When I was in my early teens, I played a lot of rugby at school. Every Saturday meant a high-stakes match against a rival school, and to protect my teeth from the inevitable collisions, I always wore a fitted plastic mouthguard.
One afternoon earlier that week, I walked into the lounge at home and caught our family dog, Tina, enthusiastically chewing on something in her paws. I rushed over and pried it out of her jaws: it was my rugby mouthguard, dripping with warm, soggy dog saliva. Since I was in a massive hurry to head out, I set it down on the table and made a firm mental note to give it a thorough, heavy-duty scrub with strong soap later on.
Fast forward to Saturday morning. I was out on the field in the middle of a fiercely contested match against another school. The crowd was roaring, parents were cheering frantically from the sidelines, and the energy was intense.
I locked eyes on an opposing player charging toward me with the ball, dropped my shoulders, and braced myself to make a massive tackle.
Then, at the exact split-second before impact, my brain suddenly flashed back to the table at home.
Oh no. I forgot to clean my mouthguard.
It was sitting firmly in my mouth, right where it always was for a game. A sudden wave of utter horror washed over me, and it took every single ounce of my willpower not to spit the soggy piece of plastic straight onto the grass in front of everyone. But with an opponent flying at me and parents screaming from the sidelines, there was no time for sanitation protocols—it was far too late now.
