Beautiful Games

Chapter 1: Mud

It's freezing. I can see my breath puffing out into the crisp morning air like the smoke from a train. Even in my thick puffer jacket, I wrap my arms tight around my chest to keep the warmth in. 

Where is Scott? He should be here by now. Annoyingly John hops back and forth in front of the gate, the suck-up. But I guess that doesn't matter anymore now because Scott is late and he won't know that John got here first. 

There isn't much action going on in the stadium at the moment. The silence in the early morning is airy for a place that is usually filled with cheering, chanting fans. The first game of the season, there's a lot to prepare.

"You two are keen beans," I turn and see Scott walking up the path with a tray of coffees in one hand, his keys in the other.

I step forward and grab the tray off him before John can. "Aren't us interns the ones who are supposed to get the coffee?" I say laughing lightly.

The wind whips my blonde hair into my mouth and I struggle to tuck it back inside my cosy black beanie. 

"Well," Scott says as we enter and make our way to the equipment room. "Better to be late with coffee, then just late." 

...

The almost unnaturally bright green blades stuck to my work boots like leeches. I would have to be careful this game as the cold morning had turned into rain this afternoon. The grass became extra slippery under the weight of the camera on my shoulder. Images of cameramen bloopers falling over or being accidentally tackled sprang to mind. I was only just starting out my career in sports videography I certainly didn't want that haunting me. 

The players of each team slowly made their way out onto the field, taking their positions like a chessboard. The black versus the white. I could hardly see them from this end but I knew my long lens would get me up close and personal. I squared my shoulders and placed my eye over the eye-piece of the camera. Everyone in the production team hated being the end corner camera. The best was camera 1 and 2. Centred able to capture most of the field. Interns didn't get those jobs. They gave you the hard yakka. 

The referee's whistle blew and the game began. The crowd applauded in absentminded cheer, glad all the filler fluff was over. Afternoon games the fans were so quiet I often forgot they were even there. 

"Mills," My earpiece chirped -it was Scott. "Here they come, on your left." he was very good at predicting where the ball would land over the try-line. 

I carefully ran over to the left corner as the players barrelled towards me. Please don't plough me over, I said a silent prayer in my mind as I lined up the winning shot. 

Two seconds later number 3 dove across the line with his opposition tied to his waist. 

"Well done, Osie. Stay with them now!" Scott says in my ear. 

Dutifully I follow the celebrations as the crowd roars at the first try scored. The home team. Crap, I think. Getting the first try usually means I'm going to be running back and forth all first half. I readjust my rig as the players reset and I can see my replay up on the big screen. I smile despite myself, it's pretty satisfying knowing I got the shot. 

I am right. The first half of the game I spend keeping up with the home team trying desperately not to slip over in the now muddy patch of grass. The second half I get a reprieve as Scott posts John, in the winners' end. The score is too swayed there's no coming back from this. 

So I get to watch a bit more leisurely. These guys on the field are massive. Taught, toned muscles threaten to rip out of their shirts. Giant calf muscles propel them up and down the field over and over. I wish I was more fit. I'm strong though, carrying around a camera as heavy as a cement briefcase will do that to you. It's the running, my lungs feel dry and scratchy from the constant 100m sprints. 

At the end of the game as we are packing up the gear on the side of the pitch John comes stumbling over to me.

"Pack my gear will you," He puffs completely out of breath. He's unfit, I think darkly eyeing his muffin top spilling out of his trackies. 

"Get lost," I roll my eyes at him. He can't be serious. I choose to tune his wheezing out and focus too intently on coiling my cables just right. 

"Great shots, Osie! John, you got some goodies too! A great game wasn't it?" Scott exclaims standing over the two of us crouched down. His passion for rugby is almost infectious, almost. 

"Need any help packing up boss?" John asks suddenly perked up.

"Sure, go help carry those boxes off." Scott gestures behind him. John all but runs over while Scott watches him. However, I know it's only because Scott is watching. 

"Osie," Scott says again. "You can head off after you've locked your gear bag away and handed the cards to the editors."

"Okay thanks, Scott," I say with as much enthusiasm as I can muster. He nods his head once, turns and strides off the field. 

Rain begins to patter against my jacket and I quickly zip up my gear bag to protect the camera. I dejectedly lift my hood and stand to place the strap across my shoulder. The weight catches me off guard and I topple backwards. My bum squelches in the thick brown mud from the sideline foot traffic. 

I close my eyes, hoping the earth will just open up and swallow me right now. Luckily the game is well over, spectators have gone and players are hurrying out of the rain. I sneak a glance around me and notice no one has seen. Thank goodness! I get to my feet again and try to wipe off as much of the mud from the back of my pants as I can. It's futile. Angrily I grab the bag and begin to walk in the direction of the tunnels. 

I look up and notice one of the players making eye contact with me. He looks concerned, and I'm sure right now I look embarrassed. I quickly look away but notice him make a move toward me. So someone did see me fall, great. 

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see he's wearing black, from the winning home team. I keep walking up the mouth of the tunnel just getting out of the rain before his voice stops me. 

"Hey, are you okay?" He asks politely. 

I glance up and meet his brown eyes. "I'm good, thanks," I say despite the red in my cheeks. 

"Cool, just checking!" He smiles broadly, then turns and slowly jogs back over to his teammates. 

The rain drums louder on the high stadium roof above me as I make my way inside. Fall seven times, stand up eight, I tell myself. Though I'm trying not to let the weather affect my mood I'm certainly not feeling the best. Why though? I had a good game, so to speak. I only missed 1 shot from the opposition. That's great, even Scott praised me. I'm being too hard on myself. I just have to make it to the end of the season and win the year-long contract with Rugby Channel Productions. 

To have a steady income, doing something I love. That's everyone dream come true, isn't it? If John would just stop sucking up I could stand out more. Failure is not an option, so says my ever-growing rent. I don't want to live paycheck to paycheck any more.