Players are taught from the beginning how to use their arms and shoulders for defense to make contact with opponents; there are serious repercussions for any contact above the shoulders or other dangerous styles of play—the kind you see in American football.
Apparently, anyone caught disregarding these rules receives a yellow card and is forced to sit the bench, blah blah blah, as if being on the bench were the worst punishment in the world.
Hardly!
“If we sit on the bench, there won’t be enough players on the field,” I point out in an attempt to sound like I know some stuff.
Grant shoots me side-eye. “We’re just running drills—it hardly matters.”
Duh, his tone implies.
He’s not the friendliest of blokes, barely cracking a smile, gash slashing his upper eyebrow.
“Where’d you get that cut?” I ask—I know some of the guys have been playing, but have they been playing hard enough to get injuries?
He frowns. “Hockey.”
Ah.
Another sport I know nothing about.
It’s early in the day and my stomach rumbles as I scurry to the bench on the side of the field, joining a few other players who aren’t needed at the moment. A few of the other guys stand next to the coach and coaching staff, asking them questions as they take notes.
I should be doing the same so I can learn, but I’m too hungry.
I sure could fancy a scone right about now.
Blueberry.
Plain.
Lemon with clotted cream.
My stomach growls again, angrily, and I grab what I hope is my water bottle and chug to fill the void there.
Where the deuces does one get a goddamn scone in this town? I haven’t done.
Listen to me, getting pissed about tea cake. As if I didn’t have bigger problems at the moment, namely someone deciding it’s time for me to set foot on the field. I haven’t even got cleats yet, for fuck’s sake.
For fuck’s sake = my new favorite American slang.
Mum would have fits if she heard my mouth these days, every conversation we have a well-thought-out dialogue where my filter game is strong. She has no idea what a heathen her precious second-born son has become!
Scone, scone, scone.
I want one; I need one.
Pulling my mobile from my back pocket—I’ve seen a few blokes scrolling when they’re supposed to be paying attention—I do a quick search for my favorite baked treat, with plans to knock back a caffeinated beverage or two.
It is Saturday morning after all, and I’ve felt cheated spending it here on the muddy sidelines of the rugby field, at this community park.
Food is just an excuse.
A diversion.
You’re going to have to pay the piper at some point, my friend, my inner voice tells me. Shite or get off the pot. Tell them you don’t know what you’re doing, or learn right quick how to play.
Hire a tutor.
Er, a private coach.
One of the guys? No. Then they would know I’m a damn liar.
A fake.
I worry at my bottom lip as men run by in front of me, chasing after the white and blue rugby ball. It gets tossed forward, then forward again.
“You’re a wing, Anderson—get your ass moving!” the coach screams, face turning purple, veins in his neck constricting. “Fucking idiot doesn’t know his ass from his elbow,” he complains.
Funny, Anderson and I have that in common.
Ha.
Coach shouts obscenities and I manage to take note of what’s pissing him off and what’s not. I note how he continues bitching when a tackle is made as players continue running the field. His arms flail when the ball is in a ruck, he tosses his clipboard after the third scrum (the means of restarting the game after an infringement has been called), he curses, swears, and paces.
And this is just the practice!
One thing is for certain: Coach seems to lack the ability to compliment a bloke when something positive happens, but that’s not for me to say out loud.
Besides, he’s terrifying, and I doubt he even knows my name.
Well, sure he does—I’m on the roster—but a lad can hope. I never want my name passing that man’s lips.
Shudder.
I made it out alive.
Home free for another day, I collapse into a booth at the one shop in town where they advert scones on the internet, a quaint coffee shop on the edge of town.
Took me a bit to find the blasted place, but now I have, I’m eager to order and bring my blood pressure back to normal by eating a few things that remind me of home.
Scone. Biscuit.
Tea.
They don’t have the clotted cream, but I don’t give a fig, body strung full of tension from all of Coach’s shouting, the added anxiety of being put in at the last minute.
“Jones, get your ass in there.”
“In where?” I blurted out like an idiot.
Coach stared, then lifted his arm, clipboard and all, and pointed it toward the field. “Out fucking there!” he bellowed, none too helpfully.