I haven’t written any prose for a while.  Inspired, I guess, by the adverts signalling the start of the six nations, I wrote this yesterday in the early evening.

I really hope this captures some of the drama of the competition, and the series of matches we all lap up, anticipating great success, or cringeing disappointment, wondering what might have been.

Anyway, it’s a great time of year for a rugby enthusiast.

I hope you agree!

Six Nations.  Enjoy.


Six Nations:

Only time will tell who’s the bravest.  Who’s the fastest.  The best organised.  Has the best strategy.  That correct tactic.  Only after mud settles.  Whistles are blown.  Everything is left on the pitch.  The referee’s time-reckoning completed.  Then.  We can look each other in the eye and opine upon the finest pass, the heaviest scrum, the fastest ruck and the deftest step.  We can wonder at that last touch.  That decision.  That key moment, turning the game.  And then look bravely forward to the next iteration.  On tenter-hooks.

Who know what might happen?

We know that Rugby might happen.  Concoction of pace, muscle, instinct and skill.  Prowess and determination.  The star winger might sizzle.  Dazzle.  Defy logic.  That up and coming youth, given a crack so the coach can have a look, may turn the game upon its head.  A team might function.  Become more than the sum of fifteen parts.

Who knows what might happen?

Shoulders will crunch.  Knees will press.  Thighs thrum in almighty synergy.  Prop-forward calves.  Back-row biceps.  Number eight brawn.  All pitted against equally able opposition.  Margins are fine.  A combination of physics and stealth.  Strategy and brutal strength.

Who knows what might happen?

Don’t blink.  Don’t stutter.  Don’t choke.  Drive that pack on.  Demand exhaustion.  You have eighty minutes.  And counting.  You can’t replay.  The result stands.  Back line generals count off.  One on one.  One slip.  One miss.  One ball-following glance and you are done.  Turned inside out.  Flip-flabbergasted and falling away in slipstreams.  Giving the ball in micro seconds.  Creating a second for your outside partner to create one more so your wing can run.  Create a gap for your full back to run into.  And step.  Gyrate.  Flow through defence.  Set the nation alight.  Cast hope in yearning hearts.  Expect.  And Slam that score.

Who knows what might happen?

A chip.  A touch.  A flick.  A smash.  And the ball is loose.  In possession.  Dispossessed.  Turn over. Multi phase.  Time ticks on the game runs on the ball is here the bodies are there, shoulders smack, knee joints flex, thighs drive on, heads immersed in battle and the backs are calling, the ball is coming, the back row sprint the scrum half watches unleashed mayhem turning tacklers, running into space support runners interpassing, flashing legs.  Smash.  Slam down.  Ruck.

Who knows what might happen?



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