Page 85 of Attractive Forces
Their halfback passes to the first five, the player I am marking.
What do I do?
If I commit to tackling him and he offloads the ball to the fullback, he’ll score.
There's only one option left. But it's the riskiest.
I feign toward the guy who’s got the ball, making it look like I'm about to commit to tackling him. He's getting ready to pass the ball, and just as he's about to release it, I change direction, going for the intercept.
Adrenaline surges through me. My fingertips of my left hand get to the ball and I grab it.
There's no way I'm dropping this ball. All I see in front of me is green grass and the crowd rising to their feet.
I take off, sprinting as fast as I can. My thigh muscles cramp, burning like they’ve been set on fire. My breath comes in frantic gasps.
I flick a glance back and see a red jersey scrambling across the field after me.
The try line beckons. Closer. Closer.
Their fullback is on me, but I throw my arm out to fend him off. Our bodies collide with a crunch, but I manage to push him off me as I continue my momentum over the line, planting the ball on the ground.
Try!
My teammates huddle around me, but I’m not interested in congratulations yet.
There’s no time left on the game clock, and we’re down thirty-one to thirty-two.
My kick for a possible extra two points will be the last play of the game.
Silence settles over the stadium as I tee up the ball.
Strangely, I don’t feel my usual flutter of nerves invading my stomach when I’m kicking with the game on the line.
I’ve worked hard for this. I’ve given up more than anyone.
All the straight players on the field will never understand what it takes to be the gay guy on the team. The fucking strength it sometimes requires with the homophobic shit that flows out of people’s mouths.
Some of my teammates, some of our supporters, equate being gay with beingless.With not being a proper guy, a proper man.
I straighten my shoulders as I line up the kick.
I’ll show them.
I strike the ball cleanly, the toe of my boot making a satisfying thud that seems to echo in the quiet.
Every eye on the field watches as the ball sails over the goalposts in a perfect arc.
And we win.
My teammates swarm me. Mazza picks me up off the ground and hugs me. Brewer messes up my hair, and Adam thumps my shoulder, his face almost splitting apart from his grin.
Then our supporters from Heath Valley flood the field, and I’m engulfed in a crowd, everyone wanting to slap me on the back and congratulate me.
But even as I’m surrounded by my teammates, my parents, and all our supporters, my mood deflates like it’s been punctured by something sharp.
Does victory mean anything when I can’t share it with the most important person to me?
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