Son, in this world there are scrums. And in those scrums you need Forwards. Are you willing to do it? As a Forward, I have more responsibility than you can ever fathom.

You use words like “drunk” and “out of shape”; those words are the very backbone of a life I spent drinking and partying in, and you use them as a punchline.

You weep for your wings and centers, and curse the forward. You have that luxury. You have the luxury of knowing that the pack, while grotesque and incomprehensible to you, wins these games you play.

Truth? You can’t handle the truth, because deep down in places you don’t talk about in your selection meetings, you want me in that scrum; you need me in that scrum.

I neither have the time nor inclination to explain myself to a back who scores under the very blanket of ball retention that I provide, and then questions the manner in which I provide it.

I would rather you just bought me a beer and went on your way. Otherwise, I suggest you crawl into that scrum and get dirty. Either way, I don’t give a damn who you think is responsible!