You look at it and stifle a groan. The giant screen, mounted high in the stadium, is replaying the last phase of play. The referees are focussing specifically on a tackle made by your teammate.
Shoulder to head. That’s dangerous play.
Serious repercussions.
You turn away.
Best case? Yellow card. He’s gone for ten minutes.
Worst? A red. You lose him for good.
Either way, it’s a guaranteed three points, which levels the game. And with five minutes left to play, the momentum just shifted.
You ignore the reaction of their fans as replays show the tackle from different angles. All bad.
Instead, you rehydrate.
You look around at the men standing beside you. They’ve given everything.
Today.
Every day.
All year.
How much more do they have? Enough to make it to extra time? Maybe, but the game will be impossible if the card is red.
You feel some relief then when the referee pulls out a yellow.
Some.
75.13
Standing behind the try-line, hands on hips, you don’t watch the kick. Foregone conclusion. You stand, shoulder to aching shoulder.
Silent.
Determined.
Together.
The ball soars overhead.
Three points.
Game tied. 12-12
75.52
You lead them back to the halfway line. To kick the restart.
Legs are heavy. Cramp close. Only a few kicks left in them. But you don’t let on.
You bounce the ball.
Comfort in routine.
Burning muscle memory.
You check for offside. Then send it deep.
They claim. Protect. Kick back.
It’s all about territory now. Has been all game.
You’re positioned behind. Central in a deep line of three, ready to catch and return, primed for kick tennis.
And so it goes.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
Each team looking to find a chink.
Force an error.
76.51
Then you collect.
Composed, you kick deep, and almost make touch when the defender slips. But he’s better than that. He stands, regathers his composure. Punts it right back at you.
But short.
Creating space in the mid-field.
You see the gap. Aim between the lines. Then chip.
Chase the hanging ball.
Trademark.
The tiger roar surges.
They know. This one has a chance.
On another day it lands or bounces into your hands. But that’s another day. Today the random, incalculable oval ball arcs over your head…
…
…
…into a friendly pair of hands.
Front foot now. No need for defensive spacing.
You sit directly behind the set piece. In the pocket. That’s your job.
Let the big lads grind metres from inches. That’s theirs.
Sometimes the coalface holds. Sometimes it yields.
Damn, they’re good.
77.37
Ten-metre line. Still too far out. Go again. And again.
78.22
Box kick pistols high.
The stadium groans. It’s lottery time now.
The ball hangs. Swirls. Plummets.
Our numbers come up. Their man misjudges.
We collect. We drive.
First phase. Twenty-two metres out.
Close.
You don’t think about it.
Don’t dream.
Don’t remember.
Don’t think.
Instead, you focus.
78.42
Their twenty-two breached, but out of position. Ball is too far right. Can’t kick from here. Need to bring play back to the centre.
A sudden burst and their line weakens. You instinctively drift closer to the action, even pick a line. But the forwards run a third phase.
Back in the pocket.
78.56
More phases.
Sixth. Seventh. Eighth.
Centre field regained.
In front of the posts now.
In range.
They roar.
79.05
Another phase. A few more precious inches.
Forwards tiring. Almost punched out.
Still, they go again, but it’s getting scrappy. Both sides risking penalties.
Every step contested. Every blade a battle.
That noise. That roar.
They know what’s coming. Seen it before.
They yearn for the release. The vindication.
So do you.
79.30
Platform set.
Scrum half crouched. Hands on the ball.
It’s coming.
79.32
Snap. The mechanism springs.
Ball’s in flight.
The opposition charge, arms raised.
You don’t see them. You’re focussed on one thing.
You hold your breath.
Bite your tongue.
79.33
Catch.
Set.
79.34
Drop.
Kick.
A world stops turning. A stadium inhales. A ball rises.
How did it come to this?
Twelve months ago you were lost. In the wilderness. Your career as good as over. An undeniable talent, sure, but one with a legacy already spoken of in terms of what might have been. A nearly man.
But that’s why you’re here. Experience. Character. Journeyman turned navigator.
A bench player. A squad number. A long shot.
The ball hangs at its apex.
The long shot.
79.35
Nearly no more.
Editorial
There’s no cause more difficult to empathise with than another team’s jubilation at winning. And yet what Freddie Burn’s and Leicester Tigers did a couple of weeks ago in winning the English Gallagher Premiership was something that anyone who likes stories can appreciate.
The underdog narrative works, no matter the sport. Boxing, football, curling – we can’t help rooting for the little (or in this case, not so little) guys. Combine that with a tale of redemption for the ageing journeyman who gets that one last, totally unexpected shot at glory – in the last minute, no less – and you have the kind of story that becomes myth.
“I was there when…” people will say for years to come.
It shouldn’t matter this much.
But it really does.
Pl@tpav - Telling Stories 