Moody’s diagnosis with motor neurone disease at the age of 47 is desperate news for all those who know and love him
B
ack when he was captaining England at the 2011 Rugby World Cup, Lewis Moody went canyon swinging near Queenstown in New Zealand. Despite being utterly fearless on the pitch he was not brilliant with heights. That day, he wrote in his autobiography, was “the most terrifying experience of my life”. Or at least it was. A fortnight ago, he and his family were plunged into something infinitely scarier.
Moody’s diagnosis with the incurable motor neurone disease at the age of 47 is, first and foremost, desperate news for all those who know and love him. There are good guys and then there is “Moodos”, about whom nobody in rugby has a bad word. Cruel doesn’t come close to describing it.
Because, aside from being an unfailingly nice bloke, Moody’s almost childlike relish for the game was just as infectious. He threw himself into places from which most normal people would flee in the opposite direction. Whether he was out there representing England’s 2003 World Cup winners, the British & Irish Lions, Leicester, Bath or Bracknell minis, he was the personification of an English lionheart who unfailingly put his body on the line for the cause.
