when they’re exhausted, even when it’s messy, even when the win doesn’t look perfect yet.

We did something incredible this weekend.

I just wish it still felt that way.

Sometimes the hardest part of rugby isn’t the bruises or the hits, it’s learning how to stay proud when the noise gets loud.