Blood Makes the Grass Grow


Rugby is an art.

Like an aggressive piece played by an orchestra or an intricate, passionate dance, all the motions are executed with a sense of beauty.

I am a wing.

I am on the outside looking in on this masterpiece as it comes together.

The ball is loose.

I feel the rumble of the ground as the pack rushes forward like a small herd of elephants.

The ball is knocked.

Scrum down to red.

Crouch. Bind. Set.

Bodies interlock. The ferocious human table is formed.

Sweat drips.

Pushing, driving, fighting for possession as I anxiously fidget waiting for the outcome.


The scrum half digs like an angry terrier for the precious ball.


Ball’s out!

As the ball moves down the line, I am about to jump out of my skin.

My boots dig into the earth, propelling me forward.

Suddenly, the ball is in my hands.

I take flight.

Never before have I been this quick. There are wings on my feet.

Nothing but wide-open green.

Don’t look back. Never look back.

But hearing the thunder behind me, I did just that.

Like a bolt of lightning, I am hit.

I see the world turning on its side and then all I see is sky.

I hear all air leave my body, escaping through my lips.

There’s a familiar metallic taste in my mouth.

I can no longer see the sky.

I am covered by bodies.

My teammates, like valiant warriors coming to my aid.

They protect me as they push away the enemy.

I safely place the ball behind them and the battle above me begins to dissipate.

I pick myself up and remove my mouth guard, spitting and spewing crimson onto the dirt.

After all,

This is rugby.

And blood makes the grass grow.

This poem is about: 
My family
My community


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