There are moments in history when regardless of your seat, a nation becomes a stadium. When a countrys gaze and speech, tightens in one direction. When a population leans, from sofas, pub stools, in village halls, to watch. Or strains to listen in cars at the sides of roads, or in tractor cabs stilled in silent fields. There are moments when the many, through the few, become one. A faithful but demanding tribe, fed by the past, hungry for a win but also more. For beauty as well as strength, for art as well as war. But romance, history, fervour, are the privilege of watchers only. For the men who must do, who must carry this burden, though fuelled by the colour of the jersey, the feathers on their chest, there can be no past or future when, but only now. For them those eighty tightening minutes will be an ever-living present composed of the angle of their runs, the timing of cross kicks, the learned set piece which like a trigger will fire the line to light the match. It will be the focused practice of what their bodies have learnt on the training pitch. The thousands of hours of solitary pain, the sacrifice which has led them, and them alone, to this - A nation watching, sharing a pulse as the clock counts up to the final whistle when, in an instant, now becomes then. The moment, whichever way it falls, cast forever, and theirs to carry for the rest of their lives until, like those whove passed through this crucible before, they too will join the soil, the tir, the pridd of this land they were prepared to fight and suffer for.
Posted on: Sat, 08 Nov 2014 11:14:36 +0000
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