Get Low

“SCRUM BITCHES!!! Look where you’re at, get there!”

Screaming from the sidelines never seems to stop your ears from pounding as you play. The combo of yelling matches from your fellow mates, coaches: Road Runner and The Bear and our fans.

“No no no, grrrr. GET. THE. DAMN. BAAALL!!” I can feel the scrum sway and I instantly think they’re trying to rotate the scrum; a growl escapes my lips and our opponents end up slackening their push. Odd noises, heavy breathing, the smell of dog shit, mud and body odor mix together making our eyes tear up, clear up and gleam with the desire for victory.

“GET LOWER THAN THEM!” The Bear screams we can hear her throat rattle with forced volume and we remember the wonderful “get low” mantra that is always an energy boost. We get lower in unison and drive, drive them back. My growl grows from me to everyone. It’s as if time stops and nothing can be heard now but stagnant breathing and victory. The sound of squeals from our opponents, of angry laughter from our sideline mates, of “yes, yes, yes! whoooot!” from our audience. We can hear all that and we just know we grow stronger, and they want to quit. Satisfaction.

A bitch drops to her knee in the scrum, the whistle blows and the sir tells us to unbind. We stand there for a few seconds, the sir ignores our looks could kill stares that we aim her. We know and they know she dropped her knee on purpose. The sir turns to her and tells her to keep her footing or it’s no contest, their hook and a second are rookies anyhow. The insult makes me grin, no contest means no push, we just hold each other up in a never-ending scrum while the hookers play footsy. Our hook is a beast and no contest means our backs should prepare for the pass.

She shakes her head up and down, “yes sir, won’t happen again, thank you, sir.”

“LALALALALALALALA, GET LOW LADIES, WE GOT THIS!” Always an optimist, our Road Runner, she sings us that tune, it motivates, it gets the job done and we get lower than them. We push with every fired up muscle we can. These are full scrums, so imagine eight people doing squats in unison, holding on to each other while trying to drive back another eight doing the same thing; it’s a giant cluster fuck while the hookers wrestle their legs to roll that ball backwards, towards our scrummy, who’s looking between our legs trying to grab hold, ignoring the real possibility of getting her hands crushed by our cleats.

“ahhhh…grrrrrr” noises turn heads, growling keeps the exhaustion at bay.

The growl spreads to us all as we drive harder, gaining meters, pushing them back. One of them laughs and we find their weak spot. Together with bind to each other tighter and our legs gain momentum as they move backward and we keep moving forward.

I can hear our opponents’ scratchy breathing; one would think they needed an inhaler. They’re trying to win a losing battle, saying “no, no, no, no.” No isn’t a good motivator, besides they’re already being driven back while we gain more ground.

Our scrummy gets her hands stampeded by the raining cleats and she finds an opening for the ball behind our left-side second. She pulls it out and tosses it to the closest back.

“WITH YOU, WITH YOU, WITH YOU.” My mouth hurts, jaws were clenching my mouth guards as though trying to grind through it. Ignoring the want to gas out, a widening grin spreads across my face as I hear those words. The ball is out, yet we’re still driving this scrum. Yes, we forwards win this one.

“YEAH, YEAH, YEAH.” The ball gets tossed to one of the fly halves and I make a run to cover her. I run past a back and backtrack. Forwards are not supposed to be faster than backs. I’m a forward. I make a grab for her arm, “NO time for breaks, get there!” I scold as I pull her along. I let go as she picks up her legs and covers more ground to be there for the ball.

The whistle blows. We all stop, scanning the field like Rugby terminators, looking for the sir.

“Ball went out of bounds. Line up.” He says.

The bitch’s captain was aching for another shot at dominating a cluster fuck, so she opts for a scrum. Our captain smiles and agrees.

“Okay, scrum it is.” Sir says.

We take our positions and get so damn low our knees lightly brush the grass, but we’re cautious not to touch the ground.

We bind and drive. DRIVE, DRIVE.

Before I know it, the ball is suddenly glued to our scrummy’s’ hand thanks to our hookers quick leg work. Scrummy passes to the first back in position and she was off, unstoppable towards the try line.

“YES!!!! THAT’S HOW IT’S DONE LADIES. WHOO!” Cheers Road Runner

Thanks, Coach!

We dominated.

Saturday’s a Rugby Day



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