What they don’t tell you about rugby injuries

Rugby is a collision sport. Injuries are part and parcel of the game, despite everything we do to try and mitigate that. In this article, I’ll be using my own experiences to focus on what you can expect if you sustain a serious injury, and some comparisons with what a professional player might experience in contrast.

Although a legitimate concern and a serious topic worthy of a separate discussion, I won’t be focusing on head injuries in this article, but one type of injury in particular. So here are some things they don’t prepare you for when the worst happens on the field.

Trigger warning, near the end of this article there’s an image of my knee post-surgery.

You’re out for longer than you expect

I’ve been knocked out, had my shoulder pop out, and cracked a rib… but the severest of injuries in my logbook is that to my knee. A physical aerial challenge competing for the ball, a pop from my knee, and the result was a ruptured anterior cruciate ligament (ACL), a torn posterolateral corner  (PLC), and a partially ruptured medial meniscus.

“It puts into perspective how hard the pros work to get their bodies back to match fitness after injuries like these”

Had I been playing professionally, I’d have been carted off to a private facility, been scanned, and known exactly what the issue was within 24 hours. Within two days, swelling permitting, I’d likely have had my surgery and would already be going through rehabilitation protocols with a specific diet, cocktail of drugs, and a mobility programme. The best-case scenario of a recovery period for such an injury in pro-rugby would be anywhere between nine months to a year.

In contrast, my recovery journey would be over three years.

I was fortunate enough to spend a part of my recovery on the beautiful island of Sicily.

Over three hours waiting for an ambulance pitch side; a few hours in the back of that ambulance huffing gas and air waiting for a space in the hospital; a few more hours waiting in A&E to be seen; and an hour or two after the x-ray to get some sort of diagnosis. I was given a splint and crutches to go home in, in which I remained for 6 long weeks before being given a restrictive knee brace for a further 10 weeks. My first surgery was pencilled in one year and four months after my injury, and my second surgery booked in six months after that.

Here’s me, in the aforementioned ambulance, huffing the glorious pain relieving gas.

It’s the difference between private healthcare and a public health service. They simply don’t have the resources available to them to compete with private companies when it comes to speed of treatment. But the main point of difference is that the NHS’ priority is to get you back to full function, not a return to rugby. They aren’t specialists in bringing athletes back to match fitness.

“ Everybody’s injury is unique to them, with challenges and hurdles personal to you. ”

Despite the herculean effort from NHS Wales’ outstanding, albeit now decommissioned, rehabilitation programme at the Royal Glamorgan Hospital, it felt like a return to rugby was beyond the capabilities of my mangled knee. Even had I made a full recovery and was able to return to the field, considering the length of the rehabilitation programme, the months of atrophy to overcome, and loss of aerobic fitness, it would have been at least three years between the point of injury and me returning to play.

It puts into perspective how hard the pros work to get their bodies back to match fitness after injuries like these; as well as how much I wish I had renewed my player’s insurance a few weeks before my injury.

It’s lonely

You know what’s worse than not being able to play rugby? Not being able to play rugby while watching all your friends play rugby. Everybody’s injury is unique to them, with challenges and hurdles personal to you.

Even if there’s another unfortunate soul rehabbing the same sort of injury alongside you, it can still be a deeply lonely journey to recovery. You realise it’s not just the on-field game you’re missing. It’s those moments in the changing room getting taped up, growling words of encouragement to each other. It’s the short seconds between phases when you exchange significant glances with your teammate about a weakness you’ve spotted in the defence. It's all the emotions walking the tunnel, the frustration from a loss or elation from a victory. It’s the look of joy on the spectators’ faces, and the being mobbed by your team when you get up from scoring a try.

The pints from the bar just don’t taste as sweet.

Here’s me in the middle of my rehab programme in between surgeries.

Sometimes it’s you and the physio. But the real work gets done when it’s you and only you on the gym floor. The places you need to go to overcome your injuries, are places where there can be no company. What all physiotherapists will tell you, is that you only get out of your physio what you put in. The harder you work, and the more time you dedicate you your rehab; the better your results will be.

It affects your mental health

People are afraid to use some terminology when trying to define and describe what they’re going through. It took me a long time to understand and recognise that I in fact was suffering from a form of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). The term is often avoided because it can sound dramatic, especially when it’s most commonly linked to serving military personnel who have witnessed horrors in combat.

“ a crucial part of a long-term injured players’ recovery process is to have a discussion with psychologists”

But it doesn’t belittle their experiences and doesn’t exaggerate yours.

Coming to terms with the fact that you’ll be out of the game for so long, and possibly never to return, is tough. As for many in Wales, rugby had been my life ever since I was 8 years old. I was borderline obsessed with the sport by the time I was in my 20s and I had it taken away from me not in a blaze of glory, playing myself into the ground like I had envisaged, but with an innocuous pop on a field in Cardiff.

Here’s me playing, unbeknownst to me, one of my last games of rugby.

It fills you with bitterness, anger, grief, and jealousy to not do the thing you love most while you watch the club and game go on without you.

This is recognised in the professional game, where a crucial part of a long-term injured players’ recovery process is to have a discussion with psychologists, coaches, fellow players, and medical staff. The mental health management and recovery is as equal a part of the rehab as the physical programme.

This is me… again… showing off my new set of wheels.

It has a knock on effect on your entire life

My injury didn’t just bring my rugby days to a premature end. I loved running, playing badminton and squash, martial arts, obstacle course racing, and hiking; none of which I can do without issues any more.

Consistent hard work and good rehab should allow me to pick up much of these hobbies again eventually. But it’s going to take a hell of a lot of time, dedication, and effort; and sometimes it can be tough to maintain that level of intensity when the return on investment seems a pittance.

It gets easier

I hope you haven’t read all the above and convinced yourself that a knee injury will bring an end to life as you know it. It certainly can… if you let it.

My knee after the second surgery.

But severe injuries are overcome on a regular basis, and even if you can’t make a return to rugby, I found myself picking up new hobbies and setting new goals. Being laid up is actually a great opportunity to do things you may not have had time to do before or to rekindle old passions.

I learned to pick locks, I read a library worth of books, learned to make homebrewed beer, watched that TV series I’d had on my watchlist for years, and started painting again. Once I was on my feet, I replaced the thrill of rugby with the thrill of riding motorcycles.

Many people, I’m sure, will have had a completely different experience to me. Some will have bounced back like a rubber ball and were back on the field within the year. It’s okay to admit that some people have a stronger mental fortitude than you, and approached their rehab with a much more positive outlook. But it’s not a competition; it doesn’t matter if someone rehabbed easier or quicker or more comprehensively than you did.

Me continuing with my rehab programme.

The point is that it’s your journey, it’s exclusive and unique to you, and you have nothing to prove to anybody but yourself.