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Only a few seconds left.   You’d already played a vicious offense, snapping around, all sharp elbows and tough shoulders; surprise jab step and  grab the ball in that vice-like grip; venomous barbs at the frustrated opposition who want nothing so much as to crush you underfoot.   Keeping them off their game: angry, irritated, eyes on you for the next attack, but you scuttling away arachnid-fast to shoot, score – the final sting of defeat.

Downing water, accepting back pats from team mates bristling with not a little jealousy, towelling off.   Taking too long chatting up the hot fan who waited to admire: they were starting to turn out the stadium lights as you pass the darkening indoor bleachers to reach the…

No instinct.   No inkling of the dark creature lying in wait in your own particular lair, eager to drag the weaker predator down off the victory rock and into the shadows in a clawing clash of silent armour until the stabbing, scoring pain of the unexpected foul play…

Ah.

The sting of final defeat.

 

NINTH SIGN…

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2 Comments

  1. Seams you broke the heart of some fan girls there and left the team a member short…..and I bet you enjoyed every minute of it.

  2. Getting a bit high profile – take care!


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