Rugby Player Quotes

The width of neck and shoulder suggested a rugby player, the broken nose confirmed it. Which shows just how wrong you can be as he never played the game in his life.

Beauty comes in many forms, and the strong, powerful kind is the most admirable. It's easy to be weak; you simply do nothing, but strength takes courage and effort.

The moment you walk into a room you brighten it, Lucy Fitzpatrick, and I for one feel like the luckiest bastard in the world for having known you.

I could've been a professional rugby player... but then I saw a new Gaunt's Ghosts book come out...

In no particular order: baked goods, Colin Farrell's eyebrows, and the thighs of rugby players everywhere. And to the city of Edinburgh, where a love story was born.

Utu--Maori revenge. 'Do everything well, boy. Do it better than them. Be a better rugby player, better at your job. Outshine them everywhere. Tramp on their pride. Go far, and leave them sniveling in your dust.

I think I've missed you all my life

I don't want to close my eyes when I could be looking at you

I was a dog lover. I trusted them. There was something about the way a dog looked at you; they didn’t care if you were a famous rugby player or a homeless person on the streets. They only cared about how you treated them, and once they chose you as their human, you had a faithful friend for the rest of their lives. I didn’t think humans were capable of such compassion and commitment.

Look at the Wikipedia entry for any famous doctor, and you’ll see: ‘He proved himself an accomplished rugby player in youth leagues. He excelled as a distance runner and in his final year at school was vice-captain of the athletics team.’ This particular description is of a certain Dr H. Shipman, so perhaps it’s not a rock-solid system.

Something decidedly female was going on in her head, something of the mystery-to-men variety. I had no idea what she was thinking, but she looked both aggrieved and remorseful. I held very still because it seemed like the safest thing to do.

Because that’s how snobs deal with uncomfortable subjects. We belittle their importance, laugh at them, and change the subject to weather or sport.

@SeanCassinova Where might one procure a shoe horn in NYC? @RugbyFan101 to @SeanCassinova I’ll loan you my horn any day of the week, baby ;-) @SeanCassinova to @RugbyFan101 Who is this and where did you get my number? @RugbyFan101 to @SeanCassinova Uh, this is Twitter. @SeanCassinova to @RugbyFan101 That’s a very strange name. What were your parents thinking? @EilishCassidy @SeanCassinova Stop being an arse.

Insincerity was taxing once you’d breathed the refreshing air of artless candor.

William had played [rugby] at Eton when it first became popular, and now he only spoke of it in a reverent tone he normally saved only for women and rifles. . . . . [in contrast] Cricket had rules: one was not allowed to stamp on the head of another player and pass it off as enthusiasm.

He liked being the bigger man of the two, even though it wasn’t by much, he liked the way his solid rugby player’s build matched and countered Jonah’s athletic strength. But there was something about Jonah’s body hair, that incontrovertible evidence of his masculinity, that made Ben feel…not that he was less manly, precisely, but that Jonah was more so.

You’re too cute sometimes. I mean, seriously too cute.” “I’m not cute. I’m aloof and manly.” I lifted a disdainful eyebrow at the idea of me as cute. Ridiculous.

What the fu— How the bloody hell had Voldemort gotten into the building?

The worst thing that happened to air travel in the past ten years was the bankruptcy of Xhibit Corp., the parent company of SkyMall. I recalled with clarity the first time I boarded a flight and it was missing from all usual nooks and crannies. It had been a dark day.

Nev was the man in the parlor and the painter in his studio, the banker and the rugby player. The boyfriend who bought her prawn crisps and rubbed her back when she cried. The tender lover. The caged beast who came out to play when they got naked together. He could be any of them.

@LucyFitz Would you rather live the rest of your life with a human head and a horse’s body, or a horse’s head and a human body? @BroderickAdams to @LucyFitzHuman head + horse body = centaur. Horse head + human body = WTF. So, the first one, obvs. @RonanFitz to @BroderickAdams @LucyFitz No more acid tabs for either of you.

I just like a good underdog story, that’s all. Every stray deserves a chance at love.

I needed to get a handle on this girlish exhilaration. This girlish exhilaration needed a reality check. Maybe even a bitch-slap.

Ronan’s eyes widened as though I’d just told him Santa Claus and Genghis Khan had been having a torrid love affair since the twelfth century.

We all have issues. Human beings are flawed, and all we can hope for is to work toward making ourselves better. Not perfect, just better.

Every stray deserves a chance at love, a home and a warm bed to sleep at night.

No rugby player, no matter how talented, has ever won a game by playing alone.

a rugby player with dyed-pink hair, the first vegetarian and lesbian I ever met—who’d overseen my coming-out like a benevolent gay goddess.

Kavanagh.” “The rugby player?” Tony and I both asked in unison.

I don’t want to know if he can play rugby or not,” I squeezed out as a wave of guilt swallowed me up. “I want to know if he is okay! Him. Johnny! The person. Not the fucking rugby player!

Do you want anything from the shop?” definitely ranked as one of my top three favorite sentences of all time. It’s right up there with, “School’s been cancelled because of the weather” and “Would you like me to go down on you first?

I don’t want to know if he can play rugby or not,” I squeezed out as a wave of guilt swallowed me up. “I want to know if he is okay! Him. Johnny! The person. Not the fucking rugby player!” Gibsie tilted his head to one side, studying me with a curious look. “Well, aren’t you a keeper?” he finally mused, tone low.

In any game, the game itself is the prize, no matter who wins, ultimately both lose the game.

We all have depth, Sean. It’s a side effect of being human.

Talk to me when your nuts are so blue they look like something you can hang on a Christmas tree.

His aftershave – eau du sex god - wafted her way.

Shall I sneak in later? Crawl into your bed and wake you up with my head between your thighs?

Christ on a bike. 

And,” I went on, grinning now, “as far as I’m concerned, dogs are people, so never let anyone tell you otherwise.” Sean

Don’t call your family ‘the fam’, Sean. It sounds douchey. Another two syllables won’t kill you,” I chided playfully. Sean’s smirk indicated he was enjoying my criticism, and I didn’t understand that, either. “This coming from the girl with hair like a packet of Skittles.” “My hair isn’t douchey,” I said, and flicked a few locks over my shoulder. “It brings joy to all those who gaze upon it.

The car was some kind of Porsche and the door stood open and beckoning, like a gold embossed invitation to sin If she could survive a ride with angel-lips in his penis car then surely she’d be immune to him in any situation?

The best nicknames that I have ever come across: -Dai Young (ex-Wales rugby prop, current coach of Wasps) –‘Only the Good’. -Billy Twelvetrees (England rugby centre) –‘36'. - Martin Offiah (ex-rugby league legend)–‘Chariots’ - Nia Wales (ex-work colleague) –‘Chester’ - Fitz Hall (QPR defender) –‘One size’ -David Jones (lower league rugby player who had half an ear bitten off) –‘Dai 18 months’ - The New Zealand junior rugby team -the small blacks -The New Zealand basketball team -the tall blacks

The room was small, lit by two naked bulbs in wall recesses, and bare of anything except for two solid wooden posts the height of a man and four feet apart. In each post, at just below shoulder height, was set a large iron ring. There were two other men already waiting, both leathermen. Len indicated each in turn. 'Rick and Sam.' The two men regarded Mike with arms folded. Rick was in his late twenties, a tall, blond biker, his hair hanging down well past his shoulders. Under his leather waistcoat he was bare-chested, his spare, pale flesh covered with tattoos of skulls, burning angels and other biker motifs, the twining reds, blues and blacks extending along both arms as well. He was wearing black leather gloves and impenetrable black shades. Shaven-headed Sam was older, shorter and stockier, built like a rugby player. A leather harness stretched across the barrel of his chest, its steel circlet buried in wiry hair. Through his leather chaps Mike could see a sizeable pouch, heavy with its contents.

Something decidedly female was going on in her head, something of the mystery-to-men variety. I had no idea what she was thinking, but she looked both aggrieved and remorseful. I held very still because it seemed like the safest thing to do. We stared at each other.

Archie Henderson has won no awards, written no books and never played any representative sport. He was an under-11 tournament-winning tennis player as a boy, but left the game when he discovered rugby where he was one of the worst flyhalves he can remember. This did not prevent him from having opinions on most things in sport. His moment of glory came in 1970 when he predicted—correctly as it turned out—that Griquas would beat the Blue Bulls (then still the meekly named Noord-Transvaal) in the Currie Cup final. It is something for which he has never been forgiven by the powers-that-be at Loftus. Archie has played cricket in South Africa and India and gave the bowling term military medium a new and more pacifist interpretation. His greatest ambition was to score a century on Llandudno beach before the tide came in.

When the ball is up in the air and it’s a perfect kick, it doesn’t matter how great it looks, cos there’s no telling which way it’s going to bounce when it hits the floor. That’s a bit like life, isn’t it? You think it’s going great one minute and all looks wonderful, but you never know which way it’s going to take you.

The first day I stepped into Dr. Hollyfield’s office he’d told me about a little thing called the phone test. If a certain person calls you and you just can’t bear to pick up and talk to them, then they’re probably toxic and you should cut them from your life. If it’s a person you can’t cut from your life, then you need to find a new approach to dealing with them.

@LucyFitz Always trust in the kindness of strangers…except when it comes in the form of a glass of sauvignon blanc you haven’t seen them pour. @RonanFitz to @LucyFitz What’s going on?! Is some creep offering to buy you drinks? @LucyFitz to @RonanFitz Chillax. It’s supposed to be humorous. @RonanFitz to @LucyFitz Well I don’t find the concept of messing with my sister funny. @Anniecat to @LucyFitz I apologize for your brother

something that cannot be memorized and graded: a great doctor must have a huge heart and a distended aorta through which pumps a vast lake of compassion and human kindness. At least, that’s what you’d think. In reality, medical schools don’t give the shiniest shit about any of that. They don’t even check you’re OK with the sight of blood. Instead, they fixate on extracurricular activities. Their ideal student is captain of two sports teams, the county swimming champion, leader of the youth orchestra and editor of the school newspaper. It’s basically a Miss Congeniality contest without the sash. Look at the Wikipedia entry for any famous doctor, and you’ll see: ‘He proved himself an accomplished rugby player in youth leagues. He excelled as a distance runner and in his final year at school was vice-captain of the athletics team.’ This particular description is of a certain Dr H. Shipman, so perhaps it’s not a rock-solid system.

Despite myself, I fought a smile. “You certainly have a way with words.” “I know.” Broderick’s features rearranged themselves, settling back into impassive neutrality. “Everything out of my mouth is goddamn poetry.” I surrendered to the smile and fought a laugh. “Loveliness, the incarnation of beauty in spoken form.” “Like a fucking butterfly, but with sounds.” And now I surrendered to the laugh. He laughed as well. We laughed together in a way two people cannot and do not laugh alone.

In its modern form, football comes from a gentleman’s agreement signed by twelve English clubs in the autumn of 1863 in a London tavern. The clubs agreed to abide by rules established in 1848 at the University of Cambridge. In Cambridge football divorced rugby: carrying the ball with your hands was outlawed, although touching it was allowed, and kicking the adversary was also prohibited. ‘Kicks must be aimed only at the ball,’ warned one rule. A century and a half later some players still confuse the ball with their rival’s skull owing to the similarity in shape.

So, what...in the meantime, you just...” He glanced at her then back at the road. “Deny yourself?” Em gave a half smile at the incredulity in his voice. Clearly it was a foreign concept to him. “It’s okay. I have a battery operated boyfriend awaiting my attention when I get home.” He shot her a quick, open-mouthed stare, his lips parted enticingly. He looked so stunned at her admission she couldn’t help but laugh. “Sorry, didn’t you know that women did that, too? Did I shock you?” “Not at all.” He recovered quickly, a big smile splitting his profile. “I’m just trying to decide which is sexier. Self-denial or self-abuse.

But...a vibrator can’t hold you in its arms or give you the full-body experience.” Em clamped down on the wicked surge of heat between her legs, thinking about a full-body experience with Lincoln Quinn. “It’s not going to make me lie in the wet spot, either.” “It can’t snuggle with you after,” he countered with another laugh. Em snorted. “And that’s your specialty, is it? Hanging around for pillow talk?” “I’ll have you know I give very good pillow talk.” Sure. And Elvis was alive and living at Henley Stadium. “Right,” she muttered. “Of course you do.” “I really do.” He nodded. “Most women seem to be more interested in me giving them good head, but hey, I’m a full service kinda guy.

You should really go inside now,” he said. Her glazed, unfocused stare was starting to clear, and the cranky look he was used to being levelled at him started to take shape. “And if I don’t?” “You want to fuck me on your doorstep?” he asked, his voice low and gravelly. “Call me tomorrow when you’re sober. I’ll be right over.” She jutted her chin defiantly—clearly pissed at him for trying to be the responsible one. “I won’t need you after I’ve spent all night with a couple of multi-speed toyfriends and a box of batteries.” Linc shoved his hands on his hips, pushing back unhelpful images of her naked and pleasuring herself with a hot pink cock. “Go inside,” he growled. Before he did something crazy like offering to watch.

You Are Not Your Jersey “Avoid having your ego so close to your position that when your position falls, your ego goes with it.” - Colin Powell The New Zealand All Blacks (national rugby team) have a mantra: “Leave the jersey in a better place”. It means, this is not your jersey, you are part of something bigger but do your best while you wear the jersey. It provides a valuable lesson about enjoying your moment in the sun but letting go to pursue another one once your time ends. When I played in Toulouse they had the same mindset. The club only contracted a certain number of players each year and there was a set number of locker spaces. Each locker was numbered in such a way that was not associated with a jersey number and that was also the number you wore on your club sportswear. Some numbers were 00, others were 85 and mine was 71. When I joined the coach explained to me in French that this was not my number, but I was part of a tradition that spanned decades. My interpretation still remains, “You are not your jersey.

Jogging down the stairs and out the door leading to the player’s hallway, I rehearsed what I would say. I would say, Hello, Bryan. I have a bit of time before the end of the day. Perhaps I could take a look at your knee. Or, I might say, Bryan, let’s have a look at your knee. I hear it’s still giving you trouble. Or maybe, Bryan, I understand you’re having a bit of trouble with your knee. If you have time before the end of the day— “Eilish.” I stopped short, almost colliding with William Moore. Automatically, his beefy hands reached to steady me. “William. Sorry. Sorry about that.” I backed up a step and out of his grip, counting three other players behind him, and swallowed with some difficulty when I realized Bryan was one of them. “You okay?” William asked, dipping his chin to catch my eye. I nodded, looking beyond him, and pointed at Bryan. “You.” Bryan stiffened, his eyes widening. “Me?” “Yes. You. Meniscus tear. Follow me,” I said, turned away from him, and promptly grimaced. Real smooth, E. Real professional. Great job. That wasn’t weird at all. Leading the way to the training room, I didn’t wait to see if he’d followed. I was too busy berating myself for speaking like Tarzan. So much for rehearsing.

Legend has it that the South Sydney Rugby League team acquired their ‘Rabbitohs’ nickname because, in the late 1920s, several players worked in the trade on Saturday mornings, later taking the field in their bloodied jerseys.

Founded in 2013 by ex-rugby player Richard Smith-Bernal, The Juice Smith offers cold-pressed juices and plant-based foods using organic produce for health. Starting with a single juicer, the mission was nutrition-rich offerings from scratch, including juices with 1kg of fresh produce per bottle. Certified organic by the Soil Association in 2023, it caters to all dietary needs, focusing on flavor and health without preservatives or additives.

A year ago, when I’d been having a really bad night, I’d looked Jonah Ho-bag Collins up online, and in the process, found a list of the twenty-two sexiest rugby players in the world.

There would always be another Bella, but just like my counselor had told me, there wouldn’t be another me, and that was my strength, my special power. I would never be a rocket scientist or a world-class rugby player, but I was a survivor, and a damn good one at that.

I’m here for Johnny the boy,” I told him, cupping his face with my trembling hands. “Not Johnny the rugby player.” Exhaling a shaky breath, I leaned closer and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth before pulling back to look in his eyes. “I’ll stay for both, but I’m only in love with one.

It is to the English schoolboy that the game of football really owes its origin. During the middle of the nineteenth century there was an athletic revival throughout England and football became the favorite pastime of the winter months in such schools as Rugby, Eton, Harrow, Charterhouse and others. The game came to its present important position through a gradual evolutionary process in which both a standard of play and of rule were developed together. In the growth of the two principal forms of modern play, "Association" and "Rugby", the size of the particular school ground was the determining factor. In 1850 the only school playground in England large enough to permit the running and tackling game was connected with Rugby.

DNA sequencing of fecal samples from players in an international rugby union team showed considerably greater diversity of gut bacteria than samples from people who are more sedentary.

There are three certainties in life, death, taxes, and the cold dread of attending another family gathering.

Why were the beautiful ones always such pricks, huh?

I liked Sean Cassidy. I liked him with something more than just my vagina.

You know, I reckon you’ve had a narrow escape. I was reading an article about early-onset arthritis in rugby players, and apparently the whole lot of them are cripples by the time they get to sixty. And they’re the ones who are sixty now; they played a hell of a lot less games forty years ago.’ ‘But they patch them up a lot better these days,’ I pointed out. ‘There’s still not much you can do about having no cartilage left in any of your joints.’ ‘They can replace knees and hips.’ ‘Not shoulders. Or fingers. How many of them has he dislocated?’ ‘I don’t know. A few.’ ‘There you go. Those’ll all be buggered in another ten years. You would have ended up wiping his bum for him.’ ‘I wouldn’t have minded,’ I muttered. He passed me out a handful of bolts and shuffled along to the next corner. ‘You’re pathetic. And there’s another reason you should have been heading for the hills.’ ‘What?’ I asked. ‘Do you know what the All Blacks’ motto is?’ ‘“Feed your backs”?’ ‘Nope. It is – and I kid you not – “Subdue and penetrate”.’ ‘I don’t believe you.’ ‘Google it then.’ ‘Maybe it didn’t sound so dodgy a hundred years ago when they came up with it,’ I said weakly. ‘Of course it did. It’s not like human biology’s changed since then. Very shady people, rugby players.

Well,’ said Em a few days later, putting her bottle of nail polish down on the coffee table and looking critically at her handiwork, ‘personally, I never thought he was much of a rugby player.’ Seeing as Em’s knowledge of rugby was probably somewhere on a par with Kim Kardashian’s, this was not a particularly damning condemnation. ‘He’s big and strong,’ she continued, ‘but all he does is run into people and try to rip the ball off them.’ ‘Em, that’s pretty much the job description,’ I said. Rugby’s really fairly straightforward – the forwards try to pulverise each other, and then the backs skip lightly through the holes in the opposition’s defence to score the tries. Forwards can score tries, but it’s not their key role and they like to pretend it’s no big deal. A manly nod of acknowledgement once the ball is planted over the line is acceptable, but victory dances, like fancy hairstyles, are left to the backs

Probably just as well. Maybe with all that testosterone walking out the door, the insane urge to hump Lincoln Quinn’s leg would walk right out as well. Because that was exactly how she felt every time she looked at him. Like she was in heat. Within minutes, the restaurant had emptied out to only a few non-team wedding guests. Her nemesis was nowhere to be seen, and Em congratulated herself on her self-control as she eased off the bar stool. Embarrassing leg-humping avoided—bravo!

Sex was a happiness transaction. And rugby had given Linc the means to feel very happy, very often.