With wings on his feet

He walked down the path; he had run down, many times, forty or so years ago. As he came through the trees, there it was the rugby pitch he had played on in his youth.

There had been changes of course; the cinder running track around the pitch was gone. There was now a white spectator’s fence almost completely surrounding the pitch, a few yards back from the touchline. The fence was broken only by a small grandstand, with about one hundred seats. How things had progressed over the years.

One thing had not changed, there was still the slope on the field, and from where he stood it ran from left to right. Many times nearing the end of a game, he had been grateful for that slope, almost like having an extra man, urging you forward. He walked down to the bottom of the slope and going under the fence, made his way to stand underneath the posts. By now there was just enough light to make out the posts at the top of the pitch. His mind took him back to a day when the light conditions were the same and he was on that field.

There was a scrum about twenty yards from the touchline, he was positioned at inside centre, about ten yards to his right and five yards forward, of him, was his fly half. The rehearsed move was for the fly half to get a quick ball from the scrum and immediately deliver it to him at inside centre. He had to run and gain some ground, when tackled turn his body and deliver the ball to the on rushing forwards. Of course that did not happen.

The ball squirted out of the side of the scrum. The open side wing forward got hold of it and delivered a pass in his general direction. The ball bounced fifteen yards in front of him and somehow carried on his direction. Training and instinct now took over, he moved forward towards the ball going in low, almost on to his knees, getting to the ball as it reached what would have been the second bounce. He had the ball in his hands. His opposite centre came to tackle him, but his opponent was too high, allowing him to go under the tackle. The legs began to pump now, left leg, right leg, studs feeling for grip on the soft earth.

He headed for the gap, where his opponent had been, two three more strides, his body straightening with each stride. In full stride now at the gap, body straight. He sensed the other fly half diving towards him. A slight swerve to the left avoided any contact. The opponents back row forwards should have been there, putting him down on the ground. Where were they? He could hear noise and sensed bodies around him but no one tackled him. Keep the legs driving forward.

Through the gap, five yards to go, the defending full back in front of him. A side step to the right, the line was two yards in front. From there, dive, hands over the ball, he was over the line, a whistle blew, try given. He vaguely felt his left leg hit the post, probably a defenders last gap attempt to stop him. He stood up now, smiling, with the ball in his hands.

He did not spear the ball into the ground, there was no crazy dance, his team mates did not jump all over him, no gold medal or a twenty thousand crowd chanting his name. There was a ripple of applause and a few cheers from the fifty or so spectators, but more important was the reaction of his team mates.

He had scored tries before and was used to the loose slap of a handshake you got on these occasions. This time the handshakes were firm, there was even a few slaps on the back, and he is certain he heard one or two say “ well done “. That is when he knew he had done something special. He had reached his pinnacle in his sport; it did not get any better than this.

He opened his eyes; there was no plaque there to commemorate his moment, no film to endlessly show on sports quizzes, but as his left leg brushed against the post, he smiled. It was there forever in his memory, and perhaps that of a few others. The day, for a few seconds, he was untouchable, and had run with wings on his feet.