The crack of a brand new day.
The explosive fight you have with your spouse as you navigate your way through to foreign suburbs to find the field.
The sulking.
The arrival.
The joy at finding a mouthguard in your hand bag.
The coffee van dispensing warm, brown, piss tasting liquid that one gets when one gambles on purchasing caffeine from a truck.
The puffer vest explosion.
The hero.
The Pirate hooker.
The opposition, including a girl whose very determination, size and speed fill the Pirates hearts with fear.
The objections.
The reassurance that a girl can play rugby and to tackle her as if she was one of the boys.
The apprehension.
The bored brother watching on.
The sideline inspiration for a new breed of designer dog which I shall be calling the Cock-a-dor.
The price point will be $1900.
The game.
The admiration for the try scored by the girl which I dedicate to Germaine Greer.
The full back doing handstands.
The familiar feeling of observing an annihilation.
And the oranges.
Always with the oranges.
The satisfaction in taking comfort in the fact that the only way is up for The Pirates.
