The problem with a guy like Johan Bardoul is this: you never quite know whether or not you should be taking him seriously. Which, given he's a school teacher, makes him ideally suited to being a professional rugby player.
For starters he's got arms the length of legs and legs the length of arms - a distinctly discombobulating arrangement of limbs which leads one to the logical conclusion that he would be more comfortable putting his shorts on over his head, and stepping into his playing jersey. For all we know, that could well be how he gets dressed before the game. And, for that matter, it would not be surprising if his big toes were opposable.
In any case, once on the field, Bardoul's peculiar proportions lend to the loose forward a kind of poetic gracelessness that brings to mind an image of a badly hungover man, running late for work, looking for the car keys and busting for the loo, while carrying a full cup of coffee across a floor littered with tiny pieces of Lego.
He is a syncopated symphony of sidesteps and surprise movements. You don't know whether to tackle him or sedate him. By all accounts, every photo of him is from a distance, and blurry. But, and this is where the story really begins, the bloke they call Big Yogi is an absolute beauty.
And, in all his ungainly brilliance, he's a poster child of a kind. He's the guy who doesn't give up, the guy who sets the toughest targets for himself, the guy who would lead a horse to water AND make it drink. He's the guy who's not just here to make up the numbers. In other words, he's exactly the kind of guy upon whom winning teams are built.