Connor
We stood in our V. Shoulder to shoulder, arms locked, trying to look like men who hadn't just walked into a challenge we didn't start as the All Blacks centered themselves on the field. The camera men circled them as they started their war cry.
All of them in black, moving like one body under the floodlights. The chant came first, low and guttural, and it didn't ask for your attention. It took it. The sound rolled across the pitch and settled in my chest like a weight.
You can tell yourself you are brave. You can tell yourself you have played in front of eighty thousand people before and that it is just a dance. But then one of them steps forward, sticks his tongue out, and stares straight through you like he is deciding which rib he wants first, and suddenly your brain starts doing stupid maths about how fast you could run before the ref calls it a forfeit.
