The morning after the day before

He woke up with a heavy head, a dry mouth, and a grumbling bladder. The clock flashed 6:55, far too early, but just enough for memories from the previous day to slowly start returning. He took a few long gulps of water and leaned back, while small fragments of yesterday slowly began to form a mosaic in his mind.

Jack. He had sung loudly, energetically, with such joy that the entire evening had been lifted. Not perfect in pitch, but just right in spirit.

Luca. He had offered someone an oyster with a satisfied smile, almost as if he had discovered one of life’s little luxuries.

Will. Convinced that he tackled harder than anyone else.

Right the match. How had it gone? Had they won? Memories began to return slowly.

James got the ball straight after kick-off and charged forward for a try, fast and powerful, setting the tone immediately. But Erikslund didn’t give up. They pressed our line with full force, attacking like a swarm of angry bees. Tackles hit the ground with thuds that echoed in his head, players flew in all directions, but our defense held strong. After some strange kicks and chaotic moments, Erikslund managed to score a couple of tries – but we didn’t give up.

Zeb got his chance after a knock-on from Erikslund. He caught the ball and sprinted forward, legs pumping, heart racing and the try was secured. The crowd or at least the memory of their cheer sent adrenaline rushing through his body. Half-time: 14–14. Even, intense, nerve-wracking. It must have been an exciting match to watch.

In the second half, Erikslund took the lead with a penalty and a try, but they missed the bonus points. Could we turn the match around? Memories spun around in his head.

Fragments surfaced: Jack and Lex delivering bone-crushing tackles, a brilliant charge down by Harry, and an incredible play by Will, Zeb, and James that led to a try.

The final minutes were unbearable. The score 23–24, just a few minutes left. Adrenaline surged, bodies ached but no one gave up. The referee blew the final whistle. Final score: 23–24. A loss. By a single point.

But the feeling was more than just disappointment. Every tackle, every sprint, every try the entire team had fought together, physically and mentally, leaving everything on the field. Pride was there.

Fragments of the cultural night mingled in his memory: Jack singing, Luca with his oyster, Will still insisting he was the best at tackling.

He took a final gulp of water, leaned back, and smiled faintly.

/Anton