BRIDGETOWN, BARBADOS

It was Terry's turn to finish practice in style. He just needed to pass the defender and score a try. Sounded easy enough. His wiry frame and piston-like calves should do the trick. Martin, the defender, wasn't as fast as him. He was more of a tank. And he loved to grapple his opponents so he could slam them so hard, their brains would rattle out of place.

Coach Lexon - a clean-shaven, seemingly ageless, curly-haired man adorned in a tracksuit and sandals - handed him a chubby, oblong practice bomb with a blank timer, then stepped back to see how he would handle Matin, one of the best defenders in the Barbadian Schoolboy League. Their teammates wanted to see this too while staying behind their coach.

His nerves were twitching to run.

Martin readied himself for any high-speed manoeuvres by widening his base and spreading his arms while Terry tightened his grip on the bomb. They waited for the coach to blow the whistle as he counted down. They locked eyes on each other; the two teenage super athletes expecting zero. And when that fated number exited him, Terry was already closing in on Martin.

He was trying hard to determine which side he would take. He stood still, allowing him to come. Martin didn't want to give away which side he wanted to go so that he could get sidestepped. The distance between them was now becoming nothing. He decided to make his move, and at the same time, his opponent made his, catching him off-guard with a dropkick.

The bomb flew over his head, beginning its flurry of hops to the try line with its rubbery exterior making it possible. There was now a there way race: the bomb, Terry, and Martin - all three wanting to outdo each other.

Terry was shocked that Martin was keeping up. He though with all his heft, that he would give up. But he looked confident he was going to stop him. He tried going faster, but they couldn't go any more - this was his max.

As the try line came upon them, the bomb made an awkward bounce from hitting a pebble on its smooth brown surface. Terry threw out his arm to reel it back from going out of bounds, and at the same time, his legs shut down, becoming gelatin. He gave up on it, allowing to go out.

"Damn... he put real... pressure on me." He reflected on his performance as he was in deep, controlled breaths with his arms on his hips. But he forgot a dump truck coming from behind to mow him down. A massive shock smashed into him, lifting him up and carrying far from the field before the pleas of the coach prompted him to let him down. He did so with a body slam, knocking the life force out of him. Terry arched his back in pain as Lexon and his charges rushed to them.

"Are you okay, Terry?" The coach prayed that he was all right. They need him for the big game tomorrow against out of town Speightstown Technical.

"He's fine. It's not like I wanted to paralyze him." He informed Coach Lexon with a chuckle.

"You madman. I'll bench you if you did something that stupid." His threat was colder than ice. This unnerved Martin.

"I'm good. It just stings somewhat." He brought himself back to his two feet with some struggle.

"You need some ice?"

"I'm fine, coachman."

"You should take one anyway. I don't want to be held liable for your stupidness."

BOOM! They were unbothered by the fifth mushroom cloud for the evening in the first game of a three-match series between the West Indies and the Russian Federation at the pristine Mercury Field, which neighboured the Kensington Oval, the home of Barbadian cricket.

He agreed to it. As he ordered one to go for an ice pack inside the cooler in the galvanized roofed pavilion, David, the number seven openside flanker, checked the analogue watch his dad handed to him as a birthday gift and saw that it was 4:20 pm. Considering the match started at 3:30 pm, they should be in the second half.

He dashed to his keychain ridden backpack located at the penultimate row to take out his laptop to watch the live stream. As he blinked, most of the group surrounded him.

"Can you give me some privacy? I want to type in my password." They were willing to look away. He was the guy who had paid access to the SportsMax website, the best provider in local and worldwide sports. Also, it was generally the only purpose he used his computer after school. It's not like he had homework to do.

He briskly typed it in, bringing him to his home screen. He then had to shoo a few of them away before accessing the application through the cursor. His wallpaper was the logo of the losing home team, the Bajan Mercury. The lettering was sharp and detailed settling under a sea current, with the image of a merman wearing a crown and holding a trident in his left hand. The being stood strong, ready to guard what's important, what he sought to protect was their pride and love as a bombball loving nation.

Once he typed his SportsMax account password, it brought him to a slow-motion replay of orange and red blanketing the players. They were rewinding the one-handed try scored by Brandon Wright, the vice-captain of the West Indian National Bombball Team. He liked replays in tandem with intelligent commentary. It helped to give him advice on what to avoid and what to strive for.

... such athleticism from Brandon Wright, the wonderkid. Looks like all that time spent in South America really put him on an upward trajectory.

I concur, Clint. Argentina is one of the most competitive places to be, and for Brandon, he seems to have gotten even better. I didn't think he could.

Well, it looks that way! That full-length dive to affect the try was magnificent. Probably the best for the entire game. But the West Indies still have some catching up to do if they want to win so they can tie the series going into the third and final...

They were enamoured by watching the best of the best play. This was their dream, to be at the level of the thirty on screen, if not greater. They then spent the rest of their evening only to see the West Indies lose 35-30 at the end.

*****

Terry wrapped himself in his blanket so he could have a good night's sleep. It wasn't ten o'clock - his usual bedtime, but he wanted to get up early because tomorrow was matchday one of the Barbadian Schoolboy League.

Speightstown Technical was an attritional team. They lacked individual talent but their combined efforts had gotten them far in previous years. Add in their tactical coach and good knowledge of the basics, and they prove to be a handful for even the best.

He wasn't worried, however. He was confident in himself and his team. Plus, he ate triple tier waffles drenched in maple syrup for dinner, meaning he had lots of energy for the game.

His mom, a banker, made this special dinner just for him. Of course, his father, a paediatrician, got like fifteen for himself. He might get high blood sugar with the amount of sweet stuff he likes consuming. He had a happy family and lived in a well-off community just outside the capital.

All he wanted was to make his dad's sporting dream to come true: for the West Indies to win the Bombball World Tourny. He was in university when the West Indies lifted the trophy in Australia in 1997, but disappointment after disappointment came, creating the belief they would never reclaim the title of world champions.

Terry would put the end to that.

Once he wears the famed maroon jersey, he will bring home the title, turning the region's disgruntled fans into a celebratory mood - most importantly his father. But before all that happens, he had to beat Speightstown Technical tomorrow.

He closed his eyes, dreaming of greatness to come.