For the Galatea 7 under-12 rugby team, and me, this moment was etched in time. A forgotten memory, it recently surged back into my consciousness.

The setting: Kaingaroa, a town hidden deep within the North Island’s pine forests, where our primary school’s 7-aside team battled for a spot in the district tournament. We’d stumbled out of the gate, losing our first two games. In our third match, a chance arose. I caught the ball, a surge of adrenaline propelling me forward. I evaded opponents, shrugged off tackles, and sidestepped with surprising agility. A large player loomed, but the try line was within reach. “Go Smithy!” my teammates roared.

I hadn’t scored all day. This was my moment. I had to score and I launched myself, a desperate, triumphant dive across the line, a “YES!” bursting from my lips. As I pushed the ball into the grass, and then watched as the ball propelled from my grip. My fists clenched in triumph.

Then, the shock. The referee’s whistle, a knock-on signal. “But I’m over!” I protested, disbelief flooding me.

A wave of laughter washed over the field. “What?” I demanded, my voice tight.

The referee then pointed, a grin spreading across his face. “The try line is up there, boy.” He pointed to the goal line, its posts in the distance. “You scored on the 22 yard line”