Bloody cold. The rain never stops, but no matter.
One evening in late November we reached the field of the Old Blacks to follow their trainings.
Category “Old”. Over 35. Average age, in spirit, much less.
We spent a couple of hours risking frostbite. At the end of the workout, in front of a beer inside the clubhouse, we tried to explain our project to the team. Some enthusiasts, some did not understand fully the purpose, somebody else, in doubt, ordered beers galore.
In short time we have become a permanent presence on the Old Blacks’ field for the rest of the winter.
They don’t fear anything. The broken ribs are countless. Not to mention the knees.
If there is mud is the ideal condition. The field is softer, and tackling is less painful. Nobody seem to notice the rain.
Only one time they skipped the training. The temperature was a few degrees below zero and there was no hot water in the showers.