Creative writing- The Game K.O 7 oclock. Great Baddow. The grudge match.

Lost the first Essex cup, won the second against them. And it all comes down to this. We are in the mini bus, which shows signs of far too many muddy boots and rushed lunches, scrunched up like suds on a boot. I sit there listening to We Will Rock You trying to gain some inspiration, confidence and get into the zone. Lame tired jokes are being passed around the coach, limply being tackled to the ground by focused players but still knocked on trying to lighten the condensing mood. I look across to see the gaunt face of Dougho, twisting his fingers in contemplation of The Game. I look around and see the varying hair cuts which forms our team: Saffron Walden County High School, or SWCHS for short. Images flash before my eyes, the first tackle, the first try-which is inevitably scored by me, a huge hand off, followed by a 50 metre sprint and iced off with a swallow dive, and the lifting of the cup. I want this, we all do. The tape begins to wiggle and slither between my fingers, like a plump worm straight from the pitch, as I botch off the job of taping the laces. Boyd passes the lucazade across, which now consists of a 50/50 ratio of spittle to drink, which I happily take a share and pass on the tradition. I cant focus on the taste, it passes down my throat and builds up the dam of energy, which has carefully been monitored with a banana, a scotch egg- one of those big ones from Waitrose, 6 fruit-tella, a sawdust cereal bar and a swig of Yazoo. Im feeling prepared. The time has come. The machine gun rattle of boots, shoot across the field, alerting the fans into a fanfare of clapping. I focus on my feet, rat ratat, rat ratat, until they come home, gently sinking into the mud, settling down as if ready for the gruelling nightmare ahead. I see us armed to the mud with pads, supports, Vaseline, tape and the piece de resistance: 8 gleaming lengths of polished stud, like the flashing false teeth of a grainy pirate. I look into the flood lights, the beams splintering and fragmenting into a hundred possibilities, a hundred dreams of colour. Beswicks bark glues us together into a huddle, each holding onto the next shirt. I hear only shrapnels of wisdom from Jack and Bess. How much to we want this boys?ChampionsEvery person performing 100%, Making the hit, Making the tackle, Making the difference. 100%...Lets do our selves proud2,000 reasons to win The faces say more. Mitch glowers across, his eyes showing the passion, sweat running in rivulets like the Amazon. Dougho breathes out, letting out the concern and filling himself up with the hot, steaming heat of rugby. Jacks feet are as animated as his mouth, dancing across the stage, ready to do the job. I breathe out. As a team, as one, lets show them the best of Essex, Lets give them a match and lets trash them into the win I breathe out. Mccie calls the chant, which has been bellowed out 50 times before, but not once has it carried such feeling, such desperation and pure energy. On the last shout of Walden we disband, still raging a war cry, slapping each other on the back. I stare straight into the face of Simon, both of us attached by each others eyes, feeling the urge. I jog into position. My mouth guard sticks to the roof of my mouth. Adrenaline is layered into every feather of my being. I stop. A Pause. The ball leaves Runhams cradling hands and connects perfectly with his foot. Ding-Dong, Game On. The scrum is called. I swing my arms around Boyds waist, fighting with the shirt to willing begrudge a hold. I feel Gregs head spearing into my thigh, which forms the second link in the chain of hope, which is strengthened by the flankers and the No

8-Bess. We rise up. Im straddled in a throne of muscle and sinew, placing a hand on the arm rest of Dances head, which fixes apron his opposite man like a basalt gargoyle, poised by the cage of time. I stare into my opposite number, we both know what is going to happen next. We square each other up locked by the fluid of each other eyes- a pool of insecurities, which one is the strongest? Which one can hold the push? Which one will cave in? Countless possibilities run through my veins. Crouch The pack lowers their entire mass, ready to engage. Touch My hand fumbles for a grip on my opposites shirt Engage Two maelstroms of electric force, pound together in the resounding sound of two bulls, heads interlocked by the strength of the prize- Being a Essex Champion. The heat is immense. A hot kiln of baking desires. I feel my arch-nemesis sweat mingling and entwining with mine, feel his boyish stubble graze upon my still barren cheek- although I can see a promise of subbery on my upper lip- and most importantly the force upon my shoulders.