My Ball!

I was lying in bed the other night, trying to shut my brain off, and my thoughts drifted to rugby. I imagined playing as a prop right before kickoff...

Carpio signals with a nod to the brightly colored referee that our side, the UC Irvine Anteaters were ready to face the Waves. The shrill whistle sounds, causing a visceral fluttering in my gut. The opposition's fly half puts the ball high in a spiraling arc directly towards me. "MY BALL!" Stepping forward, I spin my body around preparing for the likely event of a spilled catch. To my excitement, the ball falls nicely into my hands. I resist the urge to fold it under one arm and charge, my training takes over and I grasp the ball upright between my hands, prepared to take it in any direction. My legs are already carrying me forward, sprinting towards the enormous forward pack swelling up before me, quickly closing the ten-metre gap. One smallish forward reaches me first, but with quick feet and an easy hand-off, I palm his momentum and grasping hands away from me. This one small victory shrinks as the wall of red-jerseyed meat rushes at me. Not trusting my passing ability, I decide to shift the ball under my right arm and lean in with my left shoulder. I hit the first wave hard... too hard. I burst through him and lose my balance, falling on my side. I instinctively push the ball out with my right arm, gently holding it in place as my forward pack drives over me and battles for possession. I get kicked in the chest by my own man, and a tight shot of rounded metal cleats as another boot stomps dangerously close to my head. I can tell the ruck has gone well as the contest above ceases and I see Irvine colored socks just before the scrummy arrives to pluck the ball and send it on its way. Within seconds, I am on my feet and sprinting towards the next breakdown.

Man I miss this game. Even the ragged breathing that follows multiple encounters like this one.