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It happened at the age of thirteen during a routine afternoon rugby practice session. There was a clashing of heads as a friend and I entered the same tackle from opposite ends. There was that distinct sound of the cracking of teeth, the ice-cold pain that followed and the taste of blood and grit on my tongue. Then, there was the cold sweat when I first saw my wrecked smile on the way to the ER. An hour later, flat on my back in the local dentist’s chair, I was forcing my mind to find ‘Wally’ on the poster taped to his ceiling, instead of contemplating the bigger question posed in that moment – ‘what next?’

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