Oh no, I thought he'd stopped all this...

It comes a time in a man's life when he simply has to stop. Stop because your body is screaming at you. Stop dreaming of one day being a professional sportsman. Stop putting life on hold just in case Saracens come in at the 11th hour to sign you up like a rugby version of Dennis Quaid's 'The Rookie'. Stop thinking 'If I'd only done this then and then that the other time then maybe I could have...'. Just stop.

That time came for me two days ago when I emailed my current rugby club, St Albans RFC, to tell them the boots were well and and truly being hung up. The bulging disc in my neck has yet again become inflamed and I promised myself, my body, my wife, I'd give myself one more go at it and next big injury, the big tap-out. That go has now come to an end. I have become an ex-rugby player. Three knee surgeries, two shoulder surgeries, countless broken ribs, one broken wrist, one broken ankle and the bugling disc have all conspired to create one big metaphorical lump of drag on my person. 

It was inevitable. I've been dropping my phone, cups of tea and lesson resources all over the shop over the last couple of weeks because of the nerve impingement the bulging disc causes The last time this happened it took me nine months of recovery and no sport, so I thought I better get cracking.

There are things I'll miss. Excited anxiety pre-match, cold beers after the game, satisfying delayed onset muscle soreness the day after a match. The ability to eat as much as I wanted on the justification 'I'm in the front row and I need to keep my weight on'. Apparently in normal circles being 5'10 and 18 stone is not acceptable. 

There are things I won't. Coaches who spew the RFU coaching manual like its a work of religious inspiration, delayed onset muscle soreness the five days after you played, the human inequality of finding yourself in the defensive line and having to mark their winger. 

I'm no loss to the sport, to be brutally honest I probably peaked playing wise at school back in 2001. For the last fifteen years I've just about been hanging on, playing in the abject fear of an alternative Saturday spent at the Harlequin shopping centre. 

But rugby is like the Hotel California, you don't ever really leave. So I need to find some way of staying connected with the game. Coaching in time is probably where I'll end up, but for the time being I may reconnect with this blog, see where it takes me. 

Goodbye playing days, hello armchair punditry. My keyboard is being sharpened as we speak.