The man who'd convinced me to spend this year abroad with him, insisting new experiences would benefit me and boost my rugby skills, was now observing my every move with the keen eye of a scout.
He believed the more skills and knowledge you had, the better you would become at your chosen sport.
I’d never wanted anything more than to play rugby professionally, and if this would give me the edge, I’d be forever grateful. If it didn't, though, he’d have to listen to my griping until the end of his days.
I’d come here to earn this spot, not ride in on nepotism. But even so, I couldn't suppress the nervous flutter in my stomach. It was day one of summer training camp, and I had a lot to prove — to myself and to these guys.
I was used to heat — Queensland summers could melt you if you stood still for too long — but this was different. This was wet heat, thick as soup, the kind that clung to your ribs and made every breath feel like work. Back home, even when it scorched you, there was always a breeze. Here, it just pressed down heavily and stubbornly.
“Laps first,” Coach barked, his whistle clenched between his teeth.
Righto. No easing in, then.
The turf sank beneath my feet, soft and springy — almost too perfect. My legs moved, but they didn’t thank me for it.
My new boots rubbed my heels and my grip on the gloves was slippery with sweat. Tane had made me binge-watch endless tapes of American Football games before we got here — routes, formations, stops and starts —so I’d learn the rules, objectives and responsibilities of the positions.
He’d done the same himself, brushing up on football even after decades of playing rugby. This proved no matter how good you were at one sport, the other demanded its own rhythm.
By the third lap, sweat was pooling at my collar and running down my spine. The other blokes were still chatting mid-stride, like this was nothing.
They were already used to this air, while I was still learning how not to drown in it. I focused on my breathing, counting steps, trying to find the tempo that wouldn’t kill me.
Next, we moved on to lunges and arm circles. I over-rotated on the first one and nearly toppled. The linebacker next to me, Reece I reckon his name was, caught my stumble and smirked.
“You good there, bro?”
“Yeah, mate.” I brushed it off. I couldn’t blame him for taking the piss. If he’d rocked up to a rugby pitch back home, I’d have done the same.
But he wasn’t just laughing — he was measuring. Seeing what the outsider was made of.Fair enough. I’d do the same if I were in his shoes.
Then we moved on to push-ups. My arms burned, but I finally started to find my rhythm. Small victories adding up, one repetition at atime. I caught Tane's eyes sweeping across the field, cool and unreadable. Coach mode.
Uncle or not, I wasn’t getting any freebies. I wouldn’t want them anyway but it wasthemI’d need to convince.
The sun hadn’t changed by the next morning, but the air somehow felt heavier and denser. It was the kind of humidity that didn’t just sit on your skin, it crawled under it.
Reminded me of preseason back home, when the pitch was soft and steaming underfoot and the sweat burned your eyes even before the whistle blew.
Except this wasn’t home. The field here smelled different — of turf and rubber rather than mud and eucalyptus — and everything moved in tighter, neater patterns. Even the chaos was rehearsed.
When practice kicked off, I could feel every muscle in my body, as if someone had redrawn their borders overnight. My legs knew power and my shoulders knew contact, but the rhythm was off.
Rugby was fluid, almost like a storm you learned to surf. It was a language of reaction. You saw the space, took it and trusted someone else to cover for your mistakes. My instincts screamed at me to drive through, to attack the gap, to flow with the motion.
Football, though, was a different beast entirely. It didn’t want movement; it wanted control. It wanted you to think before your body even remembered how to move.Here, even the slightest misjudgement — a step too wide, a lean too early — and the whole play folded like wet cardboard.
On the first rep, they had me lining up on the offense as linebacker and I lunged too soon. I misread the fake with my shoulder down and my eyes up, already half a heartbeat too slow. The runner slipped through the inside gap like a shadow. The whistle blew, sharp and final.
And from behind me, quiet but carrying, came a mutter, “And that’s on being Coach’s nephew.”
Fair enough. Let them think whatever they want.
I reset and forced the noise out of my head. Forced my breathing to become steady.
The pads itched, sweat prickled between my shoulder blades, and the turf radiated heat straight through my cleats. It felt like every eye was on me, like a spotlight.
I was the new guy. The coach's nephew. The outsider.
