Charlie Morgan Thu, 29 January 2026 at 11:29 am UTC·10 min read I grew up in Leicester with a father who had witnessed at first hand a remarkable era of Welsh rugby union. Despite occasionally joking about having no choice but to fall in love with the sport, I know that to be untrue. He bought us the odd oval ball, yet Dad was hardly forceful in nudging me and Theo, my younger brother, towards rugby. His support was unmistakable, yet also gentle and understated. I was, however, made aware of Keith Jarrett.Advertisement Advertisement Advertisement Dad would have been 16 when he sat in the stands and saw Jarrett carried off Cardiff Arms Park on the shoulders of his team-mates after spurring...
