The First of Many

Well, today was a bit of a disappointment. Work was as it always is: a chore. The day passed by while I watched unamused, then after the tedium was over, it was time for the first meeting of a writer's club I have joined (can you join something before it has started?). We actually started it last year, kind of. We attended a writing course with Ian Clayton, then another earlier this year. From there, we decided that we would meet once a month or so, tonight being the starting point. Except it wasn't. There were only two of us, everybody else bailed! If at first, you don't succeed...

Anyway, I had written a short piece for my clubmates to peruse, but as they weren't there to have a gander, I will publish it here. Of course, with this being a new blog, I don't expect anyone to read it - other than the obligatory family members/girlfriend (separate people, before I am accused of incest). I must also warn any potential readers to the insinuated nudity throughout most of the story. Enjoy.

A Day in the Park

I was glad that my breathing had returned to normal. These days it takes longer for me to recover.Another benefit of getting older I suppose.

I stepped onto the cold tiled floor and made my way to one of the shower heads. I don't know whether the process of showering afterwards is to remove the dirt or to remove the feeling; it is refreshing and obviously cleans the body, but it also helps to get rid of the intensity, and wind down after being so worked up. As it turns out, it also helps to bring back memories from the last eighty minutes.

I pressed the button below the shower head, and felt the sudden cascade of cold water on my face - albeit a weak cascade. The water gradually warmed, and I began cleaning my body and soul. As I started to rub my hands over my face to remove the mud, sweat and anything else that shouldn't be there, I was reminded of the opening five minutes of the game by the tender area below my right eye.

The whistle blows, and Ed drop-kicks the ball high into the air, aiming for the middle of the opposition's spread out pack. The ball is caught by one of their forwards, just in time for the arrival of some of the members of my pack. Both sides have competent teams, and the ball gets tied up in a maul. I arrive and charge in head first, ready to help shove the mass of bodies towards their try line. As my shoulder makes contact with one of the entangled bodies, my face meets the elbow of one of their players as he wrestles to free the ball. It hits me like a sledgehammer, directly in the eye socket. The pain swims through my head but is brief, and after shaking it off I dive back into the game.

I recalled the memory, realising that had his elbow been just one inch to the left, my nose would have been splattered across my face. I continued to wash, using shower gel and the trickle of water to help scrub away the mud. As the lathered foam ran down the back of my left leg, I was reminded of the early moments of the second half by the stinging wound running from my calf to my ankle.

A deep kick from inside our twenty-two from the full back, Dan, sends the ball back into their half. The swifter of our players give chase, but the referee has spotted that one of them is offside and gives a penalty. They opt to kick the ball out of play back in our twenty-two, and we form the two lines ready for a line-out. Their hooker, a miserable veteran with a crop of whitish-grey hair, stands on the touch line ready to throw the ball between our formed lines. I have taken my place as second in our line, with my teammate Sam standing in front of me holding the bottom of my shorts. Behind me another bulky fellow forward readies himself, gripping the backs of my thighs. As the ball is launched into the air, I leap up to intercept the throw. My two assistants lift me as if I am made of feathers, displaying no signs of effort or struggle, and I manage to rise in front of my opposite number in the line. I manage to tap the ball down to Dunnie at scrum-half, who spins the ball out to Ed while I am still airborne. I am returned to Earth half a second before the opposing player that I have just deftly stolen the pass from. As he lands, the studs on his boot scrape down my calf. Searing pain shoots through my leg, but it is forgotten a moment later as adrenaline allows me to chase the kick that has sent the ball back into their half.

Well, that definitely left a mark. I inspected the thick, angry red lines on the back of my leg, and found that I was pleased with my war wound, as if it was a badge of honour. I finished washing and rinsing, grabbed my towel and headed back to the changing room. Dunnie was standing in the centre of the room, half stripped and grinning from ear to ear, addressing all that would listen to his post-match captain's speech.

'Great game lads, we were caught sleeping at the beginning of the second half, but we showed that we can switch it on and work as a team. Well done!'

'What was that fight all about?'

'Dunnie threw his toys out the pram, I think someone recognised him from that hairdresser show.'

'So why did their winger run sixty yards and just start throwing punches at anyone?!'

'Er, that anyone was me! Thanks a lot!'

Changing room banter never changes; win, lose or draw everyone has something to say and it generally results in some good-humoured mockery of someone. As I listened, and joined in, I was reminded of why I play rugby: the game is great, but the brotherhood that comes from being part of a team makes the scratches, scrapes and occasional broken bones worthwhile.

Based on a true story. And we won.