Every rugby player has his best game. Whether it is the game where he scored a brace of tries, the one in which he dominated the front row, or the one where he sang songs without having to drink beer from someone’s ass. That day is branded on his memory and comes up each and every time a large quantity of beers have been consumed. My day came my college junior year when I was but a pup of twenty-five.

During the season, I had accumulated injuries like sailors collect STDs until at last my body refused to go on and I fell to the sidelines. A broken hand, a torn rotator cuff, and a hyperextended neck, all left me with a limited ability to walk up and down the field while shouting encouragement and obscenities, beer in hand.

But being a spectator wasn’t enough. I longed to be a part of the game; to participate rather than spectate. I needed to revel in the victory or wallow in defeat. I needed to feel the rush of adrenaline as it coursed through my veins. I needed to bond with my teammates on the field. I needed new stories of glory. I needed a surefire way to pick up chicks.

Or that’s what I thought until the day arrived that they came looking for a touch judge.

At first I slid behind the bleachers and staked out a spot where I could watch my captain try to pass the flag along. Potential victims pointed to their families, begged ignorance, and pled stupidity. Knowing someone would eventually yield, I turned back to my beer and waited for the whistle.

"Hey Scott!" Two teammates (supposed friends) had led our captain to me. "You’re not playing, why don’t you run touch?" I can’t raise my arm! "Then always point so you give the ball to us." What about my beer? "Take it with you." What if I need more? "Someone will give you one." Give! Why, I might be able to do this, then.

My first game as touch judge was pretty sad. Continually distracted by the play of the game and female fans, I botched calls and missed all attempts at points. In my defense, I did construct one of the greatest beer trains ever assembled. Seven rookies ran me beer depending on my field position. It took a couple of games to get it right, but once completed I was never left without a beverage.

Being a forward, it took me a little while to master the laws of kicking. I caught on quickly enough to be an effective touch judge, but as I got into the game (read, as more beer was brought to me), effective was not enough. As time went on, dreams of touching in the Super League, then International matches, then World Cup games, raced through my head and pushed me to raise my flag higher, get to the mark faster, drink my beer… well, to just drink my beer. I wanted to be the best touch judge the ref had ever seen. I wanted to be the best touch judge any ref had ever seen.

I wanted to be The Uber Touch Judge.

Before kick off, I would plant myself on the 40-meter line and trace the ball as it arced through the sky. As the game wore on, I would race up and down the sidelines trying to gauge where the ball would be and curse myself if I were more than a few meters away from the mark. My true moments of glory, though, came when a team went for points. I tried to anticipate when the ref would throw his arms up to signal points and then, like John Rocker from the bullpen, I would dash from the sideline and to the posts. After the ball had been kicked and I had decreed the result with my flag, I would race back to my position on the sidelines, ready for more.

But touching wasn’t all fun and games. I ran sprints with the team in blistering heat and torrential downpours. I ran and I ran hard. Driving me on was the fear that I might one day be caught out of breath and behind the twenty-two when a strong-legged flyhalf booted the ball to touch 50 meters down the field and I would have to pinpoint the precise location of the mark.

I also tried to rehabilitate my rotator cuff so I could raise my arm above my shoulder. All season I had been lifting the flag with my left arm then swiveling my body so I pointed, with my beer at a 45° angle, in the correct direction. On some occasions, this caused me to be turned away from play and unable to make the call if the ball were quickly knocked back into touch. I worked hard on my shoulder knowing one day I’d be faced with angry opposition and I would have to stand my ground, point a little straighter, point a little longer, and proclaim the ball belonged in that direction.

My finest game came at the end of the fall season. We were second in the division and the third place team was traveling to our field to try and take it from us. As the two teams went through their pre-match rituals, I went through mine, preparing myself physically and mentally for the biggest game of my career. I stretched; I sprinted; I snapped the flag up and down. I even tried to raise my arm so that it was perpendicular to my shoulder. Unfortunately, the pain was too much, and I crumbled only halfway there. Disappointed, but not dissuaded, I reported to the referee, ready to play.

Consisting of a lot of kicks, the game played to my strengths. I raced up and down the sideline marking lineouts and indicating possession. I sprinted to the posts and took my position quickly and efficiently. The days of running, the hours of lifting, all of it worked to my advantage and kept me strong as the game wore on.

Halftime came and we were up. I wanted to encourage my teammates, but needed to maintain the neutrality of my position. I beckoned a beer runner and sent him to our captain with the opposition’s lineout calls.

The second half was slow and I struggled to keep my focus. I cut back on beer and instructed my train of rookies to bring "straight bourbon." I tried harder to anticipate the ball’s next location and, with that, took my game to another level. It was almost as if the flyhalves were kicking directly to my waving flag and loud, obnoxious barking.

Then, with my team deep in the opposition’s territory, I watched as our forwards rolled maul after maul closer to the try zone. When mauls were stopped, we ran runners off the sides and slowly sapped the life from our opposition. We were down 32-30, but we were driving and we had hope.

Then things took a turn for the worse. Only a few meters out, one of our big second rows lumbered off the side of a ruck only to be hit and turned in the tackle. Relieved to see the ball, the opposition’s scrumhalf zipped it to their flyhalf who tried to kick the ball to touch. Our freshman flanker blitzed the kicker and tried to block the ball.

I had begun to tear off down the sideline, but something inside of me turned my head– call it touch judge intuition. Time slowed and I watched our flanker reach out and barely touch the ball. The ball wobbled in the air then fell out of bounds two meters from the tryline.

I tried to stop to record the mark, but instead tripped and tumbled to the ground. My drink spilled everywhere and I fell hard on my hand. I lay still for a moment, but gathered myself and raised my flag and signaled touch. All eyes converged as I got back to my feet, trotted over to the mark, and pointed my angled right arm towards the opposition. The crowd went nuts and my team came screaming over.

It was then I knew my time had come. I had to rise to the occasion. I snapped the flag up in the air then slowly raised my right arm. Trembling, it rose to the 45° mark, but I continued pushing. I slowed at 80°, but I closed my eyes and focused on the importance of the moment. Amazingly it crept higher until at last it was perpendicular to my shoulder. Sweat trickled down my face, but I didn’t dare move to wipe it away. I held my arm there a little higher, a little straighter, a little longer. A smile must have crept across my face for it was then my captain slugged me and knocked me out.

When I woke up, time had expired and we had lost. I gathered myself and looked down at my right arm. I had done it. I had been tested all season long, I had worked hard in the gym, and I had constructed the great beer train. My team never let me touch a flag again, but I still thought the season a success. It had all been good, but for that one game, I was superb.

I had finally become the Uber Touch Judge.