That Smell Model

ey, what is that smell

walking off the prestine grass,
bandaged and brusied, with a slight limp
toward a counsel of elders
pinching their noses,
at the cost of reputation for their pawns.

Bright lights and brown dirt,
it gets between the teeth
and irritates like a popcorn kernel
the sweat flows from my forehead,
but one drop does not smell alone.

Grouping together for that one push,
22 bodies pressed together
we should faint if not for our stubborn demeanor,
we're lucky the grass is already green.

when the ball touches the try,
we raise our arms in victory,
and the crowd gasps and groans,
by the smell of victory.

That win, the feeling of supremacy
is lost on the bus ride home,
we all reminisce of the try that won the game,
and loathe the trip home with our companions or wretched odor.

We scurry to the shower
unwavering in our bashful masculinity,
to counter our stench with aromatic perfume.
Vomit is not uncommon, but discouraged before
the cascading water.

That smell of rugby.