RUGBY LEAGUE – PART THREE

It didn’t happen. Dave and myself watched with disbelief as it turned it a load of old shite in an instant. Paul had the ball out the back of the scrum and was simply bounced backward off a solid red and black wall of defending forwards. Our stand off, Jimmy, had quickly taken the ball from Paul, and made a brave, tough push, but was met hard by Daz and Trev, and lost his feet to disappear under the crunching pile of their bulk. There was a pause and a shout:
“KNOCK ON!!!”
It was Daz, screaming triumphantly, his huge frame bouncing with evil relish, as the linesman nodded his accord to the ref. I couldn’t fucking believe it. My heart sank so low it nearly fell out of my arse.
“Fuck!!! I don’t believe he’s dropped it!” I heard Dave, utterly horrified beside me. I doubted Jimmy would have dropped it. More likely had it stamped out of his hand with Daz’s studded boot I thought. I felt the anger bubbling up in me again. There would hell to pay when I got back out onto that field.

With only several minutes of the first half to go, Dave kept me off, probably still sensing my mood, wanting my focus on what we were there to achieve to settle back into my mind, leaving me to start remembering the team and the rugby, not my personal grudges. As possession changed over, and I could see Daz and Trev in action, still making the hard yards, still smashing the openings, still going for the points with only minutes left. They were seriously determined rugby league players. John, their new winger was like a darting like a winged sandaled Olympian, one try behind him already, still ducking and streaking to take the ball and run for another.

They were a fucking good squad this year, I had to admit it, good strategy, good defence, good attack. I could see this squad easily sailing their way to the top of the league in couple of years. They certainly wouldn’t be playing in this division for long I thought. It was first class rugby I was watching, easily a couple of divisions higher than the level we were playing at. We were getting a proper mauling out there. Those big fuckers Daz and Trev, I had to admit, extremely reluctantly, were just as Dave had told me, more than the thick brutes on field that they appeared off it. They worked together, full of fire and determination, using their combined strength to make the openings, backing each other up to create a near impenetrable wall of muscle. They were as smooth and powerful as a 16 litre Scania V8 diesel engine at 2000 rpm. They were in fast to tackle the bigger men, hard and heavy, killing off a threat instantly and making you work for every inch of territory you could get. They were smart as a pair, always looking to provoke and break you down, get you to loose your calm, lose your focus, and make mistakes that gave their team the chances to score. They’d certainly done it to me.

Unbelievably, our opponent’s last push in the final minutes of the first half yielded devastating results. I watched with utter disbelief at our failing luck, when John slipped passed