Kimmy’s Garden

Walking there, I sense my pulse increasing – not in the anticipation of playing or officiating, but watching. I am welcomed to the fields by the closeness of the muggy weather; the warm sun is smiling though the patchy cotton white clouds, as if to declare, “Rugby season begins today.”

I stealthily scan the sidelines swarmed by pockets of busy people, visualizing my path through the crowd; my competitiveness is stirring as I hunt for the perfect place to perch. As the May wind briskly skates by, I catch a slight scent of burning brush, and the springy fragrance of wet green.

I arrive at the contest, bombarded by the musky smells of adrenaline and fresh sweat. I close my eyes and listen attentively to the earthly sounds of bodily contact and the excited humming of one hundred conversations which surround me here; I face the sun again, and asmile back to reply, “Indeed, it has.”