The Game

Used to go watch my brother play in the local rugby team on Saturdays. Wrote this after one game.

 

One crisp and gold December day

Thirty men ran out to play

As fair in spirit as in faith

Robust might concealed shy grace

Not mire, nor pain, nor skills opposed

They play the game, in all composed

 

Hail the fine foe, give rival his due

A visiting team with a title to lose

All England past tradition stayed

Abounding honour, to all who play

They meet in comradeship and kin

Hopeful hearts beat hard within

 

First whistle blast, first kick struck

Charge down, push on, now form the ruck

That frantic pack do strain and heave

Advantage gained by a clean retrieve

Yet sickened by thud of flesh on flesh

Heralds the force of the tackling test

 

Call for the bucket, a man is down

Around, away-team faces frown

'Who'll kick for goal?' the whispers start

'If he goes off, who plays the part?'

Yet the kicker's up, the ball spot on

Three points ahead, three minutes gone

 

Up and down the field they go

Tap, pass, kick, the movements flow

Pause here, a line, a scrum, a maul

Good forwards thrust to win the ball

Yet half-time sees the home team fear

The hardest game yet of the year

 

Support is thin, the walk too far

To journey from the clubhouse bar

The scoreboard shouts a sorry tale

Thoughts of approached defeat assail

'Lift your game, hit back, hit hard!'

Home captain stirs his woeful crowd

 

Fresh forty minutes, all could be

Determined thrust of enmity

They kick away, the dying sun,

behind them now, its journey run

Cold shadows stretch, grey fingers touch

And fresh desire becomes too much

 

Again they drive, 'Heave!' all cry

Burst on the run, they need a try

Dodge left, strike right, pass underarm

Stretched fingers fumble, cause alarm

But gathered safe, the winger's away

The line in reach, first time today

 

The full-back stands defence before

The home man on his way to score

And some small glint of the chosen aim

Quells 15's desire to win this game

The winger has his shoulders down

None but a fool dare take his ground

 

Defender steps afeared aside

And the scorer feels a leap of pride

Stretches fleet limbs to speed away

To score the try which sparks the play

One point in front, all could still be

Acclaimed as Champions of the League

'Five minutes more!' both captain's cry

Around the pitch frayed tempers fly

The visitors dredge-up one last surge

Mud-stained colours mass and merge

A swinging fist, within the maul

The boots go in, the linesman calls

Breaths are held, the terror fierce

As Ref consults admit the jeers

'Send 'in off, f...ing bad sport!'

Is the visiting victims shouted retort

The whistle blasts an angry shriek

And Ref ignites at such harsh speech

'Keep your mouth SHUT! Ten yards Sir!'

And home hopes leap to silent prayer

These points decide the final play

And the home team are Champions on this day

They strove their best, played fair and clean

And the League is real, not just a dream

One crisp and gold December day

Thirty men returned from play

Beyond them warm club shower-rooms call,

And thirty men who gave their all

Applaud each other's worthy skills

Shake hands, cheer loud, forget all ills

And long into the winter night

These drinking friends replay the fight

Happy comrades all, are they

Those thirty men who went to play

Who fought and lost and won and prayed

One crisp and gold December day

 

 

 

Reviews

[charleybear]

I'm not a fan of rugby but that was a fantastic read, it flowed well and and each stanza lead nicely on to the next. I would say it was a fun read without meaning offense to you. It really captured the thrill of the game :)