People picture a physio with a massage table. The reality is that the biggest parts of this job are decision-making and communication, triaging injuries, planning return-to-play timelines, translating clinical information into something a coach can build a game plan around, and just as importantly, making sure players understand their injury, their plan and exactly where they stand. The hands-on stuff matters, but it’s the smallest part of the week.
Here’s what the week actually looks like:
Monday: the engine room
I’m in the clinic by 6 – 6:30 am for a full day of patients at SquareOne. Late morning, there’s a call with the head coach and head of S&C to plan the week: who’s in rehab, who needs training modified, who’s touch and go for the weekend.
Monday night is injury clinic, which is really the engine room of the whole week. Every player who picked something up on Saturday comes through, and we make early calls: are they available for the upcoming round, does anyone need imaging or medical input, or into structured rehab? The earlier those decisions are made, the better the week runs for everyone; coaches can plan their selections, players know where they stand, and nobody’s guessing on Thursday night. Players from right across the club come through, including the Colts, Sirens and the lower grades through to the top squad. Everyone assessed goes into the injury clinic report, which is sent out to coaches club-wide so they head into the week working off the full, current picture. I lock up the clinic somewhere between 7:30 and 8pm.
Tuesday and Thursday: training nights
Tuesday, I’m back in by 6 – 6:30 am for another full clinic day. Patients, team meetings, and clinical development, then I pack the training bag and head to the club. Training nights are strapping, pitch-side assessment, and running the rehab group. There’s constant back-and-forth with the S&C staff about what running the rehab boys are doing that night, any contact exposure, and how we’re reintegrating them with the team. Before I leave, coaches get an update on anything that’s popped up.
Thursday runs the same, after daycare drop-off in the morning and clinic from midday. By Thursday night, the coaches should have a clear picture of who’s available and under what conditions. No surprises on Saturday is the goal.
Wednesday, for the record, is my day off with my two kids. Daddy daycare, arguably the toughest shift of the week.
Friday: no official duties (in theory)
Friday is clinic from 8:30 to 6 with no official Norths duties, but the phone rarely stops. I am always busy organising imaging, chasing scan results, booking specialist appointments, and keeping coaches in the loop. The overwhelming majority of this job happens away from game day. Game day is the visible two percent. If I’ve done my job well during the week, Saturday is usually quiet.
Saturday: the best seat in the house
Saturday is my favourite day of the week, no contest. Everything the medical team does Monday to Friday exists so players can be on the park on Saturday.
It starts with the morning at my son’s soccer, then I roll into the ground around midday to set up for first grade and treat anyone who needs it. From 1 pm it’s game on for the physio crew, strapping and preparing first grade for kick-off. At 2:30, I head out to take over pitch-side coverage for the back end of second grade, then straight into first grade.
Pitch-side, the big responsibility is player welfare: assessing any injury on the run and deciding whether a player is safe to continue and able to do his job, or whether he comes off. That’s sometimes a thirty-second decision. Around that, I’m relaying messages from the coaching box, managing head injury protocols, and at halftime huddling with the doctor, S&C and coaches on anything from the first half: can he continue, and for how long?
Post-match, the work moves to the sheds. I do the rounds and check in on every player, then focus on the ones carrying something out of the game: early assessment, deciding who needs imaging, who needs Monday’s injury clinic, and who just needs ice and a beer. The first 48 hours shape the whole timeline, so getting those early calls right matters more than anything.
Sunday: the report nobody sees
Sunday is a follow-up day on anyone with issues from Saturday, and family time. Then Sunday night, the injury report goes out to the coaches. Every injury from the weekend, how it happened, how it was assessed, how the player is today, and exactly what it means: injury clinic Monday, clearly unavailable, or cleared without needing to come in, plus any training modifications required to keep players on the park.
It’s probably the thing supporters never see and the least glamorous part of the week, but selection meetings run off it. With a squad this size across grades, you can’t run things out of your head. Every injury is documented from day one, every rehab progresses through structured phases with objective criteria, and everyone- coaches, S&C, medical, works off the same page.
Monday: rinse and repeat.
Rehab is performance work
Rugby is a unique beast from a physio perspective. You’re managing the running-based soft tissue injuries you’d see in any field sport. Hamstrings are the bread and butter, along with calves and ankles, plus the contact layer on top: shoulders, ACJs, head knocks. And return-to-play isn’t just “can he run.” It’s “can he tackle, be tackled, hit a ruck and scrummage.” Rebuilding a player’s tolerance and confidence for contact is a whole rehab phase in itself, and it’s the part that doesn’t exist in most other sports.
I try not to see injury management and performance as separate things. Good rehab is performance work. We’re not just getting a hamstring to heal; we’re getting it stronger and more resilient than it was before the injury. Players progress when they hit objective markers, not when the calendar says so, and by the end of a rehab block, a player has often done more targeted strength and speed work than he would in a normal season. The goal is never just “available” it’s “available and better.”
Requirements of the job
Clinical reasoning first: sport exposes weak reasoning fast. Then communication: you’re translating between players, coaches, doctors, surgeons and S&C staff who all speak slightly different languages. Coaches don’t need the pathology lecture that I learnt that helps me think about prognosis and recovery; however, they need to know: is he available, is he modified, or is he out, and for how long? If a timeline changes, they hear it from me first, not through the grapevine.
Coaches and players can handle bad news; what they can’t work with is vague news. Saying “he’s out for six weeks and here’s why” earns you far more trust than optimistic guessing.
Why I keep doing it
The honest answer is simple: I genuinely love working in rugby. Rugby is my passion, not a side gig I tolerate around clinic hours. It’s the part of the week I’d protect above almost anything.
Within that, it’s the return-to-play moments. Walking a player through months of rehab, including the setbacks, the boring middle weeks, the graduated return to contact, and then watching him run back out for first grade. Josh Barr coming back from a Latarjet reconstruction is a good example: a shoulder rebuild is one of the longer, more demanding rehabs in rugby, and everything hinges on rebuilding confidence in contact before he’s anywhere near a game. Or George Thornton, multiple calf injuries and repeated setbacks, the kind of stop-start rehab that tests a player’s patience more than anything, now out the other side and playing some of his best footy.
My three words to describe the role of a Shute Shield physio? Decisions, systems, fun. Good decisions win the week. Good systems are what make them possible with a squad this size. And the fun is the reason you keep saying yes to the 6 am starts and late-night finishes.