341. Rugby match

It is freezing cold out there, lots of dark clouds scooting across the sky swept by gale force winds. It is hard to go out after a heartwarming Sunday lunch but the honour of the F family is at stake.

‘That’s enough food for me, now.’ My sons says. An incredibly surprising sentence coming from him. We all stare.

‘Well, I can’t be too heavy. Got to run.’

The rest of the family check our watches. Just under an hour and the match will start. The local team has given him his place back. Rushing home for that Friday night training now  makes sense.

‘Girls, are you coming?’

Miss Organiser does not usually think much of her brother’s choice of sport but today is different. It’s the semi-final of some cup or other and the local team is playing their arch-enemy.

We all head up to the sports grounds. We reach the car park and there definitely is something important going on around here. People singing, shouting, running around with trays of beer, banging on drums, waving flags. We fight our way up to the covered area and find seats. Us girls make enquiries about the number on his shirt and the colour of his boots. Baby has her telephone on video mode, ready to record her brother’s actions on the field.

The first half is a little disappointing. Two tries and two transformations for the arch-enemy when half-time comes.

‘But what’s he doing just standing there? Just hanging around or what?’ Miss Organiser has got her bossy voice back on.

‘Yeah! Does he ever get to touch the ball?’ Baby says, waving her phone around in frustration.

When the game starts again we have just barely spotted the pair of shoes we are following that our hero gets the ball. Oooooh then he almost nearly drops it. The excitement is at its upmost.

‘Go go go go go go go go go go! Gooooooooooooooooo!’

My daughters are hesitating between keeping an eye on the match or on their mother who seems to be ready to jump over the fence and run onto the field to give her son a helping hand. Meanwhile there is a big scuffle in the far corner of the pitch and then a wild uproar rises from the benches. The drums go wild, the supporters sing at the top their voices, the screaming intensifies. Our team has scored a try. Good. Excellent. But.

‘Who scored that try?’ I grab the first excited kid out of all the ones running around (one is running around with a huge basket arrangement of beer bottles).

‘Who scored?’

‘Number 13.’ The kid says. ‘I think.’

Then Baby has got a more trustworthy information and confirms.

I jump up and scream some more along with the supporters, yelling my son’s name at the top of my voice. I wish I’d brought a drum along.

I have hardly settled down that again number 13 is again getting hold of the ball. I’m back jumping up and down on the spot again, screaming and shouting and waving my arms. The drums are banging excitedly, the songs of the supporters and the screams of the crowd make any civilised conversation impossible anyway.

Try. Now I know it is my son who scored. I saw him with my own eyes. 

‘I’ve got it.’ Baby says proudly.

Even Miss Organsiser is asking sensible questions to her dad who in turn is giving her knowledgeable answers. They are all ignoring the historical mother (me) who is yelling uncontrollably. I am thinking I should go and mingle with the guys with the flags and the drums.

The game will be over soon and the tension is unbearable. When my dear son gets running again, ball in hand he gets tackled by a big monster of the guy, I let out a string of insults and am seriously thinking about running onto the field to give him a piece of my mind. But then as he falls (gracefully) to the ground my son passes the ball to his friend who legs it to the line and … scores the third try. 

Now I think there might be an earthquake happening. I look down to check the ground. As the player transforms and adds points to the score  making it a win by 17 to 10 and the game ends the flock of sur excited supporters flood the playing fields. Fans tap shoulder and shake hands to congratulate the players. Then out of nowhere the crowds chant my son’s name! My throat is sore but I join in. Then I see him leading this kind Haka, a team and supporters team and dance, some kind of bonding session I guess.

When the local paper comes out I get my husband to buy it, his name is there in print and I can even spot him on the photo. Two days later he sends us the soundtrack of his interview. He sounds good, making serious comments about the match and even praising the other team! The whole family is impressed, sisters included. I am experiencing mixed feelings. Is my son turning into a young man? Is he doing that behind his mummy’s back?