Rugby Tackle Quotes

Seriously. A man categorically devised the high heal and he did it in an attempt to make it easier for you dudes to rugby tackle us womenfolk to the ground and haul us back to your beds.

I tackle guys three times your size for a living. I can handle whatever you throw at me.

Many people appear to conflate interventions to prevent harm in the sick with interventions in the healthy. For someone who is in immediate danger, attempts to minimise harm can come with a risk. For someone who is not in danger, great care must be taken not to cause unnecessary harm. For example, rugby tackling a granny to the ground could cause terrible harm but would be justified if it prevented her stepping into the path of an oncoming car she had not seen.

There’s no yielding to status in a rugby tackle, there’s no privilege in a scrum.

The Manhandling of Gilbert Gripes by Stewart Stafford Scrummage in a birch wood, Pyrrhic rut for an oval prize, Grinning studs rake my face, A flayed Garryowen as sport. Cauliflower ears throb with fear, Thunderous hooves charging, Poleaxed by a car crash tackle, Nosebleed kiss tickles my lips. The rite of passage staggers on, A butcher's initiation of brothers, Cutthroat razors kindly supplied, Wealthy primates whoop in safety. © Stewart Stafford, 2024. All rights reserved.

As negotiations seemed to be grinding to a halt, we were all feeling frustrated. Steve looked around at John, Judi, and the others. He could see that everybody had gotten a bit stretched on all our various projects. He decided we needed a break. He didn’t lead us into the bush this time. Instead, Steve said a magic word. “Samoa.” “Sea snakes?” I asked. “Surfing,” he said. He planned a ten-day shoot for a surfing documentary. Steve loved surfing almost as much as he loved wildlife. The pounding his body had taken playing rugby, wrestling crocs, and doing heavy construction at the zoo had left him with problem knees and a bad shoulder. He felt his time tackling some of the biggest surf might be nearing an end. In Samoa, Steve didn’t spend just a few hours out in the waves. He would be out there twelve to fourteen hours a day. I didn’t surf, but I was awestruck at Steve’s ability to stare down the face of a wave that was as high as a building. He had endurance beyond any surfer I had ever seen. Steve had a support boat nearby, so he could swim over, get hydrated, or grab a protein bar. But that was it. He didn’t stop for lunch. He would eat breakfast, surf all day, and then eat a big dinner. I knew this was the best therapy for him. Surfing at Boulders was downright dangerous, but Steve reveled in the challenge. He surfed with Wes, his best mate in the world. I sat on a rocky point with my eye glued to the camera so I wouldn’t miss a single wave. While Bindi gathered shells and played on the beach under her nanny’s watchful eye, I admired Steve with his long arms and broad shoulders, powerfully paddling onto wave after wave. Not even the Pacific Ocean with its most powerful sets could slow him down. He caught the most amazing barrels I have ever seen, and carved up the waves with such ferocity that I didn’t want the camera to miss a single moment. On the beach in Samoa, while Bindi helped her dad wax his board, I caught a glimpse of joy in eyes that had been so sad.