The late night sky glistened in the lights of the stadium. The full moon glared at me as I prepared myself for the toughest challenge that I will ever have to face, which stood between me and a grand final victory. 53 metres out, 15 metres from the sideline, 1 point down, siren had already blown, adversity staring me straight in the eyes. I try to bloke out the millions of screaming fans yelling at the top of their lungs. Half are holding their breath whilst others are trying to put me off my game, until I hear that one phrase which brought back a horrible memory of last year and it blasted through my mind, “you black abos can’t play rugby.”
We had all just gone through hell? After defeating the South Sydney Rabbitohs in the semi-finals, in what was considered one of the best games of the season. Down 18-6 at half time, in the bucketing rain, our best forward and captain Michael Pats succumbed to an ankle injury and it looked as if there was no chance of winning this match. However, everyone on the team decided to not give up and they all poured their hearts out, gave 100% until the very end. Johnny scored the winning try and I converted it with ease and we went on to win 28-26. After the brutal match we all went to the sheds and cleaned up and talked about next week’s big game. Coach also gave us tomorrow to relax and clean up before we head back to training on Tuesday. I got my gear and headed out with the misses, Clarisse Downing. She’s my beautiful wife, long dark hair, with dark skin that matches her eyes, 6 foot and has the kindest heart in the whole world as she always gives spare change and clothes to the homeless. I mean what a women I have, and I’ll never let her go. We’ve been together for 5 years now and have a beautiful baby girl Lucy who is only a year old. Anyway, so 5 days had past, and it was our last training session before the Grand final. I felt good, everything was going perfect my kicking was accurate, passing was sublime and my skills were out of this world. But something triggered me that afternoon on the way home from training…. I remember walking down the soundless streets, it was 8 at night and it was getting dark fast. All of a sudden I hear footsteps, and out of he blue, someone came up from behind me and hit me over the head. Now I’m quite a big guy 6 foot 8, broad shoulders and I had been working my arse off in the gym in preparation for the game, however I’m not a violent man, plus I was about to head into the grand final so I couldn’t have the media buzzing around me. The hit didn’t really faze me, it felt like someone through a little rock at me, so I didn’t react however I was startled as I turned around to someone who I did not know, and as I was wondering why this man hit me, he started to yell abuse. The man was wearing a black hoody and he had his back bent so I couldn’t catch his face, although he had a very shady look with him and a very croaky voice that sounded a lot like a frog, as if someone has hit him in the throat very hard. He started yelling at the top of his lungs, “black aboriginals cannot play rugby, nor should they be allowed”, “I hope you die and don’t play tomorrow you black fool”. I was stunned, shocked, and to tell you the truth, very angry with this. My hand clenched into a fist that looked like a hammer. Although, I held back this rage and ran away as I knew he couldn’t keep up with me. As I was running home, all I could hear were those racist comments, which brought back a memory of my father, who ended up committing suicide a the age of 30.
I was only 10 years old when this happened. My dad kept coming home each day angrier and angrier, and one day he came home, went up to his room and punched the wall, it made the house rumble and I screamed “EARTHQUAKE!” however, when I ran up stairs to worn my dad, he was there, hanging by the rope that I won from the athletics carnival last year. His body lay lifeless in the cold air of the dark night. I fell to my