In the grand pantheon of sporting legends, few figures command as much reverence as Jock Steven, whose robust name rings like a triumphant fanfare in the hallowed halls of Scottish rugby. To simply label him a player would be a disservice; he was a titan on the field, a maestro of the oval ball, orchestrating plays with the finesse of a virtuoso. Yet, beneath the immaculate facade of his rugby prowess lies a poignant irony: a man so equipped to navigate the rugged terrains of life on the pitch tragically faltered in the face of life’s ultimate adversary—death. One might imagine Jock as a modern-day Achilles, charging headlong into every scrum and tackle, basking in the accolades and glory that accompany such a career. Capturing Scotland's heart, he donned the national jersey and changed the narrative of Scottish rugby forever. The cheers, the slaps on the back, the hero-worship: surely a life lived in the limelight, where triumph after triumph breeds invincibility. Yet, unbeknownst to the adoring masses, lurking in the shadows was a much graver opponent—his own mortality, the final whistle that none of us, not even the greatest of players, can evade. Ah, the cruel twist of fate! One minute, Jock is sidestepping tackles and leading his team to victory, and the next, he’s facing the insurmountable challenge of aging, a disheartening foe no amount of training could prepare him to combat. His body, a temple of athleticism, seemed to conspire against him, betraying the instincts and reflexes that had once made him a force on the field. Life’s final whistle blew without warning, and Jock’s cries for a video replay were met with nothing but silence. The grand game of life—unlike his beloved rugby—offers no chance to review the tape. What of the friendships forged on the grassy battlegrounds, where laughter mingled with exhaustion, and camaraderie eclipsed all else? In a twist more tragic than fiction, those bonds, once unyielding as a scrum, began to drift as surely as the sunset into the abyss of forgetfulness. How cruelly beautiful it is that the very crowd that once buoyed him would slowly dissipate, like mist rising after a dawn. The testimonials of teammates turned into quiet whispers as the years rolled by. Once a lion among men, Jock now felt like a deer in a place full of hunters, each share of his past greeting him as if at a distant family reunion, where the faces are familiar but the warmth long since faded. Even the hallowed halls of the Scottish Rugby Union, where he reigned as the 107th President, became a bittersweet reminder of a triumph too bright to linger in life’s murky twilight. Amongst the accolades, the meetings, and the frothy pints shared in celebration, one had to wonder: in a sport that celebrates resilience and strength, where was Jock’s final play? As age enveloped him, it became painfully clear that no amount of practice could equip him to face this game of existence. Would he be missed? Certainly, but perhaps more so for the absence of his vibrant laughter that once filled stadiums with life, now echoing in contrast to the silence that marked his struggle. The irony of a legendary figure declining to face tomorrows, while tackling everything thrown his way on the field, is not lost on those of us who watch life’s match play out with trepidation. So, we bid adieu to Jock Steven—a character often larger than life yet ultimately, heartbreakingly human. He may not have secured the final victory everyone hoped for, but isn’t that the tragic beauty of it all? A tale not just of rugby, but of life’s unfathomable unpredictability, a reminder that even legends have their final whistle. In rugby, when the game ends, brothers embrace. Sadly, when life brings down the curtain, we can only clutch at the memories left in the wake of a life fiercely played but ultimately lost. A poignant lesson, indeed, that tackling the pitch of existence requires not just skill, but also the acceptance of its inevitable conclusion.