Seven Minutes

  • by
  • January 16 2010 8:37PM

Seven Minutes

The time it takes to have a shower: Seven Minutes. The time it takes to get dressed: Seven Minutes. The time it takes to grab a coffee: Seven Minutes. The time it takes to fill a petrol tank: Seven Minutes. The time it takes to give one half of a percent of your day to rugby league: Seven Minutes.

The time it takes to lose a game: Seven Minutes.

When St George lost to Newcastle in round six, it took just seven minutes for the visiting team to take the game away from the Kogarah hopefuls.

Between the 55th and 62nd minutes, the Knights scored three tries against the run of play, turning a 14-6 deficit into a 24-14 match winning lead. Saints got one back to make it 24-18, but the damage had been done and the Knights went on to secure a surprise victory against the odds.

I was there, saw it as clear as day. Approaching the crucial three-quarter point, Saints looked like they were set for the knock out punch. They had been defending like demons for the preceeding 52 minutes, and no line breaks had been registered against them. But seven minutes later they were shot to bits. St George forgot how to mark up, and the previous efforts had a value of naught. Hard to fathom, but that's how easy it is to lose a footy match.

The time it takes to down a schooner: Seven Minutes. The time it takes for the brain to go dead without oxygen: Seven Minutes. The time it takes to walk back to the car: Seven Minutes. The time it takes to cook a steak: Seven Minutes. The time it takes for Wendell Sailor to sign autographs: Seven Minutes.

I have to hand it to Wendell Sailor. After the match, and in the 'secret' area of St George Leagues Club known as the Riviera Room, the former rugby union bad boy has really turned his life around. The kids love him. The mums and dads look upon him with awe. Once a druggie, Wendell is now a family man and one who has discovered the important things in life.

The time it takes to eat a steak: Seven Minutes. The time it takes to take an evening constitutional: Seven Minutes. The time it takes to mingle: Seven Minutes. The time it takes to research the writings of Irvine Wallace: Seven Minutes. The time it takes to *censored*: Seven Minutes.

While I downed my steak, and took a little longer on the next schooner, and admired Wendell's pearly whites, and reminded the other navel-gazing first graders that they had just lost a match in seven minutes, I noticed a backrower-come-stand-in-centre giving me the glare, well, I looked back and simply said, "seven minutes..." Pffft, he'll get over it.

The time it takes to write a paragraph with too many commas: Seven Minutes. The time it takes to hear 'last drinks': Seven Minutes. The time it takes to work out Rexxy's crazy anti-car jacking locking system: Seven Minutes. The time it takes to dissect the day's events: Seven Minutes. The time it takes to hit the sack: Seven Minutes.

That night I had a disturbing dream about the game. It was interupted by words I heard that day, including Gorilla's social tips. Blurry chatter intermingled with superfluous and useless information. Did you know it takes seven minutes to make a good pasta, and seven minutes to cum after a seven day absence? Then I saw seven referees in seven pink shirts giving me the seven fingers.

I woke in a cold sweat.

The thing is, this was my big day out. I had a ball for all but seven minutes. I considered this while turning over my sweaty pillow, and came to terms with the fact that it was seven days before the next game, and the opportunity for redemption. I was able to start counting sheep again. I think I got to seven.

The time it takes to get back to sleep: Seven Minutes.

The time it takes to write a Seven Minute article: Seven Days.

Reference: ForumSevens.com

Posted at 7:07 PM AEST, for the Forum Sevens.

| 700 words |


From Round Three of the Forum Sevens (F7s) Premiership of 2009
Posted in the F7s Matches forum in April 2009

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