A rugby warrior faces a quiet, devastating opponent
On a crisp autumn morning, I found myself thinking about a photograph that has been replayed in fans’ memories for two decades: Lewis Moody, dirt-streaked and grinning, arms around teammates, the Webb Ellis Cup shimmering in the Australian sun. It was a picture that announced triumph, grit and the kind of communal joy sport can conjure.
Today that image feels both triumphant and fragile. Lewis Moody, the uncompromising back-row who made 71 appearances for England and sealed a place in rugby folklore during the 2003 World Cup, has been diagnosed with motor neurone disease (MND). He told the BBC that he received the news two weeks ago and is still finding his feet with what it means.
“There’s something about looking the future in the face and not wanting to really process that at the minute,” Moody said. “It’s not that I don’t understand where it’s going. We understand that. But there is absolutely a reluctance to look the future in the face for now.”
Even to write those words feels intimate. This is a man who built a career on facing the future head-on — storming mauls, stealing line-outs, running through pain and giving everything to his team. Now, like thousands of others here in the UK and around the world, he has been handed a diagnosis that is stubbornly indifferent to past glories.
The man behind the jersey
Moody’s story is the kind that binds communities. Born in Swindon but forever linked to Leicester and later Bath, he made 223 appearances for Leicester Tigers, collected seven Premiership titles and two European Cups, and was a mainstay of the England side that lifted the World Cup in 2003. In the final against Australia, it was Moody who won the crucial line-out that led, moments later, to Jonny Wilkinson’s infamous drop goal — a single action stitched forever into rugby history.
“The figures, trophies and awards tell you what an incredible player Lewis was, but that is only half the story,” Andrea Pinchen, chief executive of Leicester Tigers, said in a statement that carried the quiet admiration of a club still proud of one of its sons. “As an individual, his commitment to his club along with his warmth and passion shone through, which endeared him to team-mates, staff and supporters alike.”
And yet, Moody keeps returning to an unexpected truth: he does not feel sick in the way you might imagine. “You’re given this diagnosis of MND and we’re rightly quite emotional about it, but it’s so strange because I feel like nothing’s wrong,” he told the BBC. “I don’t feel ill. I don’t feel unwell. My symptoms are very minor. I have a bit of muscle wasting in the hand and the shoulder. I’m still capable of doing anything and everything. And hopefully that will continue for as long as is possible.”
From individual struggle to communal response
Within hours of his announcement, the rugby world rallied. The Rugby Football Union released a message of solidarity: “We are all deeply saddened and distressed to learn that Lewis Moody has been diagnosed with motor neurone disease,” said Bill Sweeney, CEO of the RFU. “Our thoughts are with Lewis and his family and friends at this very difficult time as they come to terms with this diagnosis and I know the entire rugby community stands with them and will support them.”
Former teammates Geordan Murphy and Leon Lloyd wasted no time. They launched an online fundraiser to help Lewis and his family, the kind of grassroots response that, in Britain, moves faster than official aid sometimes can. The page passed £1,000 within an hour — a small figure in the grand scheme, but a loud one in moral terms: people want to act.
“We saw what happened with Doddie and Rob,” said a club volunteer in Leicester as she pinned a homemade badge to a noticeboard. “You can’t just stand by. You help where you can — money, time, a meal, a listen. It’s what communities do.”
Why this strikes a nerve
Part of the intensity of the public reaction is rooted in recent, painful history. Doddie Weir and Rob Burrow — two beloved figures in British rugby — both died after years battling motor neurone disease, Weir in 2022 and Burrow in 2023. Their struggles prompted one of the most visible fundraising and awareness campaigns sport has seen in recent memory, largely driven by Leeds Rhinos coach Kevin Sinfield, who became a household name for his marathon fundraising feats.
Theirs are not isolated cases. The MND Association (UK) estimates there are around 5,000 people living with motor neurone disease in the UK, and roughly 1,100 to 1,200 people receive a diagnosis each year. Globally, the condition — most commonly known as ALS in many countries — affects people at an incidence of roughly 1.5–2.5 per 100,000 annually, though those numbers vary by region and study.
Median survival after onset is often quoted at two to three years, though there are many exceptions. Stephen Hawking, for instance, lived for decades with a form of motor neurone disease; others decline much faster. The variability is part of why the diagnosis lands with such bewildering weight for families and patients alike.
Questions that stretch beyond sport
There are broader issues here that sit at the intersection of sport, health and societal responsibility. Are contact sports doing enough to protect their athletes? Is there a connection between repeated head injury or exposure to high-intensity physical stress and neurodegenerative disease? Researchers are investigating, and some studies suggest a raised risk among former professional athletes in certain sports, but causation is far from settled.
“We have signals in the data suggesting higher than expected rates in some groups, but the science isn’t definitive,” said a neurologist who researches MND at a major UK university. “Clarifying those links requires long-term cohort studies and biochemical insights we don’t yet fully possess. What we can and must do now is improve screening, support, and safety measures without waiting for perfect answers.”
That argument — caution without paralysis — resonates with many of the former pros I spoke to. “You play because you love it,” said a retired flanker now coaching at a school in Bath. “But you also owe it to the next generation to make it safer. That’s not bureaucracy; that’s stewardship.”
Small moments, lasting impact
Walk through Leicester on a matchday and you’ll see how a club and city keep a player’s memory alive long after retirement: chants echoing in the pubs, shirts waved in sunlight, grandparents telling grandchildren about the tackles that made crowds roar. Those cultural threads matter. They shape how people respond when one of their own is faced with something as raw as MND.
Moody’s diagnosis is a private moment made public by the nature of his life. His candor — reluctant, blunt, humane — has already sparked practical acts and quieter ones too: messages on social media, calls to old teammates, offers of help from fans who remember being hugged by him at a meet-and-greet.
He remains stubbornly defiant in small ways. “I’m still capable of doing anything and everything,” he said. “And hopefully that will continue for as long as is possible.” Those words are not denial; they are a pledge to live fully in the present, to keep being the man loved by teammates and strangers alike.
So what do we do with a story like this? We watch, we listen, and we reckon with the messy, human questions behind the headlines. We ask our sports institutions to act responsibly. We demand research funding and better care. And we, as neighbors and fans, we show up.
Will you? Maybe with a donation, a conversation with someone who knows MND, or simply by reading and sharing the story of a man who helped lift a cup and is now asking for a community to lift him.
- England caps: 71
- British & Irish Lions caps: 5
- Club appearances for Leicester Tigers: 223
- Approximate number of people living with MND in the UK: ~5,000
