What Kevin Sinfield cradling MND hero Rob Burrow in his arms has taught men like me about ‘bromance’

Last May, we were witness to a sporting moment that, no matter how many times you watch it, never fails to bring a tear to the eye.

It came on the finish line of the Leeds marathon. In the middle of thousands of those testing themselves against the clock, was a small posse of runners who had, between them, pushed a wheelchair round the 26.2 mile course.

These were former professional rugby league players, and in the chair was their old teammate Rob Burrow, his limp, immobile body ravaged by the traumatic, wasting effects of motor neurone disease.

But rather than simply push the chair over the line, however, the runners stopped short, untied the strappings keeping him in place, and gently lifted him out into the arms of Kevin Sinfield, the group’s leader. Sinfield then carried him like a child across the finishing mark. As he did so, he kissed his old friend’s neck. This was an act framed by profound poignancy.

And Sinfield knew precisely what he was doing in that moment. Burrow had been a man whose life was defined by his physicality.

Tiny by rugby league standards, at 5’5” and 10st he had nevertheless bestrode the world of giants, playing 492 times for Leeds Rhinos, winning along the way seven titles. Astonishingly brave, extraordinarily quick and agile, darting constantly for the try line, by relentlessly defying all assumptions of how to succeed in the game, he had forged an unshakeable reputation.

Sinfield, at 6’1” and 14st was much more typical of rugby league’s assumptions of scale, but the pair had bonded in the heat of battle, their reliance and respect for each other total. In that moment at the end of the marathon, with Burrow’s body almost broken, Sinfield wanted his mate to feel the achievement of crossing the line.

What he was doing was using his body to act as a surrogate for Burrow’s cruelly depleted frame: you can’t walk, so I’ll carry you. But most of all, he wanted them to complete the race together, a telling throw-back to their once great sporting partnership.

That was what he had done ever since his friend was first diagnosed with the disease in 2019, aged just 37. Burrow had immediately said he wanted to challenge the deprivations of the condition by raising funds for its treatment. He would do anything and everything to collect money and, as his body began to fail, Sinfield stepped in, lending his physicality to the cause.

In 2020 he ran seven marathons in seven days and set himself a donation target of £77,777. In the end, he raised over £1.2million.

So he went further and harder, dedicating his life to ever more testing challenges in Burrow’s name. As often as he could, he would push his mate with him, in that specially adapted wheelchair. Theirs was, his every effort insisted, a partnership.

And what a partnership. Between them they collected more than £20million to fight this awful condition; work began on the £6million new Rob Burrow Centre for MND in Leeds this Monday. Sinfield insisted he was not doing this for Rob Burrow, he was doing it with him. They had done everything together, played, fought and won as a team. This was no different. Now they would fund raise together.

Whenever Sinfield and Burrow talked of each other it was with a warmth that was almost radiant. Naturally, this was often framed in gentle mickey taking, even to the last when Burrow had lost the use of his voice and was obliged to converse through a computer, he would make humorous reference to Sinfield’s unceasing efforts.

These were northern, rugby playing lads after all, for whom joshing is both a bonding agent and a shield against any hint of softness.

But there was no joshing in that moment when Sinfield lifted his mate out of the chair and carried him over the line in Leeds in May last year. That was an open demonstration of affection; we saw how deep their connection was. This was not just a mark of friendship. It was an act of love.