Page 102 of Just Say (Hell) No
Five more minutes, and the teams were running out onto the field again, and Nyree forgot to worry. The score was tied at seven all, and the rain and wind had increased to the point that there was nearly a fog on the field. The rain was driving almost horizontally, the players’ hair was slicked to their skulls, and every tackle was an icy bath. The Wallabies’ uniforms were streaked with mud, and Marko’s arms and legs were smeared with it, showing how many times he’d hit the turf. And still the crowd stayed in their seats, dressed in their anoraks and transparent ponchos and hoods, shouted out their encouragement, and dripped.
Back and forth. The Wallabies kicked a penalty from out in front—barely. Ten to seven, and gold-clad supporters standing up, raising their beers, and cheering.
Ten minutes more, seventy minutes in, and three All Blacks scrum resets near their own tryline, during which the turf was gouged out from under the players’ boots, men slipped onto their faces, and the crowd grew restless. The players kicked the turf back into position, the ref set the scrum for a fourth time, and this time, it held. The ball came back to the Number Eight, and he scooped it up somehow and passed it to Nate Torrance, and Nate handed it off to Will Tawera, his Number Ten.
“Try time,” Josie shouted. “Come on, boys!” As if he’d heard her, Will sent a little grubber kick past the defense, and everybody went after it, with Will himself in the lead.
A scramble, a blow of the whistle, the ref’s arm in the air, and Nyree couldn’tsee.“What?” she asked Ella. “What was it?”
Ella didn’t answer. Josie did, through the palms she’d pressed together at her mouth. Tom wasn’t saying anything. He was just watching. “High tackle,” Josie said. “Could be a yellow.” Somebody sent off to the sin bin, and the All Blacks would not only be down three points, or six once a penalty was kicked, they’d be down to fourteen men for the remainder of the match.
An endless wait, then, as players jumped up and down to stay warm and the television match official, warm and dry in his booth, ran the footage again and again. And the crowd watched the scene on the big screens and held their breath.
Iain McCormick, tackling the Wallaby who’d got to the ball first. Seven inches more height on him, the other man slipping on the slick turf, and the damning sight of Iain’s forearm wrapping around his neck.
The ref, his hand pressed against his ear, head bent to hear the replay official’s decision. A walk toward the captains, who were standing together, hands on hips, their breath coming out in clouds of steam, waiting to hear.
The ref didn’t reach into his pocket for a card. The Wallabies skipper pointed towards the posts, and the Wallabies supporters screamed their opposition, more partisan than logical. It hadn’t been intentional, and Iain wouldn’t be sent off. But they were seventy-five minutes in, the Wallabies were up by three, and they were going for the posts. Going for three more.
Ella said, “Oh, no.”
Nyree took her hand and said, “Just wait,” but kept her eye on the player in the yellow jersey, lined up bang in front, thirty meters out. It was windy, yes, and rainy, too. But he had nearly an eighty percent conversion rate.
Ella said, “Uh… sorry. But I think it’s started.”
Seventy-six minutes. Six points down, and they had to kick off to the Wallabies again.
Marko didn’t feel the cold. He didn’t feel the wet. He was focused on here. Focused on now.
Nate Torrance, the All Blacks skipper, was shouting to be heard over the noise of the crowd and the storm. “We’ve got this. Keep your position. Make your tackles, and hit them hard. They’re more tired than we are. We get the ball back, we hang onto it, and we bang it on. One phase at a time. We’ve got it. Let’s go.”
Will Tawera kicked off, and he didn’t kick deep. Barely the required ten meters, and Nic Wilkinson, the fullback, one of the fastest on the field and the best man under the high ball, was leaping for it. Jumping impossibly high, careless of his safety in the conditions. He seemed to hang in the air for a long moment, collided with his opposite number with a bang of bodies, and never took his eye off the ball.
Two sets of wet, muddy hands grabbing it. One set hitting the ground with it, and hanging on. Nico’s.
It was what Toro had said, then. A game of inches. One carry at a time, forcing your feet on through the slop and the muck. Like playing in the home paddock with your mates, your favorite All Black’s number applied in peeling electrical tape on your back, your legs churning in the mud for nothing more than the love of the game and the ferocious desire to win.
It was Koti James, in the end. Pretty Boy not looking pretty at all, mud on his face, his grin like a rictus, taking the ball from Toro, slamming his powerful upper body into his opposite number, and going down hard.
And flicking one of his trademark offloads behind his back on the way. To Marko, because he was the one there. And the one with a chance.
He wasn’t good at subtlety, and everyone knew it. They were coming at him head-on, expecting a battering ram and ready for it.
He sidestepped. And then he took off, past where they’d expected him to be and moving fast. Toro running in support, ready for the ball, Koti on his other side, and three more lined up beyond him. With the Wallabies fullback, the last man standing, coming in at an angle.
Marko was a team man. He’d been a team man since he’d been born to a sheepherding family in the Southern Alps, since he’d first held a rugby ball in a match at the age of six, and for every match since. A team man for the Highlanders, a team man for the Blues, and a team man for the All Blacks. Right now, though, he was headed for the tryline, stretching, diving across the white line, hitting the turf hard and bouncing off it with cold water soaking his jersey and shorts and spraying around him.
A team man first, last, and always. And tonight, his team was the winner.
They cut the celebrations short. Too wet, and too cold. Barely five minutes after the whistle had gone, the crowd streaming towards the exits, and the team was jogging into the tunnel, stripping off their sodden jerseys almost before they’d got to the changing room, and heading for the showers.
First, though… Marko knew he shouldn’t care, that winning wasn’t the reason she was with him. He cared anyway. He grabbed his phone from his cubicle, rubbed his wet hands on his wetter shorts, and prepared to text Nyree.
Three green bubbles on the screen.
Ella’s started. Heading out.
Then,
