I never really thought of it before, but I completely get what Amy Huberman was saying when she commented on how hard it is to watch her hubby Brian O'Driscoll play a game of rugby.
She worries that he might get injured, and then, of course, she has to battle the highs and lows of the game with even more of a vested interest than the rest of us.
While we watch Ireland's progress through the Rugby World Cup with our hearts in our mouths, I'd say Amy spends most of the time either under the sofa at home, or glued to her grandstand seat, watching through squinted eyes and knitted fingers.
How terrifying must it be to see your other half get involved in a sport so physical that he could end up mashed to pieces? All it takes is a wayward kick, an elbow, a bad fall or an overpowering opponent to change the life of the person you love the most ... and yours too, by association.
Amy, Jessica O'Gara and all the other rugby wives have a heavy burden to shoulder, possibly the psychological equivalent of a scrum just beside the touchdown line.
And I get it, absolutely. I couldn't imagine watching my Trevor out on the pitch, with some huge Welsh oaf attempting to gouge his eye out. It would take all my being not to storm the pitch and give the brute a piece of my mind. Or thwack the WAG of the offending player, as she stood on the terrace beside me.
And even when injury isn't the biggest worry for our heroes' ladies, there's still the game to contend with, and how their men are faring; the pressure must be fierce. Not only must these girls want their men to do well, but I'm sure there's almost a feeling of national responsibility.
I'm sure the stress channels its way off the pitch, and right into the pit of the WAGs' stomachs every time they hear people say things like "ach, wouldn't a win here be just the sort of lift our country needs right now?" Er, no pressure, so.
I'd say the girls dread match day as much as they look forward to it. And what must be worse than watching the match live is the prospect of seeing your partner head off to play an away fixture, leaving you at home with the telly, George Hook and your thoughts -- just ask Zara Phillips ... whoops.
I was a rugby WAG for all of three weeks once, and I have to say I didn't revel in it. It was a masculine world I had no hope of accessing, and, if truth be told, little interest that I could sustain. I could never see myself in a sheepskin coat, nor have I the patience for the constant morale boosting.
And because I'm a worrier, I'm not built to cope with the fear -- of injury, of boozed-up shenanigans and of putting the pieces back together when the play didn't go the right way.
So I take my hat off to Amy, a better woman than me. And I'll be cheering for her and the other dutiful WAGs as much as for the boys in green.