Surely one reason you want to play a team sport is that time-honoured tradition of swapping shirts with your opponent at the end. It would be my only reason to endure any sporting regime, preserving that aroma, frisson and testosterone of the match, either as a scalp or a memento of your new found boss.
Now, we hear, our alpha males, a.k.a. the All Blacks, have been banned from swapping shirts with their freshly slain prey. No reason was given but they are allowed to give away their shorts and socks, which, since I am now officially a dirty old man since my last birthday, I should never be ungrateful to drape over my face, should I be so lucky. Maybe the All Blacks are saving their jockstraps and jerseys to be auctioned off to fund their next campaign? There are enough jock sniffers in the world to turn a handsome profit from that booty.
I haven't been watching much of the world cup yet, but I was impressed with the size, girth and grit of the boys from Georgia. Frederic Michalak doing a David Beckham with his hairstyle is a turnoff though. And as for the English team, getting their pale pasty pommie arse kicked was always going to be part of the deal, despite the rather fetching shirts.