'All in all,' he reflected, 'not one of my better days.' Catching his breath in the momentary respite before another line-out, he decided there and then that these dirty, cheating... ... opponents (even in his mind he couldn't say the word that most others would have used to describe their antics), weren't getting away with it, not while he could still stand, even if he had to tear up the entire rugby pitch and bring the try line to the ball. They were simply not going to win, there were no two ways about it. However he did appreciate that with a little under three minutes left on the clock, it would need something very special to turn the match around, and would probably involve a huge slice of luck. Straightening up and ignoring the mind numbing pain that came with the move, he wandered over and assumed his place in the line-out, focused solely on getting his hands on the ball.
Right hand gripping the ball like an eagle clutching a fish, the Salisbridge hooker was poised to throw the ball straight down the line of opposing forwards, but as he drew the ball back behind his head, he gave Tank a little wink. Immediately Tank knew this was it, the chance he'd been looking for. As the hooker released the ball straight down the line, at exactly the height Tank had been expecting, having practised this over and over again in training, the man mountain of a dragon wrapped in a human body jumped with all his might, one of his gigantic hands plucking the ball out of the air, before falling back onto the muddy surface, his damaged ankle nearly giving way with the bone shuddering impact. Holding one opponent at bay with his free hand, he sprinted for all he was worth around the back of the forward line, shaking off the opponent and headed deeper into the middle of the muscle sapping pitch. On doing so, he found himself directly level with the electronic timer. It loomed over him like a dark, prehistoric dinosaur about to strike, the brightly lit numbers standing out like piercing, fluorescent eyes. In a fraction of a second he read the display, his mind registering that he had less than ninety seconds to turn defeat into victory. Ignoring the pain slicing through his body, he found solace in noticing out of the corner of his eye that his friends were still watching him from the sideline. Stretching the huge muscles in his neck, he put his head down and charged for all he was worth past a row of his own players, determined to score a try and win the game for his team.
In the few seconds since the line-out, Peter and Richie had suddenly become more alert, and less interested in going inside to get warm. Both of them sensed simultaneously that something had changed, and that things were about to get very... interesting.
With his head down, running at full tilt, Tank had already thundered two members of the opposition out of the way and was busy weaving between the next two, with the rest of the Salisbridge team in hot pursuit.
Leaning against the metal rail that surrounded the pitch, the very last thing Peter was currently, was cold. Nervous, excited, hopeful, barely able to look... he was all of these things, but most definitely not cold. Tank was brushing off opponents like they were children, and had everyone watching, spellbound. The crowd had collectively breathed in, and were now holding their breath, waiting to see how things would pan out.
Tears streamed down Tank's face as one of the opposition grabbed his damaged ankle. Gathering all the pain up in his mind, he sealed it in a brightly coloured box deep inside his psyche, something dragons were taught to do in the nursery ring. Still within his mind, he tossed it into the furthest recesses, watching it disappear off into the darkness, and then back with his body, wriggled free of the defender who'd had hold of his ankle. Continuing his selfless charge towards the try line, he was careful to make sure that none of his dragon abilities bubbled to the surface in an effort to help him, so while he'd been taught that little trick with the pain during his time in the nursery ring, he didn't consider it part of his array of magic, or a particular dragon feature that would give him an unfair advantage. Like his friends, he was as honest as the day was long when it came to any kind of cheating within his chosen sport.
Richie and Peter had seen their friend do astonishing things whilst growing up, but the display Tank was putting on here and now made Peter wonder if he'd seen anything from his friend that was quite so amazing.
Things had started to blur around the edges of Tank's vision.
'Not a good sign,' he thought, as he pushed ever further into the opposition's half. The good news was that some of his teammates had nearly caught up with him; the bad news was that nausea washed over him in giant waves, so badly that he feared he would pass out at any second. But he knew if he did, any chance of winning would be lost forever. Suddenly his brain registered that he was in a lot of trouble. Three opponents were converging on him all at once, with absolutely no way to avoid being tackled. Bringing his head up just slightly, he glanced over his left shoulder. Sure enough, Speedy Ian, the Salisbridge winger, was galloping down the wing like a racing thoroughbred. Tank waited until he could see the whites of his opponents' eyes, something made even harder by the problems with his vision. The three of them knew that Tank had nowhere to go, and were oblivious to anything else around them. All they knew was that they were going to take him down... BIG TIME! With them all just fractions of a second away, Tank, without looking, threw the ball high up into the air over his left shoulder, and then dived down onto the churned up ground. All three opponents were left stunned as they helplessly watched the ball fall directly into the path of Speedy Ian. Worse was to follow, as they all tripped over Tank's prone body at speed and at exactly the same time, causing them all to pile up into each other with bone chilling thumps.
On the ground, Tank wheezed in pain from the falling opponents, all of whom had made contact with his ribs and back to one degree or another. With a Herculean effort he forced himself to his feet, determined to see it through and make sure his team got the try their hard work fully deserved.
On the sideline, the spectators still collectively held their breath, waiting to see if their team could do the impossible with only seconds remaining.
Willing his battered and bloody body to move, Tank took off after Speedy Ian and the rest of the Salisbridge attack. Through his ever diminishing eyesight, he could just make out the winger being tackled, with the attack turning into a ruck about ten feet short of the try line. His body moved on autopilot as he joined his teammates in what he knew to be the final seconds of the match. The ball came fizzing out of the ruck quicker than he would have thought possible, back to one of the forwards who, surprisingly, rather than run towards the try line, threw the ball straight back to him. Clearly the forward's brain must be addled, because if he looked only about a tenth as bad as he felt, then no one in their right mind would have passed him the ball. Tank's bloodied, numb, frozen fingers seized the ball, before his mind even registered it. Unable to take a painful breath, something grabbed him around the neck, forcing him to the ground. Above the impact of smashing into the ground, and the subsequent face full of mud, Tank heard the referee's shrill whistle nearby. In an attempt to win the game and waste time, their opponents had given away a deliberate penalty. Rolling over, trying hard to make his giant, tree trunk like legs work, Tank glanced over towards the electronic timer. The fluorescent numbers dazzled his broken eyes. There were eighteen seconds left, eighteen seconds to do the impossible. Staggering to his feet with the ball on the ground in front of him, he took everything in. He was standing off to the left hand side of the pitch, some fifteen or so feet away from the try line that he so desperately needed to get to. Glancing around, his teammates looked worse than he felt, which was saying quite something. To a player, Salisbridge had given their all. More to the point though, was that they looked as though they'd already lost, a feeling that was creeping up inside him. That is until he looked up into the faces of his opponents between him and the try line, all looking like they'd... won. A primal, unjust rage roared from somewhere deep inside him. It powered every muscle, every sinew, and wrapped itself throughout his broken body, as it screamed,