The Tale of the Broken Rib

So, I was worried that Thiago and I had run out of topics for our meeting today, but boy was I in for a treat. I started off the meeting by arriving late (payback) at 1873, and opened with a classic overview of the weather patterns that Texas was experiencing. We shared a few sentences about that, before Thiago whipped out his iPhone to show me the weather for the weekend, which shocked me because tomorrow was a high of 18!
Celsius, Sarah, Celsius.
Anyway, after that, Thiago congratulated me on my recent SGA win, and we briefly discussed what that entailed. I told him basically what I do is take complaints and try to fix them, so if he had any, lay them on me! Thiago and I share the basic philosophy that we don't enjoy complaining, so that conversation ended quickly.
I don't know how exactly we got started on rugby talk, but let me tell you I'm glad we did. Thiago played rugby for a few years, up until some injuries prevented him from continuing. I probed in and asked the specificity of his pain, and was I in for a treat!
"Don't judge me...." he started off his story. When those are the first words, you know you're in for a treat. He proceeded to tell me the tale of his broken ribs.
(Don't mind my creative writing mind embellishing a few details)
It was a dark and stormy late afternoon in San Paolo, Brazil. Our hero, Thiago, laced up his shoes and popped in his mouth guard, the only protection allowed in this hellish sport. He wiped his brow and strutted out of the locker room onto the field - his oyster, his battleground. Around him was his team of burly young men, anxious for an opportunity to express themselves in the only way then knew - rugby.
Who dare challenge these men?
Who dare place themselves up to the task?
"No man can beat us!" Was the team's battle cry, which, after this match, turned to an ironic Macbeth-esque flaw.
Suddenly, the other team appeared out of the mist.
20 burly, brawny, muscular, and terrifying players appeared... all harboring two X chromosomes.
Yeah. You read that right. The women's rugby team.
Never one to disrespect an opponent, the teams got to playing. It was soon seen that the women were in a league of their own, much stronger and faster than anyone could have imagined.
Our hero, sensing an opportunity to bring back glory to his team, ran toward the woman with the ball, and tackled her full on. Her weight and the ball came crushing down entirely onto our hero's right ribcage with an intensity that only a female rugby player can bring. Our hero, though in immense pain, did not cry out. In fact, he didn't stop playing. In fact, he rode home on the bus after the game. In fact, he went about his daily routine for the next two days. In fact, he went to a party the next night, and only after realizing that he was unable to laugh did he finally consider maybe a visit to the physician. In good spirits, he went to the doctor and was given a crushing blow to his ribs and ego- broken ribs. That meant no more rugby for him.
The end.
Thiago's version was a little less detailed, but I figured he deserved a real story.
After delving deeper into his past rugby life, I found out that he is really just "terrible" (his words, not mine) at sports. He injured his ankle in a game of volleyball about a year ago, and it still gives him some trouble to this day. Sports. Not his thing. Fair enough.
What IS his thing, though, is photography, as I said last time. He was generous enough to provide me with some business cards, which was super kind of him.
I told him I'd review his work and get back to him for our next and last meeting, where we will actually eat lunch together. We're both super psyched about it.
So, even though I'm getting ready to say bye to Thiago, with these cards I can always say Hello to Motta! (bad jokes on me tonight, everyone!)