CobyDelaney for the Ninjas. 750 words below the stars
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It Just Takes One Moment
There are certain moments in a man’s life that forever change his path. The moment his first child is born, the moment he meets his wife-to-be, or the moment he discovers how to bypass the porn filter on the office network.
Other moments are equally life changing, equally influential, but not nearly as positive. One small slip up, one tiny mistake, and suddenly a man’s whole life can come crashing down around him.
For Micky, this moment would be one of those.
Easily identifiable by their blue outfits, Micky and his gang stand in a rough group, adrenaline coursing through their veins. Not twenty metres away, in contrasting bright red shirts, their rivals congregate, both groups sworn enemies, developing their plan of attack. Micky and his boys know they are on enemy turf, but it’s not in their nature to back down. It never has been. Besides, they knew deep inside that it was too late for that anyway. They’d already crossed the line.
Tension hangs in the air like humidity, making it hard to breathe, hard to think. Both groups of young men begin to ready themselves for what inevitably will to come next. Fists clench and unclench, sweaty palms get dried hastily on shirt sleeves, and forceful stares penetrate from beneath lowered eyebrows, and across the battlefield at the enemy.
At only 18, Micky is not only the youngest member of his gang, but also the newest member. His nervousness was plainly on display; and the enemy can sense it. He is instantly chosen as a target. It doesn’t matter. Micky is just keen for his opportunity to impress.
His first gang war. His concentration so intense that he can feel every inch of his body. He can hear the blood rushing past his eardrums, feel every tremor of nervousness radiating through his hands, and feel the sting of adrenaline as it pumps through his bloodstream.
But not once does he break eye contact with the enemy. His stare is unfaltering, his conviction unwavering.
Suddenly, a member of the other gang makes a move and, as expected, starts sprinting towards Micky. He’s a big man, almost two metres of solid muscle, his face twisted and distorted by his determination and intimidation. Micky’s gang set themselves ready for the attack. Micky steadies himself on his feet, despite his weak knees, with his weapon at the ready.
His attacker approaches swiftly, obviously trying to catch Micky off guard, to get the first move in before Micky has time to react. He’s five metres away. Three. One.
Without warning, Micky’s adrenaline takes control, his reflexes springing him into action. A ear-splitting CRACK resounds across the battlefield. A spray of blood mists from his head on impact and the big man drops heavily to the ground, blood flowing freely from his nose and ear.
Micky stands over his enemy’s body, his chest heaving with every breath, his face stern, his shoulders back, every part of his body projecting a picture of intimidation. Micky’s fellow gang members circle around him in support, knowing full well that once the initial shock of battle wears off, the young man may feel sick at the horrible act that he has just committed.
They’re right. A million thoughts rush through Micky’s mind. He looks down at the man that lies before him, unmoving, the pieces of his broken face as red as the shirt on his back. Micky’s never done
anything like this before, and his conviction in his actions quickly fades.
His enemy’s gang are certain in the conviction of their reaction though. Within seconds, the whole group is sprinting towards Micky, some with intentions of checking on their fallen comrade, others with the more sinister motive of revenge in their hearts, and their own weapons cocked for retaliation.
It’s no secret that the situation is about to explode out of control.
From nowhere, a whistle blows loudly, piercing the thickness of fury and friction in the air.
The referee raises his arm and points to the sideline.
“You’re off!” he bellows at Micky. "That was as blatant and dangerous an elbow as I’ve ever seen. High tackle, on report!”
Micky makes no excuses, offers no explanation, and accepts his punishment without protest.
As he trudges from the field, he steals a glance over his left shoulder. At the referee’s feet, his opponent has still not moved.
Micky can only hope he is OK…
Sometimes, it just takes one moment.
