“Me? Boring?”
He shrugs indifferently. “The one who teaches them all the rules.”
“Couldn’t you have asked Ian or Ryan?”
“It would’ve been too distracting, having all those famous rugby stars wandering around.”
“Wow, thanks.”
“They need you to inspire them, make them trust you. Someone to teach them the basics, someone…mature. That’s it.”
“You mean old.”
“Is there a difference?”
“Jamie, I’m not the right guy for this.”
“Too late,” he says, pointing behind me.
I turn suddenly to see a few of the kids approaching us, accompanied by their mothers.
“I’ll do the honours while you go and get changed. There’s a tracksuit for you inside.”
“I’m not doing this, Jamie.”
“Yes, you are.”
“I don’t think this is going to solve any of my problems.”
“No, it won’t, but it’s a start. And that’s what you need,” he says, before jogging off to greet the new arrivals.
I watch him approach them, telling stupid jokes that make the kids and their mothers laugh, of course. I look around at the field, the stands, the banners painted onto the grass, and an uninvited sadness starts to gnaw at my stomach.
It’s been a long time since I set foot on a field, sweated, cheered, felt adrenaline coursing through my veins. It’s been too long since I felt that kind of emotion – to be honest, it’s been too long since I felt a lot of different emotions. But now isn’t the time to sit here reflecting on my shitty life and my crap choices.
It’s time to work out how to get through today, and draft up a list of twenty ways to break someone’s leg and end their career. And I’m sure I’ll easily think of all twenty of them.
* * *
I’mat Jamie’s side, sporting a blue tracksuit withCOACHplastered across the chest, ready to start an ‘introduction to rugby’ lesson. Some of these kids have never played, and have been dragged here by their mothers so that they have a place to go when they’re at work. Other kids are almost veterans: kids that are part of the youth team, who want to keep training through the summer holidays. And others are…well, others are nerds: uncoordinated losers who have probably been sent here by their parents to ‘build their character’, or maybe to get themselves killed. I imagine I’ll find out later.
Jamie is buzzing, almost electric. To be honest, he’s always like this. I think he has Red Bull running through his veins, not blood. And with an audience hanging from his every word, his ego is growing dangerously big.
I’m the loser. The one who everyone glances at suspiciously, who no one will listen to. Let’s be honest: I wouldn’t have listened if I were them.
“Ready, mate?” Jamie asks, almost skipping over to me.
“Can’t wait.”
* * *
After makingthem do laps of the field, some warm-up exercises, and stretching, so that no one gets injured, Jamie splits them into two little teams, to try and show them the real spirit of the game. The others take their place on the stands, next to me.
Exactly: the losers.
I sit down, pulling the cap from my head and scoff unintentionally.
“You don’t want to be here either, do you?” A kid about ten years old turns to me. “Did your mum force you to come?”
