Rugby Romantic by Lee Underwood

[Lee_Underwood]

August storms had flooded Roundhay Park. We are cold, wet and wind-blown. But we love it.

I should've seen the ball coming. Mark Ryan has a reputation for playing fast and dirty. He passes to Kenny Boon, but it’s a fake. An easy trick, I know, yet I fall for it.

Crap, I thought. This is really going to hurt…

In a flash, Mark's can-size fingers are on my nape, shoving hard...then Kenny Boon's ham-shoulder connects and I’m spinning, folding, toppling.

‘Steady on, lads.’

Who said that?

White dots backstroke behind my closed eyes. When I think, my thoughts are slow and soupy. I feel ice water creeping through my jersey. I can’t remember what it feels like to be warm.

'Oi…dirty tackle, Ref. That's not on...Ya dirty shitheads,' spits Colin Blocker, our Captain.

I’m flying through outer space, passing stars, planets and bright colourful galaxies. Then Soldier’s Field swims into view in all its grey, gloomy glory. I see the seedy concrete blocks of the changing rooms and sports hall. Years ago, a rumour went around that someone got killed in there.

'Are you gunna see to 'im or not?' Blocker shouts. He stabs a burly finger at Ryan.

The Ref. shakes his head. Captain Blocker suggests he do an act on himself.

'No need fer that...' shouts the Ref. 'Can't have eyes in the back of my skull, can I?'

'I'd settle for a pair in the front of your skull,' said the Captain. He came and stood over me. 'Lee, mate...don't move,’ he said.

Through the concussion and the rain falling on my eyes, he looked like a large and threatening bear. But then he knelt down and gently took my head in his hands, whispering, 'Medic'll be 'ere in a mo.'

I struggled to rise, but am held firmly down. Rain spills off Blocker’s Himalayan brow. There’s a halo of light around him and he gives off an aura of dampness and warmth. I wonder if he holds his children with such care.

'Don't move Lee, don't move. You might have done your spine...you’re…you’re doin’ OK for a rookie…ran down their fastest player. I’m impressed. TOLLY…GET OVER HERE!'

Colin Blocker’s sweetness puffs my chest, but I have to suppress the urge to recoil from it. It’s a dangerous and complicated thing – the unspoken rules of intimacy. Society, culture, whatever you want to call it, demand that men live with walls between one another. Sweet is not a masculine flavour.

‘Wasn’t hard,’ I quip. ‘That’s cos you’re a bunch of old farts…can you tuck me in, mummy?’

It’s true. At 21, I am the youngest of the Bulldogs. Half are over 30. Some are over 40. We’re sometimes called the Wheezers.

‘How’d you ever become such a cheeky shit, eh?’ smiled Captain Blocker, raising the back of a hand as though he were about to strike.

Blocker confirmed the rules of intimacy. It was his secret way of saying, attaboy. But then he does something that shatters those rules. He chases wet hair out of my eyes.

I’m blushing now. I can’t explain to you the exquisite pain that washed over me because of this token of closeness. Sons worship fathers, even though they antagonize one another, don’t they? Masculine approval, so different from any other, comes from a sharing. It speaks of love between equals and heirs.

Someone in purple Reebok waterproofs ran on, carrying a clipboard. It’s Jimmy Tolliver, the lanky team medic.

‘Tolly, see what you can do. And someone get on the phone to the L.G.I.,’ instructs Captain Blocker.

'Now then, young Lee,' said Tolliver. 'Two weeks in, and already in trouble. You’ll never make it to season’s end at this rate.'

He leaned close and I smelt Umbro aftershave. Then he ran cold fingers down my neck and zips a light into each eye. I start shivering.

Tolliver stood and walked off with Captain Blocker.

‘Kid’s in shock. ‘Fraid it’s A&E for him,’ Tolliver decides.

'Listen Tolly,' whispered the Captain, 'Kid's only shook up...can you do anything?'

It's useless. Funny how concussion improves hearing...

God, did someone mention wheelchairs? And just when did I last feel my toes?

'It’s a tricky call,’ replied the lanky medic. ‘Best not move him till the ambulance arrives with a back-board.'

I shut my eyes so no one can see how frightened I am.

Then Colin laughed. Some others, too.

'Oi, Lee. How many fingers am I holding up?' asked Tolly.

He sounded close. When I looked, Tolliver was standing over me, straddling my head. His old man, brown and veiny, hangs out of his trousers as if it were a weasel fleeing from a cage.

It takes a second for me to recover from the shock. 'Crikey, what d’you want me to do with that?' I said. 'You want to save that for your Bird. She might need it to sew on loose buttons.’

'Fuck off, ya pervert,' laughed Captain Blocker, pushing Tolliver away.

'There, laddy, that's better. Ambulance'll be 'ere soon. 'S bit chilly, innit?’

He draped a towel round me and roughed my belly. Even through the pain, I hoped the ambulance would take its time.

 

[kcm17480]

I like it so far. I have to agree with Yummers about the language and humor.

 

[smile86]

roundhay park...as in leeds?

i'm liking where this story is going, keep it up. i know nothing about rugby but i like the players!!

 

[harry113]

Wow!! Thanks Lee. great start, Definitely more please
Love the 'colloquial' writing, makes the tale more realistic.
Sex in the rain, on a cold, wet, muddy rugby field ... surely not ???
Hope he's not badly hurt !!
Harry

 

[Lee_Underwood]

His name was Mr. Younger. He was a sturdily built Scotsman with a scarlet face and thinning brown hair. Come rain or shine, he always seemed to wear the same red and white Adidas tracksuit.

It was a double Games period and Mr. Younger strode through the changing room door. The class, twenty adolescent boys who were full of beans, pecking and chattering away as they put on socks, shorts and jerseys.

“Settle down, everyone, settle down,” he ordered.

The talking continued.

Mr. Younger produced a whistle and blew it as hard as he could. There was an ear shattering shriek. Then he cupped a hand against his head and listened mockingly. “That’s better. Got anything else to say?”

“Now that I have your attention…Mark, Edward, Ray, get a pile of cones from my office. Stuart and Peter, the two black bags. Take ‘em to the goalposts…”

Nicholas, my mop-haired mate, wrenched out a long stripy towel from his bag.

“Today,” continued Younger, “we’re going to be using the footy field by the cricket pitch. It’s wet, so put your football boots on. Everyone should have a pair by now. You should have also brought a towel…”

Moans of discontent broke out. “Sir, I forgot it…” said Tim Hardy. “Showering is for puffs,” protested Mark Jenkerson.

“Showering is NOT, as you put it Jenkerson, ‘for puffs’.” Mr. Younger was cross. “You’ll be running and falling about in these classes. And some days, like today, will be wet and muddy. So let me make this clear…all of you WILL be showering afterwards, no exceptions.”

The class still sounded mutinous.

“And anyone who forgets their towel will run three laps of the field,” Younger decided. He turned on Tim. “Go and do it now.”

“I…didn’t…but…”

“You’ve got three minutes, laddie. I’m timing you.”

Tim tutted loudly and slouched away.

“Take some pride in yourselves, you ’orrible sweaty lot…you can’t go about looking like mud monsters and stinking like polecats.”

With that, he turfed everyone out.

I bombed across the grass, sploshing with every step. It was cold. The class loitered in small huddles and huffed out great clouds of vapour.

“Right then,” said Younger. “I’m going to demonstrate something and I want you to pay attention…THAT MEANS NO TALKING!”

Timothy and Sabit jumped guiltily.

“You’ve got a lot to say, haven’t you Timothy,” barked Mr. Younger. He fumbled in a big black bag and produced a rugby ball. “Maybe you can tell me what this is?”

“’Sa Rugby Ball, Sir.”

“Correct…and how do we tell a rugby ball from a football?” he asked, looking around.

It’s a funny fact but when people are confronted with an easy question, they will usually think the obvious answer is the wrong answer. There was a deafening silence.

Mr Younger squinted. “Because,” he said in a goofy voice, “Rugby-Is-A-Game-Played-By-Men-With-Funny-Shaped-Balls,” and he swayed like a penguin with every word.

We roared with laughter. Of all my teachers, I liked Mr. Younger the most. He was an intimidating soul who was quick to anger, and to shout but also just as eager to joke and be waggish.

“Rugby is a very balanced game,” he continued. “It requires the attributes of strength, agility and speed and is thus an excellent all round workout. But to play good rugby however, you will need something else. It’s the most important thing of all…can anyone tell me what it is?”

“Weight,” said Fat Tony.

“No.”

“Muscles,” suggested Mark Jenkerson.

“That would come under ‘strength’, so no.”

“Height?” someone suggested.

“If you’re playing basketball, maybe. Nope. ’S not height.”

The class ummed and aahed. “Discipline,” volunteered Nick.

“Close,” said the Scots Teacher, tossing and catching the ball. “It’s mental, rather than physical. Think bigger.”

“The Force,” said Chris Monagan.

Mr. Younger walked behind the boy and fingered Chris’s greasy blonde mop. “Where do you keep your brains, laddie?” asked the Scotsman.

Discipline, only bigger. Mental rather than physical. Suddenly, it dawned on me.

“Teamwork,” I said.

Mr. Younger’s eyes lit up, and he patted me. “Excellent, Lee. And can you tell me what teamwork is about?”

My stomach knotted up again. “I…erm…it’s about…well…it’s to d-do w-with working together,” I spluttered, feeling people staring. I didn’t enjoy being put on the spot.

“That’s sort of right, but it’s not the answer I’m looking for. It’s sort of an attitude you need for your team-mates to fuction. Can anyone tell me what that attitude is? This is a hard question so I’ll give you a clue…” The Scottish teacher paced back and forth, considering carefully. “It’s the opposite of selfishness.”

We looked blankly at one another. The only thing I could think of that was opposite to selfishness was unselfishness.

Lights flickering on from the school windows revealed figures moving or sitting. Two red robins chased through the air.

“Sacrifice,” said Mr. Younger, and we ahhhed with comprehension. “There are many specialised roles in Rugby. Without each player pulling his weight, the team fails. You might as well know now that not everyone gets the glory. Some get the limelight. Some work in the dark...”

“...Stuart, Timothy, Sabit, Lee, LeRoy and James, come over here,” the Scotsman ordered.

We fidgeted.

“Come on,” he chided, and we shuffled over.

“Right then,” said Mr. Younger. “Let’s play rugby.”

There is another name for the game of rugby. It is whispered in the classrooms of English schools right across the country: Murderball. Nicholas, catching my eye, impishly stuck his tongue out and dragged a finger across his throat.

 

[harry113]

Thanks Lee, well written .... BUT ....
When will the action start?? Lol!!
More please !!
Harry

 

[kcm17480]

Alright, mighty fine.