Like You Mean It
“Crouch, touch – engage!”
Sprint, catch, run – slam. Crash into the turf like a comet, but in this case I get pulverised and the ground stays fine. My red shirt is rendered brown by the muddy impact, my face purple from the bruise. The ugly bastard who tackled me is back up in seconds, stomping off to laugh heartily with his interchangeable teammates.
The joys of rugby.
Blender on – watching fruit your team shirt’s colour get diced to a pulp instils one with great confidence. Deep breath in & out, stretch while I wait. Anticipate the brute force impacts, anticipate the talent scouts hiding in the masses, anticipate the roar of the crowds in the stands. What are they really cheering for?
Back on my feet with some effort, over to the coach barking at us – he definitely means it. “I don’t think you understand, boys! We’re tied! You’ve got three minutes left to break that damn tie with your bare hands! So I want you to get out there like you mean it! Do you mean it?!”
“Yes, coach!”
“I said do you mean it?!”
“Yes, coach!”
Back to the scrum – all the players packing in close, heads down, the ball in the middle. Muscles filled with suspense, waiting to flex and erupt. Whoever can jostle the ball out kicks it back – and the sucker set up to catch it better run like he means it for the try line. They engage, the sucker has to disengage.
As I approach my gaze drifts to the crowds – all rapt with anticipation, and the tiniest bit of bloodlust. I know, deep down, they liked seeing me get pummelled into the grass.
The blender pulverises the red, smearing the purple.
Screw it – someone’s gotta prove it, why not me? I get into position – behind the scrum.
“Crouch!”
See the ball…
“Touch!”
Deep breath in…
“Engage!”
I turn the blender off – hints of red and purple.
Eruption – disengage. the scrum ignites, the crowd roars, the ball is jostled, it’s kicked back…and I run like I mean it.
My boots pound the turf, studs tearing up grass with every stride – they’re all coming for me, but I’m playing to win. Duck, weave, dodge, feint, and most of all, keep running.
One rapid glance to the scoreboard – one minute left. My hands chafe and burn as I grip the ball – slam.
He doesn’t tackle me, get me off my feet, or get the ball – but he does get me off balance for a moment. I can’t stop moving, but it’s a struggle to stay upright…
The ball almost slips…
No way in hell I’m letting them beat me now.
Grip the ball, push with my legs, they’re all behind me – dive for the line as they reach for me…
Tie broken – I crash over the line, barely a millimetre away from their grasp. Cheers, roars, celebrations, victory.
Win like you mean it.
Down in one, time to go.