Listen up all of you! We’re going out there to win! If they get in our way – we knock them down. Hit hard – no pain, no gain!’
Dahne’s words were rousing. My stomach was churning with anticipation of the game ahead. I fought for a space on the crowded bench where my team-mates were busy strapping-up, taping back their ears, or rubbing Vaseline or lineament into various body parts. The smell of the lineament pervaded the air. I loved the smell of it, and, despite the butterflies playing havoc with my innards, I loved being a part of this mayhem, all of us jammed in like sardines, differences aside, all part of the same well-oiled machine.
Chunky (who didn’t have an ounce of fat on her) was in the mirror as usual, teasing her blonde curls into some semblance of order. ‘I’m desperate for some highlights,’ she complained, ‘You can see all my roots.’ Chunky was our glamour girl but one hell of an outside half – our first International player.
‘You’ve got more to worry about than your appearance,’ Dahne interjected, ‘like taking control of the backs and helping this team reach Division 2.’
‘Pass the valuables bag over,’ I called to Claire, who had already half-filled it with her collection of expensive rings, chains, bracelets and earrings, received from her various boyfriends. I threw in my purse and earrings and passed the bag to Minty who was substitute today and had the dubious pleasure of looking after the valuables, running on with the water, taking the half-time collection and selling raffle tickets as well as being available as a replacement.
Wedged in between our two second-row forwards, I struggled to tie up my boots and thought how different we must look now, compared with our usual working lives. Sian aka ‘Teach’, a prop-forward and primary school teacher; Jayne, a staff nurse; we also had hairdressers, office workers and mothers, and right now we did not resemble those ladies but rather a bruising bunch! That’s what I love about rugby, I can let my hair down, get rid of pent-up emotions.
‘Come on then girls!’ At Dahne’s words we gathered in a huddle arms around each others’ shoulders. ‘I want to hear you – lift those legs, one, two, three…’
Our combined voices and togged feet crashed against the concrete floor drowning out Dahne. The noise was deafening, and hopefully intimidating to the opposition in the next changing room. The door was then flung open and our captain Dahne lead us out of the changing rooms. This was always a thrilling moment for me, as we clattered towards the pitch with an air of confidence, which I, for one, did not always feel.
The sparse crowd gave us a welcome and our regular supporters shouted words of encouragement. We began to limber up, at the same time, casting speculative glances at the opposition, weighing them up. Kitted out in red and white they looked formidable; one second row, standing 6 feet 2 inches tall. A farmer by occupation, used to hefting bales and sheep, she looked as strong as an ox.
I applied myself mentally to the task ahead; after all, chasing an elusive ball around a pitch for eighty minutes was hard work, knowing that if you held that prized possession, you became the target for a heavy mob of forwards, who want to whip your legs from under you and often stamp all over you. I played hooker, and I can tell you, the scrums were a seething cauldron of breath, sweat and oaths. Two packs crashing together like feuding stags, antlers locked, a battle of strength and wits.
‘Captain’s please,’ called the ref. He tossed a coin and we lined up for the kick-off.
The first half was very tough, with both teams evenly matched. We were all breathing heavily by half time and no points on the board. Our trainer ran on with freezing water and useful advice. Dahne urged us to step up a gear. ‘They may be bigger than us but we’re fitter than them. Get your butts into gear and we’ve got them!’
My legs felt like lead weights as I tried to run through the churned-up mud. I heard what sounded like a rumble of thunder and found myself in the path of their six-foot-two human battering ram. Her face was contorted with the determination to trample all over me. For a split second I thought about getting out of her way, but knew that could never be an option, so I risked my life tackling her, and somehow I managed to land her great bulk on my ankle. Play continued while I writhed around in pain until the referee noticed my plight. As the trainer raced on with the magic sponge – which would kill if not cure you – I spotted this bloke I fancied watching from the touchline. Despite the pain, I felt quite embarrassed – what must I look like – my hair awry, face twisted with pain, lisping over a mouthful of gumshield – the Neanderthal woman! Well I didn’t stand much of a chance with the blokes at thirty, not with some of my younger, more attractive team-mates around. Those leggy backs look good sprinting down the line to score the tries after we forwards have grappled in the mud to get them the ball!
The trainer squeezed freezing water into my boot while Dahne patted me on the shoulder. ‘You’ll have to play on Tess, Minty’s on, we’ve no more subs.’ (Tess was my team nickname). ‘Up you get – put some weight on it.’ The trainer strapped it up for me and I ran, not without some discomfort, to take my place in the scrum.
A scuffle broke out in the opposition’s half, and as usual, the battering ram was in the middle of it, but our second–row, Heather was having none of it. She unleashed a right hook Mike Tyson would have been proud of! The referee didn’t agree though, he awarded them a penalty despite the groans from the crowd. It was a tense moment as their fullback stepped back to take the kick. I prayed silently for a freak gust of wind, but the small cheer from the crowd confirmed the worst – the ball had sailed through the uprights and we were three points down.
Out of the corner of my eye I could see Dahne gesticulating to our dug-out. Our trainer ran on and proceeded to treat Chunky, who was suffering from cramp. Dahne used this stoppage to tell Chunks that the ball was to be kicked to the right wing every time to exploit their weakness. Time was running out.
‘Come on – let’s get back up there!’ she shouted. There was urgency in her voice.
Determination forced me to run with renewed vigour, almost oblivious to the twinges in my ankle. The pressure we put on the right wing worked like a dream. Chunky kicked it long at her and the whole pack thundered after it, the weak link dropped the ball forcing a scrum on the 5 metre line. Our pack went down, eager, hungry. The ball came in and I hooked it back and Dahne called, ‘Walk it, right shoulder Teach – DRIVE!’
We drove them over their own line which was almost inconspicuous with the mud which squeezed up over our boots. We couldn’t afford to slip. Behind us Charlotte fell on the ball – the try was scored. There was a hearty cheer from the crowd which had grown somewhat in numbers, as curious people, sensing the excitement, had emerged from the bar.
The conversion attempt failed, but within minutes, the referee was looking at his watch. Not before a last-ditch effort from the opposition sent us all into a feverish defence of our line, until the ball was turned over and Chunky managed to clear to touch. The referee again looked at his watch; his hand went to his mouth and that wonderfully piercing, three blasts of the whistle signalled the end of the game. The relief was palpable. Suddenly, my body seemed to succumb to the fatigue and bruises. It was a painful pleasure as I limped off the pitch shaking hands as I went. It was a great feeling, to reach the playoffs for promotion. We would get a chance to travel up to London to play a club like Wasps or Saracens.
In the changing rooms, I pulled off my heavily-soiled jersey and boots and disappeared into the steaming showers which were soon filled with the jubilant singing of the girls. I scrubbed at my mud-caked limbs, discovering new bruises in the process, but it was all worth it – no pain – no gain! I picked my way across the changing room floor which was littered with mud, scraps of tape and unidentifiable objects, and bundled my kit into my bag. The despondent opposition emerged from their changing room, damp hair – damp spirits. They headed off to the club where, after a few beers, they would be singing loudly and planning next year’s promotion strategy!
I limped over to the clubhouse, heels replacing the togs, perfume replacing lineament. In the ladies, I slap a bit of make-up on and sneak a sideways glance at Claire, who is as effortlessly immaculate as ever. Already the sound of singing was erupting in the bar – songs that would make a nun’s hair curl! I have to admit, I loved the social event after the match. There was so much singing and laughter and fun; only rarely was there any animosity. Food was served; a bowl of cawl and crusty bread, and the speeches were made. Players of the match for each team were announced and the beer was drunk.
The evening ended with slurred singing and lots of bonhomie between the teams. I always went home content from a match, even knowing that by Tuesday rigor mortis would have set in and I’d have to roll out of bed sideways to get up for work. As usual, Claire was chatting up the bloke I’d had my eye on, but the anaesthetising effects of the beer made me insouciant. The important thing was winning an important match and being happy amongst good friends.
©Lorraine Surringer 2022
