The Worst Two Inches of My Life
Forty-four seasons of rugby.
Twelve grand finals.
Not one bloody premiership.
You'd think one might fall my way
through luck, incompetence,
or a clerical error at the Rugby Union Headquarters.
But no.
Apparently there's a policy.
Its my grade twelve grand final in particular,
that still gives me the shits.
We'd had a bastard of a season.
Half our blokes missing,
ring-ins from other sports,
the rest held together with tape
and a casual disregard for personal safety.
Clarence had nearly killed us in the semi.
Those dirty bogan pricks
punched in tackles, skinned us at rucks,
and squirrel-gripped anything
that looked remotely reproductive.
We won, somehow.
The referee remained blissfully unaware
that a crime had occurred.
Then came Friends.
The Quakers.
Or, as we called them, the Faking Quakers.
Unbeaten all year.
A fine school where attendance
was apparently optional,
provided you could tackle.
Half their side seemed to be at university.
One looked old enough to be teaching there.
Quakers believe there's something of God
in everyone.
Their flanker spent the afternoon
trying to locate mine with his elbow.
Our coach was Rex.
Named after a lion.
Temperament: kitten.
His one tactic was to shout, "Pass it!"
We ignored him.
And that day we played!
Not beautiful rugby.
This was Tasmania.
On a good day the standard
rose to the dizzy heights of mediocre.
Our forwards, half murdered by Clarence,
went into every ruck
like someone had hidden beer money underneath.
The backs tackled above their weight,
which in several cases wasn't difficult.
The Quakers unbeaten confidence
began to look distinctly negotiable.
Their ages had looked negotiable from kick-off.
Two minutes left.
One point down.
Ten metres from their line.
We were rooted.
They were rooted.
The referee looked ready for a counter meal.
We went again.
Pick and drive.
Another ruck.
Bodies everywhere.
Then, with seconds remaining,
the ball squirted free.
Someone gathered.
Out through the hands.
And suddenly, there it was.
An overlap you could drive
a bloody tractor through.
Out wide stood our winger,
the state hundred-metre champion.
Unfortunately, he'd dropped two balls already.
His legs were a national asset.
His hands were under investigation.
Our bloke had the ball.
Saw the winger.
Saw the space.
Saw the line.
From the sideline, Rex roared, "Pass it!"
We ignored him.
And somewhere in that teenage skull
a committee of complete dickheads
convened an emergency meeting.
He dummied.
Kept it.
Went himself.
And bugger me,
for one glorious second
he looked like a genius.
Through the tackle.
Arm out.
Ball reaching.
I was already celebrating.
Then the grass.
The bodies.
The whistle. Two inches short.
Two.
Fucking.
Inches.
Friends were premiers.
The Faking Quakers celebrated
another triumph for secondary education.
Our winger stood out wide,
with half the paddock to himself
and the fastest legs in Tasmania.
And there I stood.
Having never won a grand final.
Again.
I've replayed that moment for years.
In pubs. At barbecues.
I've used beer glasses, saltshakers
and several innocent bystanders
to explain the overlap.
I've considered the physics.
The angles. The probabilities.
The mental state of the ball carrier.
I've explained, with considerable authority,
that I'd have passed it myself.
Mind you, I wasn't carrying the thing.
I've even entertained the possibility
that he made the right decision.
The winger might've dropped it again.
And we'd have spent the next forty years
calling him a useless bastard instead.
I've lived a fair bit since.
Had children. Loved women.
Made money. Lost money,
mostly by keeping the ball.
Survived a few things
that make schoolboy rugby
look like a sensible pastime.
But sometimes, three schooners into an evening,
I'm back on that Tasmanian paddock.
The ball comes loose.
The winger's free.
Our bloke shapes to pass.
And forty-four seasons,
twelve grand finals
and a lifetime of bad luck
come down to this:
Surely, just once.
I know he might drop it.
I know.
But pass the bastard the ball.
I'd at least like to see him try.