Everyone from Royce College sucked.
Seriously, they were pathetic.
The game was delayed for over two hours because the coaches from Royce threw a very public hissy fit over Johnny playing.
It was embarrassing.
Two hours of standing around in the rain, while the coaches from Royce tried everything in their power to have Johnny pulled from the cards.
They were ranting and raving about how it was unfair to have an Irish international playing in the
This was a school rugby game.
Johnny was a student from one of the schools.
He was a minor.
He was entitled to play if he wanted to.
There were no rules being broken by Tommen.
Finally, after several phone calls to the board, an embarrassing and very public bringing out of the rule book, and countless screaming matches between Coach Mulcahy and Royce’s head coach, the teams took to the pitch at half past six – with Johnny sauntering onto the field in his number 13 jersey, wearing a shit-eating smirk on his face.
Early on in the game, it became clear why the Royce coach was so against letting Johnny play.
His team was terrible.
Well, maybe not terrible, but they were no match for a fired-up Tommen side.
How they managed to draw second on the table with Tommen was beyond me, because there truly was no competition.
The sheer volume of pride that roared to life inside of me watching him take on his old friends and kick their asses was scary.
I was ridiculously wrapped up in this boy and found myself screaming and cheering for him on the sidelines, ignoring the death glares I received from Bella and her friends.
I didn’t care.
I was so proud of him.
By half-time, Tommen were up 48-3.
Five minutes before the end of the game and it looked even worse for Royce, with Tommen securing three more tries in the second half.
Everything was going Tommen’s way until the final play of the game.
With less than a minute to go, Johnny stripped one of Royce’s forwards of the ball.
It seemed to be his thing: delivering the final blow in the last minute of the game.
With speed unmatched by anyone else on the pitch, Johnny ploughed down the field, chasing the last score of the game.
It was a blur of movements that resulted in him grounding the ball seconds before a stampede of opposition players crushed him.
The try was awarded.
The team began to celebrate.
But he wasn’t getting back up.
Claire’s brother, Hughie, moved into position in front of the posts and quickly kicked the conversion over, securing the win, before rushing over to Johnny– who still wasn’t getting up.
“Claire,” I croaked, gripping my friend’s arm as I watched on in horror as our classmates and peers celebrated around us. “Is he moving?”
Everyone from our school was cheering and clapping, the lads on the team were hugging each other in celebration, but Johnny was still slumped face-down behind the try line.
Hughie, along with several players from Royce College, were knelt beside him.
One of them was waving his hand at the coaches on the side line.
Another one was roaring at the referee.
Hughie was calling for Coach Mulcahy.
“Claire,” I repeated, panicked. “What’s happening?”
“I don’t know!” she strangled out, sounding equally panicked now.
A swarm of black and white jerseys came running in their direction then, flocking their captain.
I jumped up, my feet moving of their own accord, and pushed through the crowd.
“Is he dead?” I screamed, hand still entwined in Claire’s who was following close behind me. “Oh my god, Claire, is he dead?”
“No, no, no,” she kept repeating, but she didn’t sound sure.
“Claire!”
“I don’t know, Shannon,” she cried out.
We didn’t make it far, only getting to the edge of the pitch before being swallowed up in the throngs of other students.
Jumping, I tried to see above their shoulders, but I was too short.
Thinking fast I dropped to my knees and peeked between their legs.
Johnny was still on the ground.
Face down.
Unmoving.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted two men in yellow bibs run onto the pitch with a stretcher in tow.
Time seemed to stand still then, as I watched them kneel beside Johnny and set to work on moving him onto the stretcher.
The screaming and cheering had turned to hushed whispers as everyone watched on.
My heart, that seemed to have been on pause in my chest for the last few minutes, slammed wildly against my ribcage when Johnny slowly sat up.
His eyes were open, his chest was moving, and though he looked like he was in a great deal of pain, he was alive.
He was shaking his head and pushing away all offers of being lifted onto the stretcher.
I couldn’t hear what was being said, but his lips were moving at a rapid rate as he continued to shake his head and bark something to the medics.
Finally, the men gave up on trying to help him and backed away.
The crowd, both Tommen supporters and Royce, began to clap as Johnny eventually got to his feet.
His arms were slung over the shoulders of Hughie and Gibsie, and his head was bowed, as he limped off the pitch.
As they practically carried him off the pitch.
For a moment, I just knelt there, on my hands and knees in the muddy grass and breathed, allowing the tsunami of relief to wash over me as I watched him go.
I didn’t understand my reaction and I didn’t care.
He was okay.
He was alright.
And I could finally breathe again.
