Honestly, I have no fucking clue. I don’t know what these guys know, whether they’ve done anything at this level before or whether this is their first time on the pitch.
Ages range from eighteen to probably mid-sixties and there are all shapes and sizes. I decide to go easy on them. Easy-ish.
I blow the whistle, because I’ve always wanted to do that. One guy snaps his heels together and salutes me.
“I guess we’ll do a couple of warm-up laps, and then some dynamic stretches to start?” I say it like a question because again, I don’t fucking know.
“Sounds rad,” Owen says, flashing me a grin. Oh my god, rad. “Right, you heard the man. Two laps.” And then he takes off towards the edge of the field, everybody following him like little lambs. I take up my position as the guardian at the back.
“Good game yesterday?” Bryn asks, filing in beside me, though I get the feeling he’s just making conversation, that he already knows how the game went.
“Cents lost twenty-six to nineteen. Gloucester were pretty on it, their defence was next level,” I reply, and the way Bryn nods along to my answer lets me know I was right with my first assumption. He already knew the outcome. Perhaps he was even there. Gloucester’s not very far away from Mudford-upon-Hooke. It only took us about an hour to get there on the coach.
Bryn hums. “It’s not really about the defence, though. The defence was fine, but in my opinion, you guys lost yet another game on conversions. They need to put you in. No point in having Wales’s best kicker if they’re not gonna fucking use you. Harry Ellis is a good ball carrier and all, but he can’t convert shit. He gets too in his head. That kid could try pissing into a swimming pool and he’d still miss.”
Now it’s my turn to nod. I can’t argue with anything he’s telling me. Poor Harry. He’s good when he’s on form, but he’s young and inexperienced, and his nerves get the better of him. But none of that matters to the spectators. People are going to apply the same expectations, hold your performance to the same standards whether it’s your first game or your five hundredth.
“Anyway, what part of Wales are you from?” Bryn says. He’s a little out of breath now.
“Caerphilly. What about you?”
“Ah, no way. We used to go there all the time when I was a kid. Famous for the castle and the cheese. I’m originally from Ystrad Mynach, just round the corner basically. Moved to Bristol for uni, god, twenty-two years ago, and then I met Tom and we moved out Hookborough way to open our shop.”
Bryn has lost a lot of his Welsh accent. He retains enough to still sound Welsh to the English, but to someone like me who’s grown up and lived there their entire life, it sounds kinda like he’s putting the accent on. Like he’s making fun of me. I can hear some Bristolian mixed in there too, with his elongated Rs and dropped Hs.“No point in ’avin,”he said, and“Kickerrrr.”
There’s also a bit of a Hispanic lilt, which he no doubt picked up from his husband. It’s a gorgeous cocktail of accents. A product of his past and present. Uniquely his.
I search my brain for some interesting fact to share about the place he grew up. Come up almost empty-handed. “I once shagged a girl from Ystrad Mynach.” I roll my eyes. Wish I’d kept my mouth shut.
Bryn tilts his head to the side and observes me steadily for a few seconds. No mean feat when you’re jogging around the perimeter of a rugby pitch. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but are you and Owen like . . . a thing?”
“Oh. No, we’re not a thing,” I reply.
“Shit, sorry, mate. I thought . . .” He shakes his head, steels himself. “Well, it’s nice having you here anyway. Mudford’s a fantastic little place to live. You’re gonna love it.”
After our laps, we stretch. I’m hyperaware of Daisy and Orlando gossiping about me. Every time I look over at them, one of them bursts into laughter andthey both avert their eyes like I’m about to turn them to stone. I hate it. I want to tell them to stop, but Daisy’s Owen’s daughter and I don’t want him to think I’m disciplining her. He doesn’t seem to notice. He’s too busy chatting to an older guy about a holiday he and his wife have planned to Lanzarote.
By the end of the stretches I figure out this guy’s name is Neil, his wife’s name is Linda, they plan to stay in the Playa del Carmin area, they got an excellent deal through the travel agents in Hookborough, and they’ve found a kennel for their dog Colin, but their cat Whisky is a nasty piece of shit and nowhere will take him any more.
“Fucking nightmare,” Neil says, shaking his head. He gets to his feet from his hip flexor stretches and turns to me.
Everyone is staring at me, I realise. We’ve finished stretching and now I’m supposed to lead an entire training session.
I stick my finger in my ear to buy myself more thinking time. Wiggle it about a little. “Right, so how do we all feel about maybe trying some long distance passing drills, and after that we can do some four man pods . . .”
17
Sunday 6th April 2025
Mathias
At the end of the session, I help Owen tidy away the crash pads, the hit shields, and the bibs, while everyone else either showers or chit-chats near the car park. Daisy hugs her dad goodbye and leaves in Orlando’s car—a gunmetal grey 2024 Audi S3 Sportback with black alloys and window tints. Both of them are still sweaty and muddy.
“Lando’s bathrooms are better than five-star hotels. Daisy almost always goes to his to shower after sevens or get ready for a night out,” Owen tells me.
“Alright for some,” I reply, because I can’t figure out anything else to add. Instead, I pass Owen thebag of bibs.
He’s slotting pads into the storage shed as though they’re Tetris blocks. “There’s a knack. A certain way they go in, and I seem to be the only person who can remember how they fit.”
