Page 21 of Just Watch Me
The Chiefs fullback knew where he’d kicked that ball and was running full tilt, looking up as he went, picking out the spinning ball in the lights, in the rain, then going up for it, hands outstretched.
Another body, one in blue, going up opposite him. It was Jack, whose hands had been sure even at eight. Jack, who could always jump the highest, making the most of his chance.
Four wet, muddy hands on the slippery ball, wrestling in the air. Nobody on the ground able to help, because you couldn’t touch a man in the air.
Jack was the smallest of the brothers, wiry and tough. He’d launched into his older brothers at any teasing slight, though, and he played that way, too, a Jack Russell of a man. And now, Jack was the one whose hands stayed on that ball longest. Ripping it away and running, the 9 at his shoulder where a 9 would always be, ready to distribute the ball. And Zane was running too. Not as fast as Jack, because he’d never be, but he didn’t have to be. He just had to be there to take the ball and bull it over the line.
Ten meters. Twenty. But the Chiefs’ fullback was catching up. His mouth would be open, his chest heaving, going all-out to win in front of his friends, his whanau, his home crowd.
Zane put on the best burst he had in him. Calling on all those leg presses in the gym, all those punishing down-up drills, running and dropping and rising and turning and running some more as players fell to the turf and you kept going, because the skipper had to be that man who always hadmore in the tank, the one who inspired his men to lift a little higher. The last man standing.
The body goes where the mind takes it.
He ran.
The ball out of Jack’s hands and into the halfback’s for a split-second, and then flying like a bullet halfway across the field. Straight into Zane’s hands.
His chest was burning. His lungs were bursting. He felt them, and he didn’t, because he had his eyes fixed on his goal, and nothing was stopping him now.
Hands grasping his jersey, his shorts, slipping on the tight, wet fabric and falling away. Then the weight of arms around his middle, trying to pull him down. Trying to force him over the touchline.
He didn’t know who it was, because he barely felt it. He dragged that man straight over the tryline. Straight over the chalk.
The man trying to get under him, to keep him from touching the ball to ground, to rob him of his try. Twisting. Pulling.
Zane gave one last mighty heave. One last breath from tortured lungs. And went to ground.
The ball under him, his hands and forearms and elbows protecting it. The solid smack of the leather on the soaked earth.
He didn’t give it up even then. He lay there, spent and gasping, and made sure the ref saw the ball on the turf. Watching for that arm. The hooter had gone long since. The match would be over when …
An arm in the air.
Try.
He got to his feet with men around him pounding him on the back, then backed up with the others to allow Will to attempt the kick. All the way from the side, it would be, in thedriving rain. If he made it, a win by four points instead of two.
Zane was aware of that, but barely, because he was still watching the ref. Sure enough, there it came. Two arms in the air, drawing a rectangle.
TMO. Television Match Official. Delay. Decision.
Doubt.
Skylar’d jumped to her feet long since, along with everybody else in the stands. Chiefs fans with hands folded prayer-fashion over mouths, Blues fans jumping, punching the air. The stands ringing with shouts, with stamping feet.
The action on the big screen, over and over again.
George asked, “What’s happening? Is it over?”
“No,” Scarlett shouted. “They’re checking. But his feet never touched the touchline. He was never out. He was in! He wasin!”
Maureen was on her feet as well, her hands clutched over her heart. Skylar’s Granddad with her, his arm around her, supporting her the way he’d always supported Skylar. Both of them so united, and so alive.
The action over and over again on the big screen. Slow motion from one angle, then another. The man with his arms wrapped around Zane’s waist, and Zane dragging him along, almost in the corner. The tackler was skewing his body toward the touchline, trying to pull Zane over, but Zane wasn’t going. Two more steps, his leg brushing the orange corner post, and he was in. The edge of his rugby boot surely—surely—never touching that white line.
The referee with his hand on his ear now, concentrating, talking to the TMO. What were they saying? She had no idea.
“The ref ruled it a try on the field,” Scarlett said. “So unlessthere’s conclusive visual evidence that he stepped on the touchline, it has to stay a try.”
