My heart twists as I remember my experience at Beachside Sevens. All the drinking songs and partying... I miss that. Summer sevens is not serious, and the games don’t count for anything other than a wacky trophy and bragging rights. You can sub out whenever you want, drink a beer on the sideline, and yell at the ref if you’re feeling saucy. Heck, the ref is drinking their own beer at halftime.
I could have been there—carefree, drunk, playing mermaids in the water after each game.
A few teammates continue their summary of the tournament, and Dane laughs along with everyone else. He’s so confident in his choice to be here that he can joke around and not miss the same games we once played together.
Why am I doing this to myself?
Do I even belong here?
Coach cuts the Beachside recap short when he whistles for our return. Like always, we split into A-side and B-side for a scrimmage, but when I join the A-side, Coach stops me. “JoJo, switch with Pacha.”
Excuse me?!Pacha is a rookie and has never been in the starting lineup. He’s B-side for a reason!
I’m flaming hot, ready to question Coach when Dane forces himself in front of my face. “Do what you’re asked,” he says through clenched teeth, his eyes the same Johanssen blue as mine but with an intensity I rarely have. “Just go,” Dane murmurs, and he shoves me in the opposite direction.
Pacha runs past me grinning from ear to ear.
Lucky him.
Saltier than a pretzel, I slot into the defensive backline and flip my mouth guard into place. Play begins. A-side’sscrum half feeds the ball into the tunnel of the scrum, and every forward engages—every muscle tight, every player locked into each other like a Chinese finger trap, fighting for advantage.
To my surprise, our B-side hooker snags the ball. I make the split decision to run a 10-loop so I can prove to Coach I know what I’m doing and don’t deserve to be on this side.
“Winning, winning, winning,” I holler to my backline, and throw my arm out to remind them to get steep.
When our scrummy has his hands on the ball for the pickup, I’m already in a dead sprint in the opposite direction, looping behind the two closest players. This trick play exploits the gaps in the opposing team’s backline. The inside center should replace me, fake to the outside center who’s the most obvious choice, then whip it out to me.
But before I can take my place, my winger shouts, “Losing! Losing!”
I gape as the rookie who replaced me on A-side retrieves the fumbled ball.
“What the fuck was that, JoJo?” my scrummy chirps.
“I was running a loop!”
“Then warn us next time!”
Seconds later, our players force the A-side ball carrier out of bounds, and I take a second to recoup. That was a dumb thing on my part not to communicate that to my team. As fly-half, it’s my responsibility to call the plays for the backline.
Of course I catch my brother eyeing me, but it’s less observational and more like he’s trying to figure out what’s wrong with me. I shrug because... I don’t know either. I’ve had bad practices before, but this one is different—I feel like an outsider on my own team.
Swallowing my pride, I apologize to the backs and set up for a lineout. Taking a deep, dehydrated breath, I channel my frustration into focus. I signal to my backs that inthe unlikely case we win the lineout, we’ll run a simple quick-hands. There’s nothing fancy about this play—run forward and pass the ball to the person next to you as fast as you can. It’s basic, but after a failure like the one I just caused, it’s necessary.
The jumpers are lifted into the air, and as I predicted, the other team takes possession. The lineout is faster than I expect, and the jumper tips the ball to my brother-in-law, who is taking off for the try line.
He’s zoned in, but so am I. He's searching for real estate, but he knows his pack is supporting him, ready for his next move.
This is just a scrimmage, which means the intensity of play is around seventy-five percent that of an actual game. But there’s a bloodthirsty victory gleaming in his eyes, and we’re both at full tilt when I wrap around his waist and take him down.
Both of us grunt when we hit the ground.
Dane and another player ruck over us, and I scurry out. Raf compliments me on a good tackle while he feeds the ball to his side.
“Good job, bro,” Dane grits out while someone rucks against him.
It was a good tackle.Nothing groundbreaking about it, just a textbook takedown. Yet, a surge of confidence makes my chest puff out at the encouraging words from my brothers.
I’m pleased to find my backline is already in place when I join them. Meanwhile, the forwards battle out several more phases.
