A love letter to rugby union's most misunderstood artists

In 50 years’ time, when future rugby fans look back on the highest-scoring men’s Six Nations in history, what will be their standout moment? Will it be Italy’s victory over Scotland in the rain? Will it be Louis Bielle-Biarrey’s red scrum cap darting through lines of defence? Will it be Ben Earl’s tirelessness in a faltering team?

Not a chance. Because none of the above will hold a candle to the rampaging, marauding, bewildering solo effort of the red-faced, cauliflower-eared prop Rhys Carré who scored a stunner against Ireland. The turn of pace after receiving a flat pass 30 metres out. The step off his left foot to ghost past the winger Rob Baloucoune. The stiff hand-off. The extra gear as he steamed ahead. The finish. For as long as this brutal sport is played across the globe, tries like Carré’s will be placed on the highest pedestal.

What is it about props? Why do we love them so much? Part of the answer lies in psychology. Humans are drawn to outliers. Studies in social cognition consistently show that distinctiveness enhances memorability and appeal.

In 1933, the German psychiatrist Hedwig von Restorff found that when participants were presented with a list of categorically similar items with only one distinctive, isolated item on the list, memory for that item was improved. This theory, also dubbed the ‘isolation effect’, has always been in play within team sports. But in this modern age of rugby, it is more prevalent than ever.

In a field of increasingly similar athletes, where loose forwards stand in midfield, where centres pack down in the scrum, where wingers throw to the line-out and locks charge after high kicks, the prop remains visually, functionally and culturally distinct.

BIG BEN🍇💪

Tameifuna en mode destructeur #InvestecChampionsCup pic.twitter.com/0vuYtg0hy5

— Investec Champions Cup France (@ChampionsCup_FR) April 5, 2026

Consider the roll call. Joe Marler has succeeded more than any other English player in establishing a brand off the field across a range of TV shows and his own podcast. Love him or hate him, there is no denying the impact of his personality.

He’s not alone. Bristol Bears’ Max Lahiff might be the most grandiloquent athlete on the planet. Beyond being loquacious, his plyometric training regimes posted on social media are enlightening. If soliloquies that require a thesaurus are not your cup of tea, you can tune in to the podcasts of Dan Cole, Steven Kitshoff and Trevor Nyakane, or the expert commentary of David Flatman; all former front-rowers who have helped drag the dark arts of scrummaging into the light.

And that is part of the appeal. For so long, props, and the scrums they held up, existed in a kind of rugby hinterland, understood only by those who had first-hand experience of the act. The scrum was opaque. Penalties were seemingly arbitrarily awarded. Dominance was exerted, and its effects were tangibly felt, but the mechanism of the event was shrouded in mystery. Rugby fans, journalists and broadcasters seemed to be content in their ignorance.

That has changed. Slowly at first, but the curtain has been pulled back. “People are starting to appreciate that there’s a subtlety to what’s going on,” Flatman told Rugbypass last year. “It’s an art, if you like.”

The word art is doing a lot of heavy lifting. It reframes the prop not as a blunt instrument, but as something far more nuanced. Foot angles, bind pressure, timing, the microscopic shifts in weight that can decide whether a scrum goes forward or folds. So much now rides on these moments that can change the course of history. Ox Nche, South African rugby’s ‘teddy bear’, as Handre Pollard once called him, did just that when he won a series of scrum penalties against England in the 2023 World Cup semi-final. Cakes don’t only fuel scrums, to riff on Nche’s famous line, they do have the power to rewrite rugby’s narrative.

And yet, just as props have emerged from the shadows, just as the wider rugby public has begun to understand and celebrate their craft, there is a creeping unease around its future. Because hovering over all of this is a quiet, persistent conversation. What do we do with the scrum?

Despite their efforts, the aficionados are losing. During the men’s Six Nations one scrum in each half was accompanied by an advert on TV, drowning out the commentary and reducing the packs about to hammer each other into an inconvenient side show. Powerful brokers in New Zealand and Australia – with support from elsewhere – continue to call for a reduction in scrums, arguing that the set piece slows the game down and turns off would-be supporters.

But what if that assumption is wrong? What if rugby’s true spirit, its one connecting thread to a time before commercialisation, hybrid-athletes and rancour on social media is found not in the scrum-cap wearing side-steppers, but in the burly brutes who do the dirty work no-one else wants to do?

What if in our attempt to streamline the game, we are misreading what makes it compelling in the first place, and which individuals grab our attention the most? I’ve got a feeling that those of you reading this will be on board. You’re on a dedicated rugby website, more than 800 words down on a niche column. I’m assuming we’re on the same page.

So this is not an attempt to convince you, but rather a clarion call for all like-minded rugby nuts to bang the drum and sing the gospel from the rooftops. Next time you’re chatting ball with your partner, your colleague or the random bloke at the pub, be sure to give the prop their flowers.

Recount the time Martin Castrogiovanni once derailed his own career chasing a night out with Zlatan Ibrahimovi? in Las Vegas. Find the YouTube clip of Ben Tameifuna bulldozing his way to the line as Bordeaux hammered Leicester this past weekend. Mention the time Phil Vickery added to his trophy haul when he was crowned the winner of Celebrity MasterChef in 2011.

This is what props, more than the rest, give us. They provide stories. Not just tries and trinkets, but people who thrive on the periphery of a peripheral sport. Characters who bend expectations and who carry a bit of chaos into an increasingly ordered game. Strip back the scrum and you risk stripping back the conditions that create them. And without them rugby may still function, but it would feel a little less alive.