31: ISAAC JENKINS

It was the second half of the game. The Bulldogs and the Crimsons gave us an exceptional show. Both scores stood at 39. I could detect the animosity and rage that poisoned the atmosphere. It bled from the athletes on the retrieve.

My eyes were always glued on number 69, I almost had a heart attack twice when I saw him being tackled by a few dirty, sweaty bodies. Their helmets and pads smashed against each other thunderously, granting me the notion that the Gods were angry.

With merely a couple of seconds left on the time, there was only room for one more play. Ace had the ball, the clock read 14 seconds. The crowd was nail-bitingly silent. Beads of nervous sweat pebbled my forehead. The tension was so dense, you could cut it with a knife. I observed in apprehension as Ace dodged and flipped past the enemy. I felt and tasted the adrenaline that was gushing from the pitch and the onlookers around the stadium.

I heard the coaches yelling.

“Defence!”

“Tackle him!”

My mind went into slow