Page 57 of Contested

Everything mattered too much.

The first five minutes were all pressure. Tackles. Smothers. Hands knocked away. Marks dropped because someone arrived half a second too late. The crowd rose for every contested ball as if the sound itself could force a decision. Sebastian ran until his lungs burned and then kept running because stopping would have meant a lost ball and wasted time.

They got the first goal through Corey after a direct kick from centre.

The margin dropped to four.

Then the Wolves answered with a behind after Harry forced a shot wide under pressure. Kick-in from the goal square. Randal went long to the pocket, which turned into a boundary throw-in. Marcos brought it to the ground, and the umpire called a ball-up. Then another ball-up. The clock ran too quickly and not quickly enough, every second dragging and vanishing at the same time.

They were running out of time. Sebastian didn’t know exactly, and he refused to look at the clock, but the noise was giving him an indication. And he trusted the noise.

The Wolves kicked another behind with three minutes left, pushing the margin to five.

Randal took the kick-in quickly, playing on from the goal square and sending the ball to Harry near the pocket. Harry marked, turned, and went down the line. The contest spilled, and Parker gathered it, passing off to Sebastian, but just as the ball hit his hands, a hard body slammed into him, bringing him to the ground.

The impact was hard. The ground against his head was harder. The ball was locked into his chest, and the umpire blew his whistle, calling a ball-up.

Sebastian unravelled from the opposition and stood. He could feel the blood from his nose and mouth before anything else. He waved off any help.

The game continued. Sebastian ignored the pain and watched the ball get punted into their fifty.

Corey marked near the boundary.

Sebastian stood near the arc, hands on his knees, breathing hard, head pounding, blood spilling. Corey lined up. The crowd tried to swallow the moment. Some roaring. Some whistling. Some clapping in rhythm to put him off. Corey started his run-up, struck it, and the ball curled late for the goal.

Mustangs by one.

For a moment, the MCG became sound without shape.

Sebastian turned and ran back to centre with the others, chest heaving, legs heavy, the noise hitting his back. Marcos caught his eye, brow furrowed, worry on his face. Sebastian shook his head, wiping his face and seeing how much blood was on his hand.

He blinked hard and carried on.

The Wolves won the next centre clearance.

Marcos got a hand to the ball, but it came off short, and their midfielder stole it from the front. The kick went inside fifty before Sebastian could close the space. Harry got across to spoil, but the ball spilled to ground. A scramble followed. Then the ball came loose to a Wolves forward who threw it onto his boot under pressure.

Behind. Scores level.

Sebastian jogged back, lungs burning, face hurting more with each step. He wiped it again. More fresh blood.

Randal kicked in again. This time, slower. He held the ball, scanned, waited for the lead, then went short to Harry, who moved it wide. Parker took a mark near the wing and looked to kick it in. Nothing there. He went down the line instead.

Thirty seconds left, maybe. Less. More. Sebastian didn’t know. He didn’t want to look.

Parker got his hands on the ball down the boundary line and got his boot to it as soon as he could, and it flew to the edge of the centre square.

Sebastian ran.

He wasn’t the only one. He could hear bodies around him, boots thudding, breath, someone shouting his name or maybe someone else’s. The ball dropped awkwardly, spinning as it came down, and for a moment, he thought it would fall short.

He pushed harder.

His legs were nearly gone. His lungs burned raw. Each step caused more blood to drip from his nose and mouth. The whole game had become the ball, the space beneath it, and the body coming at him from the side.

He jumped.

The ball hit his hands hard.