Page 121 of Just Come Over
A Reds player caught unawares, offside, and the ref blew the whistle again.
Another penalty to the Blues. Another choice for Hugh.
Thirteen meters out. Eighty minutes and thirty seconds gone on the clock. An easy penalty kick for Will this time. An easy draw.
The referee was talking to Hugh, who was standing, hands on hips, saying something to Will, then to the ref. Players on both sides had their hands on their heads, sucking in the big ones, their tanks on empty. Nothing left to give, unless it came from the heart.
The nearly certain draw, and two points to the team in the Super Rugby race. Or going for it all, for four points and a move up on the table. For the win.
Once again, Will wasn’t taking the kick. Instead, he kicked a perfectly weighted ball to inside the five-meter line. They were going for it.
Hugh was barking commands, his face set but not tense, his body language calm, the senior players running into place around him, spreading certainty and belief like oil on water, settling the younger boys down.
Do your role, and trust your mate to do his.
Another lineout, and nothing tricky about it this time. Iain taking it again, turning his back to the tryline, the rest of the forwards forming a rolling maul around him, and the ball passed back, hand to hand, to Hugh standing behind the rest of them, protecting the ball.
All eight forwards plowed onward, and one by one, the Reds forwards joined them, leaving their flanks exposed. The referee signaled advantage, which meant another penalty coming the Blues’ way, but Rhys dismissed the thought.
No guts, no glory.
On the field, Iain, still going backward, had his arms over the chests of his opponents, his legs planted, his mouth open to get more air, driving centimeter by centimeter for the tryline, nothing but belief keeping him going. Legs would be stiffening up out there, cramping, shaking with effort, and still, nobody was letting up. Beside Iain, Kors had his head down and was pushing like a truck. The little halfback, meanwhile, danced beside the shoving mass of men, waving his arms and shouting, a sheepdog urging his charges on.
Two meters.
One.
Hugh was going to go across the line.
The Reds were stopping them.
Penalty advantage. Penalty kick. Draw.As soon as Rhys’s brain formed the thought, in the split-second when the momentum shifted, Hugh had the ball off to the halfback, who didn’t take the tempting route and dive for the line. Too many big bodies in the way. He sent a hard, fast ball off instead, spinning like a bullet, twenty meters across the field to Kevin McNicholl on the wing.
Kevvie, who wasn’t a battering ram anymore. Who had a player coming straight at him.
He sidestepped, and the man grasped for his jersey and held on, trying to drag him into touch and end the game. Kevin kept his legs going even as another player closed in on him, and there the halfback was again, the sheepdog at his shoulder.
Centimeters from touch, and Kevvie flicking the ball behind him without looking. In and out of soft hands, and into Koti James’s sure grasp. A red jersey there, too, and Koti stepping, diving, stretching.
Over the line.
Try.
Will made the conversion. Of course he did. The scoreboard flashed 21 to 17, the referee blew his whistle and raised his arm, and Rhys stood up like he was on springs, unable to feel his feet, and shook Finn’s hand.
“That’s belief,” Finn said, standing, laughing, clapping him on the back. “That’s heart. That’s you, Drago. That’s you.”
Sunday morning in Auckland, and it was another rainy and windy one, just as it had been all the way across the Tasman. Winter was coming and no mistake, and the ride on the 777 confirmed it. The plane was bucking up and down, but none of the players behind Rhys was saying much.
If you were a white-knuckled flyer, you either got over it or got out of rugby. You flew tens of thousands of kilometers a year, you lived on a group of islands in the middle of often-stormy seas, and Air New Zealand had one of the best safety records in the world.
He couldn’t see anything out the window except streaks of rain and streamers of gray cloud, glowing red from the lights on the wings. His seatback screen, though, told him they were six minutes out. Nearly home.
He’d told Zora, before he’d got on the plane, when she still sounded sleepy in the sexiest possible way, “You don’t need to come out in the storm, or take the kids. I’ll get a lift. Be there soon, baby.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course we’re going to come. We can’twaitto come. We could bring balloons and banners.”
Now, he smiled, remembering. Another lurch of the plane that had him holding the armrest, then theclunkof the landing gear lowering. As soon as he was alone with her, he was going to talk to Zora about moving in again.
