Rugby was my saviour when I went through six months of self-isolation
Life was losing its purpose for Charles Richardson but sport played a key role and can do the same again now
Self-isolation is not easy, but it is surmountable. I know this because, in 2014, I had to do it for six months. I was forbidden from entering any public spaces, anywhere that could harbour any kind of germ. As I received my text from the Government last week telling me that I am one of 1.5 million “extremely vulnerable” people in this country, and that I must stay at home for 12 weeks, I had the most lucid deja vu.
My reasons then, too, were medical. Without getting bogged down, I had finished treatment for an illness that had reset my immune system. I was a baby and my immune system needed time to rebuild. Any infection, no matter how small, might have been fatal.
Daily life was significantly affected. As we are all currently experiencing, tasks that were routinely taken for granted were all thrown into chaos: from grocery shopping, to filling up and paying in a petrol station, to something as mundane and trivial as having a haircut. I could not do them. I looked from cars into the roar of populated pubs and restaurants as if I were looking into a lion’s den; with immense fright.
These places had become alien. Friends and family could visit me on the proviso that they were not feeling in any way unwell. All food either had to be fully cooked or – if appropriate – pasteurised: no runny eggs, no rare steaks, no shellfish and no unwashed vegetables. All members of my household were on coronavirus-esque handwashing regimes, too, and there was hand sanitiser stationed in most rooms.
This, to many, might sound like shangri-la. A gluttonous, indeterminate period of Netflix-fuelled tranquillity, sustained horizontal periods, no schedules, no emails. But that would be unadulterated naivety. Netflix is a distraction, no more.
Once it began to dawn that others were enjoying the world’s delights – in pubs, cafes, and restaurants; at the beach, theatres or cinemas – the distraction began to wear exceptionally thin. I started to feel, in fact, along with no schedules or emails, there was no purpose. I was, like many are now, both intimidated and anxious.
Anxiety did build, sanity did begin to escape, and cabin fever did begin to nip. What saved me though, on those most shrouded of days, was one of several heroes of the story – sport. It was a colossus. And it can still help us now, even without the tease of structured live action.
The warmth of nostalgia always nourishes morale. Watch classic clips, watch those matches that cause tingles, that cause goose bumps to protrude. Catch up on matches that you missed and immerse yourself in the sports that engage your sensibilities. Catch up on the infinite nuances, the pioneering tactics, and the avant-garde techniques you are yet to master. Absorb them; become an expert. You never know at which pub quiz the hard work might pay off.
I will revisit the matches that got me through that testing stint in 2014. They act as a reminder of successfully triumphing those murky days, an ignition of hope driving you out of the tunnel. That scorching early Jonny May try at Twickenham against the All Blacks; Bath’s record-breaking demolition of Leicester at the Rec – the memories of these two matches will never leave me, despite them not being too memorable when placed within rugby’s vast history.
Every guide from here to Peru will outline the benefits of exercise on those battening down the hatches and, as long as everyone is sensible, remaining at least two metres from any other member of the public, then there is no reason why physical activity should stop. At risk of teaching my grandmother how to suck eggs, exercise is the fuel that will keep us all ticking over. It will help you sleep, help you breathe, help you dream, and help you forget.
Keep practising, too. Golfers, if you are lucky enough to have a garden, treat this as an opportunity to hone your putting; cricketers, get out for some throw-downs; rugby players have no excuse for not being able to pass the ball accurately when play resumes. Even if you are verdantly challenged, darts can even fill a gap in these sport-arid times. It did for me back in 2014, and I still play competitively now.
These are unprecedented times for sport, but it will return. That is the greatest motivation we all have. Channel it, get lost in dreams: dreams of the first time you get back on to the pitch or court; the first time you visit the stadium. It will happen, it is no illusion, no pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. And when it does, nothing will ever have tasted so sweet, or felt so overwhelming.
Incidentally, my first taste of public air’s sweetness after six months in isolation? The pub, of course; maybe it is telling that, as a bona fide Briton, I could think of no place better than those warm, welcoming Petri dishes. It was surreal at first, entering a premises that could have put me in the ground. It was a moment, however, that I will never forget.
It was Christmas Eve; the next day for me was especially merry. Back to normality by Christmas was an achievable goal for me then and, even without live sport’s cushion, it can be an achievable goal for us all now.