Rugby.
Our school had two forms of rugby.

The first was normal rugby. Normal rugby is fine, as there are rules and limitations on what one player is allowed to do to another, and they mostly cry foul at anything much beyond the level of ordinary playground roughhousing.

Then there was touch rugby.

In touch rugby, you don't have to tackle your opponent, you just touch them. This sounds fine, but under the sadistic or possibly merely inattentive eye of a PE teacher, anything is a touch. The gentle, effeminate tap the designers of the game had in mind? Touch. Punching the asthmatic kid in the gut, leaving him rolling on the floor trying to wheeze the word "inhaler"? Touch. Disemboweling a child, spreading their guts across the sports field while their decapitated head rolls lumpily across the grass to rest against the goal post? Yeah, probably a touch.

For the smart, touch rugby boiled down to two very simple rules.

1) Avoid the ball.
2) If you fail at (1), run like mad.

Note that rule 2 doesn't specify running toward the touchline at any point. If you were next to it then this may have been a good strategy, but otherwise it was where everyone expected you to run - and if team selection was anything like my school, getting a half-hearted sigh from one of the geeky kids on your team (who didn't care and would rather be programming in the computer room) after you'd "accidentally" run the wrong way up the field and veered off the pitch was better than the 15 finest jocks and self-appointed hard lads intercepting you spurred on by the knowledge that a "touch" was pretty much anything that didn't leave the victim in liquid form.

The PE report for the year we played touch rugby says something along the lines of, "Timberwolf is good at identifying game strategies but does not always apply these in a way that will help the team to victory." My superior skills of self-preservation are sadly not commented upon.
(Timberwolf, Thu 19 Apr 2012, 23:18, 1 reply)

Wingers
Loved playing there.

You never get the ball because the fly half thinks he's Jack th'Lad and hoofs the ball downfield, or if you do, you run like buggery until anyone comes remotely near you, whence you boot the ball into touch, thereby gaining ground and earning the admiration of your fellow backs, and the hatred of the forwards, who have to break into a trot to form the lineout 40 yards down the field.

And you keep your knees clean.
( The Lone Groover has mal des nuts., Fri 20 Apr 2012, 8:16, closed)