Rugby League

Dave was waiting for me by the touch line after sending out Andy, one of our best reserves, an ex infantryman and the local butcher, to take my place in the scrum. Dave was waiting for me on the touchline with his 'First Aid' bag looking like a concerned parent for one of his brood. I let my tension rip as soon as he was in earshot.

"D'ya fuckin see that!!" I shouted

"Ee' fuckin kneed us! That fat fuckin twat did it deliberately! Coulda fuckin killed me!"

"And that blind cunt of a referee ponces about like ee's hardly seen nowt!"

"A penalty! A fuckin' penalty!"

"He wants fuckin' sendin' off! Bent biased bastard! Pair of fuckin' bastard cunts!"

Dave gave me a humorous 'are you done yet?' look at my tirade, letting me stamp it out of my system, spitting my venom,. He knew that I was more angry at not having made the try than any minor injury. For all my anger and frustration, he was well aware I wasn't directing it at him, just getting the angst out of my system. I managed to calm a little before continuing.

"T'aint fuckin' right Dave!" I blustered on.

"Daz and fuckin' Trev have been windin; me up from before we even got on the field, and those two fuckin' animals are throwin' every dirty trick at me to injure me off . Them linesman and that ref must be fuckin' blind if they cant see what they're up to. They want sendin' off, the bastard pair of em!"

Dave gave me a look of mock surprise.

"Oh really? Its not a game of fuckin' rounders lad!"

Dave chuckled and leant close, risking a 'didn't I tell you so before the game' look at me, before continuing gently,

"You know what those lads are like, they'll keep trying to wind you up and they'll keep tryin' to fuckin' hurt you, that's how they play. It's how they've allus played. They'll wind you up, and then take the advantage 'cos they've put you off beam. They're not as thick as they look. Not when it comes to rugby. So just be quicker, play smart and watch out for moves like that. Don't let 'em wear you down."

I nodded in resignation that he was right of course, as he mopped off my face with a wet flannel, and applied Deep Freeze spray and a smear of Vaseline to my cut, which was starting to smart like buggery. Dave looked back at his handiwork on my eye like a proud nurse.

"There you go lad, you'll be all right. Tha's not feelin' dizzy or owt is tha? Tha'll probably have a nice shiner to show of come tomorrow, mind!"

I had worse to look at than my face in the mirror though. Standing with Dave on the touchline, I watched the 10 yard line scrum forming. Unlike Rugby Union, League scrums aren't contested anymore, they're just an exercise really, to keep up the pace of the game, and take the forwards out of the action to let the backs loose. This was an opportunity we needed, and with luck, Paul, our scrum half, a fast dart of a man when he needed to be, would slip straight through to score.

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 Pete's last defence, his clawing fingers just missing grabbing the scruff of the little bastard's neck, to watch him ground the ball right between our fucking posts, cocksure, flaunting his style and almost making it look simple. He played rugby league with all the speed, style and elegance of a Vickers Super VC10 at 40,000 feet: 'Swift, Silent and Serene.' Young bastard.

With an easy conversion to follow the try, sailing between our posts in a perfect arc from their kickers boot, we ended the first half 16 – 4 down, but the faces of the men as we grouped for half time showed no waning of their determination. Sam, now looking like a Praxiteles after 3000 years in the Aegean sea, did his captain's bit, sorting out quick refreshments, and gave out some good individual advice on technique and watch points. Among about a thousand things we were doing wrong out on the field, there were a few of us, me included, who particularly needed to avoid any sloppy offside's before the linesmen started picking up on them. We really, desperately, me included, needed to start co-ordinating and team thinking to come back with a cohesive attack in the second half as well as beefing up our defence, without over focussing on it and missing the scoring opportunities.

Dave huddled us together, muddy, battered, grim, but still focussed and rallied us up with one of his memorable 'Battle of Goose Green' speeches.

"Keep it together men, we can turn this around, just keep using yer heads, and don't give them one fucking inch. We've kept as much possession of the ball as they 'ave, but we've got to start using it when we've got it! Now get back out there and screw the bastards and screw 'em hard!."

With his usual slap on my arse and a stern look to silently tell me to keep my cool, we jogged back onto the field for another 45 minutes of war.

CRUNCH! 15 minutes into the second half and we had another fucking try! And it was mine! I was down over their try line! Diving with the ball, mud splashing, blades of grass torn up, knees braking my slide and my exhilaration soaring. I had the ball grasped tight to my chest, sliding on the field, mud and water spraying into my face, my elbows gouging through the muck. But I was down, all the way through their defensive line, with the ball grounded, and a fucking try scored! Sam's weaving and chip kick had seen him past Daz, who'd been guarding the try line like Cerberus at the gates of Hades. For once I'd used my head, I'd played a part of a team, not a man alone, used the support I was given, taken a phenomenally accurate long pass from Sam and made a lovely break from it. With a clear field in front of me I ran like the devil was behind me, trying to stick his pitchfork up my arse. I was a big man, but I could run when I needed to, and I'd taken the gap to land in a pile of thick mud, sweat and glory over the enemy try line. The lads were all over me, like a pack of enthusiastic puppies, Martin gripping me in a hot sweaty bear hug, and Pete slapping me on the back, muddy and panting.

"Fuckin' nice one our lad, well fuckin' done!"

"Brilliant mate, nicely done!"

"Fuckin' magic!"

I didn't revel too long. Our opponents gathered under their goalposts, but I groaned with disappointment when the conversion attempt sailed just a couple of feet wide of the posts, but at least my try might make it a dignified defeat if we lost. I kicked myself for even allowing such a bleak thought into my head. We could still win it if we kept up the pressure.

It didn't take long for everything to turn back into a pile of old shite again though. Pushing into the second half as we played on under the sports field flood lights as it began getting dark, our strength and stamina was starting to wane, but our opponents showed little sign of tiring. They were still strong and still fighting, with Daz and Trev the backbone of that undiminished stamina. They had formed together into a seriously good team this year, and it was clear Williams had been training them hard, training them up physically and training them up to the sort of thinking man's rugby league we were clearly lacking and with serious results.

Their class of rugby was a huge step on from their last year, fast and focussed, and they just never for one minute gave us a chance. They had us under pressure for every fucking minute of the game, forcing us into a lot of loose scrambling and untidy play, that left us wide open for them to barge right through us. Another try and a conversion from their flawlessly accurate stand off and kicker left us lagging 22 – 8 having taken a thorough mauling with only ten minutes left, but I think every man on the team had resolved to still give it everything.

I was really working hard in the second half, really taking the knocks, backing up Neil and Martin, and just tackling, tackling, and tackling again, the game keeping me grafting with the team constantly defending. Our opponents completely dominated possession in the second half, and all I could do was try and keep up my strength and keep on with the tackles, where I had the chance, but they just kept springing back up, indomitable. At least I'd managed the satisfaction of ending a good run by Daz, barely able to get my hands round his colossal flared thighs, I had the vindictive pleasure of tripping the bastard, and ending a good run from him.

I wasn't so lucky trying to take on Trev a few minutes after, smashing his way through the centre, the big bastard fended me off with a semi clenched fist in the face that nearly bust my nose. The hard yards made, he threw a long pass to John to let him run with it, knowing the time to sacrifice his strength for John's speed, and let him whistle up the wing, with a perfect line of backs ready behind him, feeding the ball to him. Their pace was just beautiful, and they were beginning to run rings around us. I wasn't ready to give up yet, and I knew every man on the team would feel the same. We weren't going to stop fighting, we had to make them work for every point and keep watching for our few chances to change the flow.

Fate helped us when a risky attempt at a grubber kick lead them to an untidy knock on, ending the oppositions assault at the 20 yard line and the referee called for a scrum. We hunkered down into position, ready to ride out this chance and I wedged myself in between Martin and Stuarts' sweating arses, their shoulders locked into to Daz and Trev's. I could feel my shorts riding up the sweaty crack of my arse showing off my jockstrap as I hunkered down into the scrum and grabbed a firm hold on Sam. steaming away at the side of me. I could almost sense Daz and Trev's malevolent intent through the weight and heat of Martin and Neil separating me from them. I took a deep breath, inhaling the smell of the scrum, nearly a tonne of sweating, grunting men locked together, an intense, stimulating cocktail of armpits, adrenaline, mud, testosterone, sweaty bollocks, stamped grass, and hairy arses. Paul, the scrum half rolled the ball, and I saw the dirty white Gilbert leather rugby ball tumble under my legs and we shuffled round in the scrum, sweating and grunting, until Paul dipped in, and taking possession, he was fast up and away.

The scrum quickly broke, and our backs were flashing down the field like white and royal blue arrows, a good line forming to pass the ball. It was a team effort for once, we were thinking as a team and coming back against out of our flagging physical and mental strength. It was all looking good, and we were there, weaving out of the enemy's titan grasp, run, pass, run, pass, run, pass, run, pass, penetrating with one hard thrust deep into the enemy half. I was running up the wing, keeping position, looking out for Daz and Trev, ready to take the ball when I saw the two giant prop forwards bearing down on us like a red and black avalanche. Our left centre, 'Superfly' Mike, had the ball, and seeing the mountain of the two props looming up in front of him, passed to me hoping I could sneak quickly round them before returning possession. But there just wasn't enough time. I thought about trying to kick the ball into touch, as I caught the pass and lurched, but before I could even think, Daz dived for my legs and I felt the colossal grip of his piston arms locking around them, his massive biceps grabbing hold like two pneumatic rams.

Trev launched himself into the gang tackle and shouldered into my back as his hairy mitts grabbed around my waist, nearly tearing off my shirt and their immense combined weight of the two huge prop forwards left me sprawling once again. We splattered down into the mud and turf with my head ending up wedged between Daz's huge thighs, the muscles rippling under the skin, the thick dark hair brushing my ears and the large, damp, black polyester clad bulge in the front of his shorts rubbing all over my face, leaving me breathing in the smell of his balls as they pressed up close under my nose.

I thrashed, and wriggled, slipping on the mud, getting Daz's smelly crotch off my face and worming my way out of their crushing grip once again to lay, face down and exhausted, but still clinging to the ball. With no one able to see in the tangle of the ruck, as I was trying to push myself back up, I felt Daz's knee in the small of my back, pinning me down with spine snapping pressure before I felt the back of his giant hand grab the back of my head and he slowly pushed my face deep into the slimy mud, rubbing it in, mud filling my mouth around my gum shield.

"Got you again, you useless fuckwitt"

Daz was growling deeply into my ear, drops of saline liquid from his sweaty brow dripping onto my skin. He hocked and slowly spat a slimy gob of spit, glittering under the field floodlights, letting it fall with a sticky splat to drip nauseatingly, wet, sludgy and gritty down the side of my face.

And then I lost it.

It was nothing I should have let myself blow up over, but he'd finally pushed my nerves as far as they could go. Since the car park and through to every single tackle of the game, I felt like they'd been targeting me and the combination of their arrogance, smugness and continual digs, and the utterly disgusting feeling of his slimy spit dribbling down my face mingling with the mud he'd just rubbed it into it, finally unleashed some inner beast. It had been the final straw in their campaign to wind me up.

I went completely and absolutely fucking mental, outrage, humiliation, indignation and disgust boiling up into one almighty red mist and overwhelming urge to kill him, to tear out his fucking throat, rip out his eyeballs beat him to a bloody quivering pulp. I was up onto my feet like an angry bear, growling, spitting, purple faced, veins pulsing out in my neck, all reason vanishing, grabbing his shirt as Daz growled back, violence glowing in his deep brown eyes, brow furrowed, his huge frame tensing to strike, but I was in first, fist pulled back, I let loose with a fast instinctive right hook.

SMACK!

"Fuck off!"

"Twat!"

"Bastard!"

"Cunt!

"FUCK OFF!"

My fist had slammed into his jaw, my knuckles feeling the blow as my fist hit flesh and bone with a reassuring thud. Daz immediately belted me back, square in the mouth, only my gum shield saving me from loosing teeth, his sledgehammer punch cutting my lip and all but knocking me out cold. The bastard certainly knew how to hit hard. Trev, backing up his mate, managed to get in a sound jab that caught me in the ear, sending my sinuses ringing, but I managed to land a quick return hook to his chin to give him something to remember me by. Daz had a firm hold of me, his left hand still holding the front of my shirt tightly, his enormous right fist raised back past his lethal gap toothed snarl, ready to land the crunching fist that would likely knock me out cold.

His punch never came. Just about every man left on the field had got there, and with some considerable shoving and scuffling among themselves, they tore us apart, before Daz could hit me again and really do some damage. The men piled between us, getting us as far away from each other as possible before any real harm was done, while we strained against our team mates, struggling to get past and keep fighting.

"FUCK OFF!!!"

"GEROFFFF!"

"Fuckin' kill him!"

"I'll fuckin' murder thee, tha little cunt!"

"Gerrofff! Let me at him!"

"Go on! Fuckin' bray him!"

"Cunt!"

"Fuckin' twat!"

"Bastard!"

Martin was the first on the scene of the emergency, fitting enough for the policeman I suppose, his big body pushing me back, firm and gentle, letting me calm down. He was soon joined by Neil to keep hold of me, leaving me straining over their shoulders to try and get back in there and give Daz and Trev a bit more. Martin was used to breaking up Friday night fights in town, and soon had me under control, stopping me from squirming round him to get back into the fight until the blind aggression began to drain out of me, and left me standing there, exhausted, shattered, bloody and bruised, with my well belted jaw aching like fuckery. I could still hear Daz and Trev shouting for more, their team pinning them in like a pair of baited bears. Neil and Martin were still holding me back, but I was coming back into my senses, and very slowly, I was calming.

The referee and the linesmen had bravely arrived after all the fighting was over and they were safe. The referee was a lot less sympathetic than Martin. The blind bastard was quite convinced I'd started it, which I suppose I had, and produced the red card which he held two inches from my nose.

"OFF!!!"

He accompanied his judgement with a finger pointed sharply away from the field. Martin took a genltle hole of my shoulder, just in case I did something stupid.

"WHAT!!!" I shouted. I just couldn't fucking believe it What the fuck was he sending me off for? It was those two bastards who'd started it really, with that cunt Daz fucking phleging all over me. I just couldn't believe the man. My aggression rose again, and I was just on the edge of punching the referee, until I felt Martins friendly hand on my arm.