The wheels on the bus went round and round, all the way to Maritzburg. The ninety kilometre trip seemed to last forever. Whoosh, whoosh was the only sound that could be heard as the wheels ran through the new rain puddles that being created by the rain. It was dead silent; you could have heard a pin drop. We all knew what was at stake. For each of us it was a different thing, but on both sides of the ball we knew that in order to have bragging rights for the rest of our lives this would be the game that we would have to win. Every other game that season did not matter as long as we won this game. Every goal would be remembered on those days when we would be sitting down as old men drinking beer or coffee. There would be talk about when we flew around the field with each other, who tackled whom and who dribbled whom. The bus was not a sleeping silence; it was more of a tense silence, the type of silence there is when a group of people enter the surrounding of another expecting to leave with something they shouldn’t. The main thing we were expecting to leave with was respect. It’s all about respect. This was the type of game that every goal and every tackle counted. We knew that we would be partying with them during the holidays, and we wanted bragging rights. That was the type of silence that it was, all the way to Maritzburg.

The misty damp air had given us the impression that our game could be postponed or at least maybe a game where we would be drenched with other liquids than sweat. The building where we spent the time before the game was filled with the smell of hot dogs and sandwiches. The people preparing them watched us with the thought that defeat would be on our agenda. It put an awkward silence in the room. We were there to prove them wrong and that is what we planned to do. As we got closer to game time, the building seemed to fill more with these people who had doubt in us. 

Game Time: we walked onto the field with our heads high and our pride shining. The strut in our walk revealed that we would not back down to anyone, or anything, there would be no opponent too large or any weather too ferocious to cause us to lose this game. The weather began to sprinkle and the air filled with yelling and screams. This was our territory. Then the all-black that covered the field to begin with was mixed in with the white of the on-coming players. This was a great day. As they walked onto the field, another type of feeling marched into my head; we could not be outdone in any way what so ever. We would have to do everything perfect: from our warm-ups to our yelling; and how we walked on and off the field. Any sign that we were the least bit weak then it would show on the field, and they would feed greatly on this weakness.  The down-pour came and as a forward I knew that I would have to perform perfectly, because the slightest slip at the sight of a goal-scoring chance would allow them to gain confidence of this. The field smelt of wet mould. White and black flew around the field; each of us trying to get one up on the other. Grass became stuck to the bottom of our boots. Grunts and cheers are muffed by the clatter of rain clashing against our backs. Seeing only a few meters in front of you did not matter as long as I could see and feel my immediate opponent. The mix of dew and sweat that collected on my face sent a chill down my back. Grass covered my fingers as I fell to the ground. The overly-passionate tackle leaves me down for the count, but he got his marching orders. The battle was not completely won; as I watched from the side-lines as the game goes on…