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For a moment, watching those Welsh boys drive into a ruck in the rain, I thought of my own urad dal—soaked, ground, and left to ferment on the balcony. You can armchair-quote all the fancy tactical theories, but like my pappadam dough, either the humidity is right or the whole batch falls flat. I don't care about the grand laws of the game; I just want to know who pressed harder and whose timing held.
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