Small Fry is immediately behind the offside line with his hand hovering over the ball. He’s been our scrummy longer than I’ve been on this team, so his timing and throw is second nature to me. By the time he passes it to me, I’m already sprinting. There’s no gap in New York’s D line for me to exploit, so quick hands it is. I throw the ball to Timmer next to me, and by the time it reaches our winger, we’re just past the twenty-two-meter line and getting closer to our try line.
But New York tackles our ball carrier out of bounds and the flags go up.
It’s their lineout, so I watch from the backline as our forwards match their numbers and lift Pony in the air by his knees. I’m roaring when he aggressively wins possession and suddenly, all I can visualize is crossing the goal line.
Before he’s even on the ground, my brother is throwing the ball over his head in a direct spiral to me. No, even better—it’s falling about six feet in front of me—just far enough away that I can get a running start and hightail it between New York’s unprepared, too-steep backline.
Timmer’s ready for my pass, but I can hear Jimmy and a couple other teammates bellowing for me to take it all the way in. Heck, I can hear Angie from the sidelines, louder than anyone, demanding I do the same thing.
But when I try to juke, one of their beefy props—a man who looks like he’s been to war and seen things he’ll neverrepeat out loud—catches me off guard. He calls my bluff and tackles me with only a foot to go before the goal line.
For the next several minutes, we battle over the remaining inches that separate us from our first try. But when our hooker develops a severe case of butterfingers and loses possession, New York is there to scoop it up and kick it out of bounds.
God da—bless it.We just lost all that ground and will have to restart play at the twenty-two. The groan I release is the only thing I can utter without cussing. We’re not even five minutes into this game and I’m failing us already. I’m one of the fastest players on this team; I should weave in and out of big players like that no problem.
I cannot let my team down.
As we jog to our new positions closer to midfield, there’s a hand on my shoulder that takes my attention away from the frustration that’s beginning to boil.
Pony’s voice is clear and even. “She’s here,” he says.
That’s when I spot her—with all that red hair piled up high, sunglasses on and her bangs blowing in the breeze. I really should pay attention and get set up for the lineout, but my racing heart seizes control of my body. Without thinking, I extravagantly wave at the Wilde girls. Lo and Delta each stand next to their mom and point at me, begging her to “Look, see! That’s Jonah right there!” Even quiet little Loretta is jumping up and down, tugging at Renée’s arm.
With a curl on her lips, she sends a tiny wave back...to me.
“You got what you wanted, bro,” Pony says. “Now get your head in the game.”
The next thirty-five minutes are a slog. Not for me so much, but for the forwards who have been playing a scrum-heavy game—they’re feeling it. The props are subbed out for fresh legs at half time, as well as a lock. Wehaven’t been able to put a single point on the board, but neither has New York.
When Coach finishes his half-time pep talk, I take one more drink of water and pass the bottle off. The entire team circles up with arms locked around shoulders for Pony’s last words of encouragement. He reminds us of the jackpot waiting for the highest-scoring player.
My gaze drops to the circle of open grass between us, and something familiar catches my attention. So much so that I slip out of the huddle and pluck it from the ground while Pony is still talking.
A four-leaf clover.
Pony chortles. “Well, if that’s not a sign we’re going to win, I don’t know what is. Okay everyone, hands in and touch the clover.”
We break and head for our spots on the field for the second half. I pocket our good-luck charm and send one more wave to Renée and the girls.
On New York’s first kick to us, I catch it and take off like a bullet. Several players try to snag me, but I’m fast as fuck, boiii. Within seconds, I slide into the try zone just left of the uprights. The comforting smell of cut grass and spray paint greets me like a second home.
Five points for Philadelphia.
Cheers and butt slapping await me as all my teammates funnel into our end zone. Wheels kicks for an easy two-point conversion, and for the rest of the game we keep our lead.
With only a few minutes left in the game, most of us are bone-tired, but with try after try after try awarded to Philly, some of us are running on pure adrenaline. New York only squeaks in a single try and a conversion, but the energy on this field seems almost unfairly matched. We’re smoking them like a Kansas City barbecue. Heck, we could walk off the field and let New York try to catch up withno opposition, and they still wouldn’t be able to rack up enough points in these few remaining minutes.
But I’ve only had five tries and one assist—and I made a promise I intend to keep.
In the last few seconds, at the five-meter and fifteen, the forwards scrum down, all of them looking desperate for an ice bath and painkillers. But I see the special tap Jimmy gives his strongside flanker to indicate he’s going to shoot for an 8-man pick.
Weird he’s going strongside. He’d have a better chance at scoring if he went weakside. Unless...
Jimmy shoots me a wink before he crouches down and shoves his head between the locks’ hips.
Once the scrum sets, Small Fry feeds the ball through the channel, hurries behind Jimmy, and acts like he’s going to grab the ball and throw it out to me in the backline. Except he fakes, drawing the attention of New York’s backline away from the scrum. I pretend to catch the ball and whip it down the line, all while Jimmy picks the ball from the back of the scrum and beelines for the endzone. Our strongside flanker follows as support, essentially using Jimmy like a jousting stick to break through the defensive line. But the play isn’t successful (or maybe this was always Jimmy’s plan) and he takes it to the ground. His flanker doesn’t even set up a ruck. He just plucks the ball, and without looking, tosses it perfectly to me, before I zip through a narrow gap and over the try line.
My chest pounds as I lie there and listen to the screaming whistle of the sir awarding my try and announcing the end of the match.
