The Fight

She ran, so did all the others, but they were busy with the goal – she was busy with the people. She stopped running when the enemy’s goalie kicked the black and white ball far down the field towards her. Though not to her, she thought, just away.

Brown fluffy hair bounced on her neck as she jogged subtly in place, preparing for the attacking forewords. And then she was in action having waited her moment, they were close, unguarded and unprovoked. On her side of the field. So she charged, as adrenaline rushed through her system. The enemy was caused to kick wildly, the ball went nearly straight across the field. Without pause, she took off towards the middle of the field, to replace the defending now attacking the enemy – smooth as a well oiled machine. Her own forewords were just catching up. The middle defender launches, commits, herself, and she prepares herself once more as the leftmost defender becomes the right in one fluid motion.

The enemy kicks wildly again, unprepared, never learning the lesson, never looking up from moving feet.

The ball comes straight towards her, and so she sets herself up for an intercept, like no attacker could – braggarts that they were. She connects with a blunt smack and the ball flies, her attackers pacing it.

She moves to her proper place, then, her position well protected. Waiting, now, as all the purposeless wait, to see what happens. The ball still flies among the dying sun’s light, getting lost in a brief, bright, flare. It lands. In the heart of the enemy, but their own defenders can counter it before the attackers realize they were too slow. The ball is sent back up the wings. Her side again. She waits eagerly now, for them to come. Stupid attackers. They can barely play the game, so focused on winning and reputation and fame and glory.

These enemy attackers are more prepared, though, and three of them begin to weave in and out of the other. In a broken and disjointed pattern. She watches with the patience, and arrogance, of a tiger stalking prey – seeing that the center will go up first, she falls back, ready to cover in the defender’s weave.

Once more, wild kicks, once more countered, but this time the ball finds enemy hands once more. Still on her side of the field. Left and center are up and still running full tilt to catch up to the ball and runaway attacker. Now all that remains is her and the goalie – she thinks for a wild moment, that death would be preferable to fail. She doesn’t rush, it is too close for that. There is no one at her back.

None of the other defenders are even close enough to try and distract the attacker. It was all her. All her. For her the cheers and calls rang. “Get them!”

“Don’t let them score!”

“Ice cream if the goalie doesn’t need to touch the ball!” This last chant fills her with rage at her team that she would so selflessly die for. She does not play for rewards of a physical nature. She plays as the game should be; for the fight.

The enemy reaches the white drawn box. They are screaming at her to move, but what would attackers know of defending? What would they know of anything but their own ego?

There! She moves on the enemy, from perfect stand still to running in a second. The enemy is setting up for a kick, the perfect moment of awkwardness to attack…she must time it right though. She runs, they all are running. She is close, they are not. The enemy draws back to kick, pausing for that moment; as she charges, she smiles.