Number Eight

You search your bag for your mouthguard. You swear you packed it away this morning, you need it to play today’s play off game. You find it tucked away under the folds of your bag. You stand up and look out the washroom window, past the frosted glass and in the space of the creases. You can see the other team lining up on the field, the rugby ball thrown at blistering speeds, its blue stripe fading away with its spin. You zip up your bag and check the strength of the knot you made with your laces. Your captain walks in. He stretches his neck up to look you in the face. He glances at the team outside as well. Placing his hands on your shoulder his words break the silence. “You can’t let their words get to you, your only as strong as you allow yourself to be.”

You look at their team running practise drills now, you can see their faces laughing at you, whispering about you to others, the fights and yells all too familiar now, the words constantly echoing inside of your head. You look away, trying to shake your head free, your captain knows what you’re capable of, he has told you this for three years now, over and over again. You nod at him confidently and slowly leave the washroom. The wind outside feels blistering at first, the cold running through your leg, shaking your spine, your breath shudders, and you feel the cold rushing over your body, soothing your body. You go for a run to warm up, your team with you. As you run by the other team, the staring begins, then it turns to whispers and chuckles. One of them calls out to you, “Hey everyone, check out the panda!”

Their team erupts in forced laughter, to strengthen their confidence, to unify them as a team. You look at your captain and he looks at you. You put your hands near your chest, palms facing forward, signaling to him that you are alright, that you can handle this. Your team comes together in a circle, one more team to go over the game plan, it was the first time in years that the school was in the playoffs, and to end it on the first game would be devastating. This was just as important as the finals. Arms go around your back, enclosing the circle. Your captain runs through the formation again. “Remember, this is just drawings on a piece of paper, this is worthless if each and every one of you don't put the effort into it,” he pauses and looks at you, “we only get one chance at this, we have to make it worth it.”

Everyone comes closer, raising their fists in the sky, the chant screamed into your ears, engraved into your head. The echos of the words ringing when the circle dispersed. As everyone takes their position, you reach down to feel your ankles, and stand up again. You take in the scene of the crowd, everyone anticipating the victory that would mark the comeback of the school. You close your eyes, and in the few seconds that they’re closed you can hear everyone who ever laughed, whispered, chuckled. Everyone who ever tried to get you a penalty, everyone who ever told you that you could not make the cut.

You gather all these words, and in an instant you feel a fire erupt in your chest, its flames reaching your fingertips, rocketing towards your toes and flowing up your back. You clench your fists, adding fuel to the fire, harnessing its energy, its abilities that it enables. Your eyes can slow the game down, your tackles can send your opponents slamming to the ground, your legs fast and strong, month after month of practice and struggle to get out of bed. You remind yourself, just as you have been year after year, that they’ll be shocked when they see you receive the ball. You open your eyes, to see the opposing team staring at you, all eyes locked on. The referee blows his whistle, the crowd holds their breath, your captain looks to his left, then to his right. You hear the punt of the ball, rubber against plastic, and your calf pushes off the ground.