Musings from the Shitter – Volume Four

Celebrating the Win, Chasing the Loss

I’m shit at celebrating a win.

I love the win...the crack of the final whistle, that fizz in your chest like a shot of vodka (my preferred tipple back when I was still part of the drinking class) hitting just right. Relief and joy tangled up in a mess you don’t always want to unpack.

But before I even swallow it whole, my mind’s already gone...next week, next game, next fight. Chasing ghosts before the last one’s cold.

Maybe it’s the grind. Maybe it’s the fear that if I linger too long, it slips away. Or maybe it’s just how I’m wired...always hungry, restless, never satisfied.

But once...I held a win tight.

Fifteen...95...Nelson tournament. We were shit. Didn’t matter. I had fun.

There was a dance crew nearby...Wellington girls. First time a girl actually looked at me...just the thought, electric and raw.

Last game. Tied with Waikato. Penalty shootout to decide who gets relegated. No pressure, right?

I’m last up. Don’t know who scored, don’t care. Just happy to be out there.

I kicked. Ball hit net. I spun...grinning...swallowed whole by my teammates.

That goal won the game.

I drowned in ...the rush, the win, the wild promise of that night.

And yeah...I met that girl by the trampoline.

Celebration isn’t neat. It’s messy, wild, and real...something you don’t shove down or rush past.

But loss?

Loss is a darker beast.

It hits silent, or like a brick to the face. I don’t let it linger though...I’m hunting for meaning in the wreckage.

Sometimes it’s the easy stop..."we played well... but got beaten".

Other times, I tear myself apart, piece by piece. Every bad pass, every slow step, every moment I fucked up comes into sharp focus.

And that bitterness? It fuels me harder than any win ever could.

I stare down the next game with fire in my gut, sharper and hungrier than before.

Because if I can’t hold a win without looking ahead, I damn sure can’t sit still after a loss.

So I keep moving. Breaking down, building up, chasing moments where I’m fully alive.

Maybe that’s the fight...not just on the pitch, but in the space where you let yourself be human.

This is a musing from the shitter.

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