Musings from the Shitter – Volume Five

The Rush We Still Chase

We knew it’d be a scrap.

Takaro always is. Not a dirty game. Just history. Pride. Old bones with too much memory.

We were short…sick lads, life getting in the way. Happens more often now. Bodies breaking down. Family stuff. Flu bugs. Whatever. They felt it. We felt it. That’s how it goes.

3–2, we lost.

It stings. Still does.

We don’t play for tables or trophies anymore…but tell that to the part of me that still kicks walls when the whistle goes.

There was this moment.

Ball loose. Challenge coming. Bodies flying in like it still matters…which it does. Took an arm in the back. Didn’t mean it. Didn’t care.

Spun around fast, instinct taking over.

Faced him. Eyed him up. That little flicker of let’s go then alive and burning, same as it ever was.

You know that buzz? The second your body says fight before your brain catches up? That was it.

Didn’t come to anything. Just handbags. Chest puffing. Grown men pretending we aren’t tired.

After the game, turns out... I knew him.

Old rep days. Manawatū colours. Fifteen or sixteen. Piss all muscle but full of piss and vinegar.

We’d played with each other before we ever played against.

And I stood there thinking: we’ve gotten old.

Old enough to have history in same kit.

Old enough to know better…but still chasing that fire.

We sat in the clubrooms later, sharing beers with the same blokes we battled. Laughing. Lying about how good we used to be. Remembering the lads who aren’t here. Remembering why we do this.

Because it’s still the clearest thing in our lives.

Because on the pitch, even with the yelling and the bruises, there’s peace.

For 90 minutes, the noise of the world drops out. Bills, bosses, breakdowns…all gone. Nothing left but the next touch, the next run, the next breath.

We’ve gotten old.

But god, we’re lucky.

This is a musing from the shitter.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Musings From The Shitter: Volume Twenty Lynx, Laminate, and the Fairest Player There’s a certain smell to school prize givings. Not a bad smell, exactly…more like a composite atmosphere, a curated blend of over-varnished wood floors plus the faint, throat-catching edge of whatever Lynx body spray is trending with 13-year-olds whose relationship to moderation is still in development, all undercut by the inescapable base note of adult unease. You can smell it. The awkwardness. The restlessness. The existential question…unspoken but humming like a low-frequency speaker test…of why exactly are we here ? Because prize givings are, in some ways, elaborate performances of value. Of symbolic order. Of hierarchy dressed in community colours. They attempt to summarise a whole season…or year, or whatever unit of youthful effort the school is measuring…into one night’s worth of laminated certificates, misfiring microphones, and rhythmic clapping that can either feel wildly disproportionate o...
Read more
Musings from the Shitter – Volume One Post-match reflections from the only room in the house where I get five minutes to myself I don’t really know what this is. Maybe it’s a brain-dump. Maybe it’s a slow exhale after ninety minutes of chaos and calf cramps. Maybe it’s just me, hiding in the only room in the house with a lock on the door—sitting on the toilet, not necessarily doing anything, just… thinking. Reflecting. Sometimes writing. Welcome to Musings from the Shitter. Every week, after the boots are peeled off and the socks come away like bandages, I disappear. The game is over, the laughter's still echoing from the changing room, and someone’s usually asking where I’ve gone. I’ve gone here. This is my ritual. My chapel. My post-game temple where thoughts are louder than the flush and occasionally more profound than whatever just passed through my colon...though, honestly, that’s up for debate. I play football for Feilding United. That name might not mean much to most people,...
Read more
Musings from the Shitter - Volume Twelve  Where  We Leave the Week Football clears my head. Of the week. Of the weeks. Of the goddamn grind. It’s not the game, not really. It’s the battle. The blood and the mud and the silent war inside. A purge. Alone in the thought, but not alone in the fight. Sometimes it comes out as aggression. Ugly, misdirected. I’m no Roy Keane. Christ, I’m not even close. But I get it. I get the snarl in his jaw. The way he needed the scrap to feel alive. Win the battle, win the game. Or at least, win something . Anything. I’ve regretted battles. More than a few. But not all. And if I’m honest, I’d take some of them again. Maybe even hit harder this time. Because football isn't just football. Not for people like us. It’s a goddamn pressure valve. A place to empty out the week. To be someone else for 90 minutes—or no one at all. And I know I’m not the only one. I see it. In the warm-up stares. The short tempers. The quiet nods. We...
Read more