You don’t choose Welsh rugby.

It chooses you, quietly, like rain soaking into stone.

You inherit it with the echo of a crowd rising to its feet.

With the muddy laces of your brother’s boots.

With your father’s growl when the anthem starts.

It lives in small places.

In the cracked voice singing calon lan in a village pub.

In the flint-eyed stare before a tackle that might break bone.

In the kitchen radio on a cold Six Nations morning.

Wales is a country where the jersey is heavier than it looks.

Where courage is ordinary, and sacrifice is expected.

Where a line break can lift a nation, and a tackle can silence time.

Where win or lose, we never give up however bad things get.

Because this isn’t just a game.

It’s Wales