In the locker room, he presents me to the rest of the team. Most of them I half know—or know of—from my time with the Bengals, but Dan’s introducing each guy by their nickname plus a fun fact about them. The fun fact is usually the origin of said nickname, however mine is that I broke Owen Bosley’s leg eight years ago. I hide my wince every time he says it, even though it’s not news to any of them.
They call Owen Boz here, sometimes Boss. It causes my stomach to fold over uncomfortably on itself like a slimy undercooked omelette.
Remarkably, none of the lads seem remotely upset by my “fun fact.” They shake my hand or bro-hug me as though ending the career of a beloved legend was actually a right old laugh.
I don’t plan on sticking around, but I do plan to make the Bengals rue the day they didn’t renew my contract, so I force the information into my brain. Stuff it in like an all you can eat Chinese buffet.
Damn, I’m hungry.
Dan is the captain. They call him Cap and sometimes Doughie.
Finn is Eggs, or Eggy, or Eggo, because his surname is Eggington “with two Gs.”
Mike is Mr Frodo, on account of his small stature and piercing blue eyes.
Ollie is Three-Hour. At first I assumed it was a sex thing, but no, Three-Hour is short for Three-Hour Dump. Apparently, one time, on the team coach to Liverpool, he barricaded himself inside the on-board toilet for the entire journey, which happens to be a little over three hours.
“He didn’t even have the shits, just one lengthy solid crap,” Dan says, miming wrapping his fingers around something with the girth of a two litre bottle of Coke.
“I fell asleep,” Ollie whines in protest. It ignites a chorus of disbelieving “yeahs” and “sures” from everyone else.
“Probably should look into getting more fruit in your diet,” I rib gently. Even Ollie—Three-Hour—laughs.
Might as well get used to using their assigned names. Not here to make friends, but also not here tonotgel as a team.
Harry Ellis is Abs, apparently because he’s ginger and his name is Harry, and Abs is short for Abstainer. I choose not to point out that technically Prince Harry hasn’t abstained, that he’s still in line to the throne. Nobody needs to know about my trivia hoarding problems.
Aiden is Pi because his birthday is on the fourteenth of March.
I don’t even bother to ask about Snatch’s nickname.
As Dan predicted, Coach Eksteen has us training in the gym. Resistance band training and ladder work, and then ladder workwithband training. After lunch we swap out running shoes for rugby boots and head to the freshly mown and watered pitch to practise pods, but I’m frequently pulled away to meet with other members of the team. The ones whose duties happen behind the scenes.
I meet with the nutritionist to chat allergens. I’m measured for my kit. I’m remeasured for my kit because somehow there was a problem the first time. I have my photo taken for the website and press packs and the activity brochures they hand out to kids at matches. I meet with the team physio to discuss my continued recovery.
The main reason, well, one of the main reasons I didn’t make draft last year was the number of injuries I had. Two fractured ribs and a pulled deltoid—at different times—meant a lot of recovery time off. Couple that with a poor overall performance and it’s no surprise the Bengals didn’t want to take another risk on me.
Though, like the Cents’ physio says, not much you can do for fractured ribs except to remember your core strength training and stretches. I resist the urge to shoot him a sarcastic thumbs up.
I then tour the premises with the facilities manager so I can sign off on my basic health and safety shit.
By the time I’m through meeting everyone, I’ve had a maximum of thirty minutes on the pitch, but the lads are heading back to the locker room, jumping on each other’s backs, stripping off their shirts and wiping their faces. I guess we’re done for the day.
Some of the guys have ice baths. Most don’t. I opt not to because I’d already cooled down from any strenuous activity and because I’m eager to get home.
Well, not home . . . Owen’s cottage.
“How was your first day?” Dan asks as we sling our bags onto the back seats of our cars.
“The first days back are always a bit shit, but everyone was a lot nicer than I expected, I guess,” I say.
He laughs. “Did you expect us all to hate you?”
“Eh . . . kinda.”
“Oh.” Dan chews his lip. Embarrassment, no doubt, but I can’t tell if he’s embarrassed for me for making a stupid assumption or if he’s embarrassed over the way I’ve been treated by his club. “The guys here are great. We’d never be like that.” He puffs out a long stream of air. “Some of the old-school die-hard fans might be a little . . . different, though.”
There are a few messages and missed calls from Simone waiting for me when I climb into my Range Rover at the end of the session. I skim read them in the preview pane, then I hit return call and begin the twenty-five minute drive back to Mudford-upon-Hooke.
