Andrew Smith - Winger

And I could hear her calling, in her I’m-singing-a-song voice, all relaxed and sweet, “West? West? What’s wrong now ?” But I didn’t even turn around.

Joey came after me.

“Hey,” he said. “Are you okay?”

“I cannot believe that crap, Joey.”

“It’s just Annie and JP. It’s no big deal,” Joey said.

I was practically crying, but there was no way I was going to cry in front of a gay guy, even if he was my friend.

“I can’t believe he’d do that to me,” I said. “We’re supposed to be friends. Why would he do that?”

“You know what, Ryan Dean? You’re a fucking hypocrite. So now what are you going to do?”

And Joey turned around and walked back into the mess hall.

RUGBY PRACTICE CAME. IT WOULD be our last hard practice before the game.

I wanted to hit someone. I wanted to get hurt, too.

After two hours of running drills, backline plays, and conditioning, we were all of us covered in sweat and grass and mud. It was the toughest practice we’d had all year, and Coach M told us he wasn’t going to let us play a game, which is how we usually ended, because he didn’t want to see us making any mistakes.

Instead we ended with a resistance drill we called Sumo, a one-on-one drill where a ball carrier had to drive the ball in and touch it down to a very small circle in the grass against one tackler. And the drill would not stop until the ball got there, no matter what; so there have been times when I’ve actually seen guys collapse from exhaustion if they couldn’t get the ball in against a very tough tackler.

After we’d gone about halfway through the team, Kevin ended up in the middle, as the tackler against Chas. It was an intense fight. They were equal in size and strength, and Kevin just kept taking Chas down, inches before he could touch the ball into the circle, taunting Chas and pissing him off.

Finally, I think Kevin either got tired or felt sorry for Chas, because Chas slipped his arm through and got the ball down into the circle, diving onto his belly as he did and saying, “Fuck you, Kevin.”

Then Kevin helped him up to his feet, and I looked at Coach M, who seemed to be pretending he didn’t hear Chas cuss.

Now Chas was in the middle, and the way we play is that the guy in the middle gets to call out whoever he wants to have run against him.

I already knew who I’d call when I got a chance.

Chas looked around the circle of our dirty and tired teammates, and he bullet passed the ball to me and said, “Winger.”

What a jerk.

I smiled.

Chas stood in front of the small circle in the grass and crouched in a hitting position, just staring at me. I took two steps toward him and stopped. He was so flat on his feet, I knew he wouldn’t be able to touch me. I head-faked, then cut back the other way and sailed around him, touching the ball down without Chas even wiping a finger’s width of sweat off me.

The guys on the team laughed at Chas, murmuring “Betch,” and he turned to me and mouthed, “Fuck you,” in a whisper so Coach couldn’t hear.

Now I had the ball. Normally, I’d call out Bags, one of our other wings, because we were about the same size, even though he was older, but I’d made my mind up ahead of time that if I got the ball, there was one guy who’d have to run against me.

“Sartre,” I said.

Everyone had to figure this would be no contest, that a guy who was built with JP’s strength and drive would be able to stay low and plow right through me, that I had to be insane for calling out our fullback.

I heard a bunch of low-toned “oooh”s from the guys, and I threw the ball at JP, low, at his knees, so he had to bend down to catch it. It was a dick move; I’ll admit it. Because I took off as fast as the ball, and as soon as it was in his hands, I flew, shoulder first, into JP’s legs and twisted my body as I wrapped him up and drove him into the ground.

“Fuck,” JP grunted as I hit him.

Springing to my feet, I pushed myself up by putting my left hand firmly down into his nuts, and JP groaned and doubled up, letting go of the ball. When he tried to scoop the ball back in, I hacked it out of his hand, kicking his fingers as I did. I know this was dirty, but I was pissed off at JP and now, I’m sure, he knew it too; because he had to get up and chase after the ball and try to run it in again.

JP broke through the circled boys who stood watching us. When he ran to get the ball I’d kicked, I followed right behind him. I noticed that Coach M was moving toward us on the outside of the Sumo ring. He looked amused.

As soon as JP had his fingers on the ball, I took him down again, this time pulling his jersey up out of his shorts and dragging him with it until it was fully inside out and covering his head. We were about ten feet out of the ring now, and the guys opened a gateway for JP to run through so he could get to the score. If he could make it past me.

JP stood up, leaving the ball at his feet as he tucked his jersey back into his shorts.

There were streaks of grass and black mud on his face.

“What the fuck, Ryan Dean?”

“Watch your mouth, JP,” Coach M warned. He added, “Nice job, Eleven.”

I don’t think I’d ever been so physically aggressive in my life, but all I could think about was JP and his smug I’m-taking-your-girlfriend-out announcement over lunch, and how Annie told me to get tough this year. So I was sick of this shit, of being treated like a little kid, especially by my best friends, and I wasn’t going to let it keep on happening to me.

“Trick or treat, assbreath,” I said.

I’m certain Coach M had to think about that one, and, since he didn’t say anything, he must have concurred with me that “assbreath” is not a true cuss word.

JP smiled. “Oh. I get it. Okay, Winger. Happy Halloween to you, too.”

Now it was clear to everyone. JP and I were in a full-scale fight, the only kind you could possibly get away with at PM.

He ran at me again, but this time he slipped my tackle and I fell, managing only to wrap the crook of my arm tightly around his left ankle. I rolled, and JP fell on top of me, dropping his knees (on purpose, I’m sure, but it was totally fair for him to do it) right into my back. It felt like he broke my ribs, but as he went down JP dropped the ball, and his left cleat came right off his foot and into my hands.

I got to my feet. I was sweating and in pain. I could feel my heart drumming against the bones inside my chest. I knew I was just about finished, that I couldn’t keep JP out of the circle much longer and he was getting really pissed off about it.

I think what probably pushed him over the edge was that, as he was getting up again, I threw his cleat as far as I could down the pitch and some of the guys laughed.

I could hear Seanie saying, “JP’s Winger’s bitch,” and the guys laughed even more.

JP stood there, panting, the ball tucked into his arms. He looked to where I’d thrown his cleat, then he looked back at me, not even a hint of friendship in his expression, then he got low, put his head down, and wearing only one shoe, came at me full speed.

When I hit him from the front, JP went straight into my tackle and landed squarely on top of me. He went down, too, but he brought his knee up into my face and I heard something pop—like stepping on a grape—when he hit my eye. I remember hearing the “ooh”s from the guys when I sat up, and as I tried to get to my feet I saw a blurry red image of JP scoring behind me, and the next thing I knew, Seanie and Joey were there, putting their hands against my shoulders and telling me not to stand up.

Everyone began crowding around me.