The Rain Never Came

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The teams started brawling as soon as they stepped onto the oval of dying grass, egged on by a crowd hungry for some rough entertainment and a diversion from the dry grind of life. The pushing and shoving quickly escalated, a beefy townsfolk player knocking one of the First Country players to the rock-hard ground. The crowd cheered louder, and I joined in with them. Punches flew back and forth; both players got in some clean strikes. The crowd cheered louder still, and so did I.

My throat burned…

I leaned against an old gum tree that was slowly dying and took a quick sip from my canteen, trying to stretch out the pitiful amount of water I had brought with me. For the umpteenth time that day, I waved away some flies. But still, it was good to be taking it easy in the shade rather than standing out in the sun.

And so I just watched as most of the players from both teams joined the fight, the mob of bodies a mess of writhing limbs, punches and kicks. Some sections of the crowd encouraged them, while some booed and hissed, and only a few players from each team tried to break it up. They did their best but were obviously overwhelmed, and so a swarm from the crowd soon joined them, both townsfolk and First Country, all keen for the game to get underway. Fighting players were separated; injured players were quickly checked over—no one was seriously hurt. Only moments later, a dozen First Country folk faced off against an equal number of townsfolk.

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