After showering I sought out my victim and apologised profusely for the brutality of my attack. He, at least, accepted that he’d made a stupid error of judgement and brought disaster on himself. He even managed to laugh about the incident so, under the watchful eye of the Games Master, we shook hands.
The advantage of the old school code of honour was that shaking hands like that ended the matter, for everybody. If the two principal protagonists had decided to make up then nobody had the right to interfere, that would have been very bad form indeed.
On the good side I was accorded grudging respect because while the outcome had been bad, the attempt had been full blooded and pretty well fearless. Those, apparently, are good things where a certain sporty type of person is concerned.
On the bad side the Games Master once again decided that I was school team material and I found myself co-opted as a reserve for the under fifteens. That wasn’t the plan at all! There were good reasons why I tried hard on the rugby field but the “glory” of playing for the school wasn’t one of them, I hated the bloody place!
One reason I played as hard as I could was, as something of a pragmatist, I accepted that at my school boys played rugby in autumn and winter, nothing else, so it made sense to just get on with it.
Another reason was that the Games Master, God only knew why, had been kind to me and taken an interest in me from my first games lesson and had always been tolerant of my physical weakness, genuinely believing that I had potential. He was also the Master who christened me “Mac” when he saw how disgusted I was with his first attempt “Ginger”, which endeared him to me.
The real reason I played hard was that rugby was one of the few safe outlets for my violent temper. The only stereotype I’ve ever conformed to is the fiery tempered, redheaded Celt. One of Mum’s frequent admonitions, probably since I was a toddler, was “one of these days that temper of yours is going to get you into real trouble, Malc”. It did, on many occasions, at home, at school and just about everywhere else.
Of course there was delight at home, I’d achieved something that a “normal” boy should aspire to. All it meant to me was that I now lost control of my Saturday mornings. With my usual penchant for skating on thin ice I vowed that if I passed the audition for the County Youth Orchestra then rugby was done for. The threatened rebellion was ignored for the time being.
The next Saturday I turned up and, once changed, made my way to the field with the rest of the team and prepared to stand watching, not expecting to be called on to play. When I was asked to run the line I agreed with alacrity because the alternative was standing in the cold in just shorts and shirt. Running up and down the length of the field for 80 minutes seemed like a good, injury free, way to keep warm.
Of course there were decisions that our side swore I’d got wrong but every time I stuck to my guns. Unfortunately one such decision resulted in a try for the opposition and dire looks promised a very uncomfortable time in the changing room later on.
Oh joy! We lost by a very narrow margin so now my decision wasn’t just an annoyance it was a betrayal. Quite possibly aware of impending unpleasantness the Games Master called me over after the final whistle and, while the team trooped back to the school, had a little chat about the incident.
He thought that I’d probably got it wrong but, and he pointed very sternly at me, I’d done the right thing by asserting my authority as Linesman. Lovely! I was sure that would be a comfort while my head was in a toilet. He then did something that nobody had done for years and that I used to hate, he actually ruffled my hair. I’ve never had any cause to believe that it was anything other than a purely avuncular gesture intended to give a little comfort.
By the time I made my tired way back to the changing room everybody else had showered and was getting dressed. Checking my peg showed, to my surprise, that no pranks had been committed on my clothes; I’d half expected to find my trousers in the shower. I did receive a torrent of abuse as I stripped and made my way into the shower and wasn’t a bit surprised when my towel landed at my feet on the wet floor.
After about a minute the water suddenly went freezing cold and then equally suddenly became scalding hot, all pretty standard stuff. Then I heard the Games Master’s voice and the water returned to normal so I spent as long as I could enjoying it. As I now had a sopping wet towel, I returned to my place and used my rugby shirt to dry myself then got dressed as quickly as possible.
Claiming that my bus was due soon I stuffed my kit into my duffel bag, said goodbye to the Games Master and legged it for the bus stop. Actually my bus wasn’t due for nearly an hour and I briefly considered walking the seven miles home but in the end opted for hiding in a corner of the bus shelter.
Love
Mac life seems to keep putting you in no win situations. If you did not do your best at lineman, you would have been wrong. To help your team unfairly would also have been wrong. Yet when you did the right thing, others took their displeasure out on you. The same with the young ladies finding you so irresistible, and having to play sports when you were perfect for music. It seems you couldn’t get a break.
I happen to feel that life is a balance, and so with all this going against you, there must have been some good things. One I know is your music, and another I think is the strong work ethic you had to do your lawns and gardening business. Maybe the fact you never doubted your self was also a plus in your favor , on the good thing in your life column? You seem to have a very good sense of your own mind at this young age that is both startling and refreshing.
Hugs,
Scottie
Oh the thought of trying to dry off with a wet towel is very yucky, but after 80 minutes running your shirt had to be rather ripe too. What a choice.
Scottie
Being in no win situations does seem to have been a pretty strong feature of my young life but having had a fairly traumatic start in the first place, being abandoned by my father at four and having a life threatening illness at eight, made me a very determined child. I realised very early on that I was going to face a lot of problems as time went on but promised myself that no matter what happened I’d somehow survive. I nearly gave up when I was 16 and ran away from home, for about an hour and a half, but that’s another story that’ll be told later.
There were good things at school, music and english being the best, and I had a couple of superb teachers who were very supportive and kept as close an eye on me as they could. Sadly none of the them seemed to be able to see the bullying and general hatred that came my way but they did their best in other ways. I actually loved my work at weekends, it gave me time to myself so that I could think, and paid a lot better then my pocket money. That sense of independence helped me to get a better view of my own strengths.
I did think of just dressing while still wet from the shower as neither the wet towel nor the sweaty shirt were pleasant options but with my health record I’d have almost certainly got a cold and turned it into something much worse within a day so then awkward questions would be asked at home, another classic no win situation.
Love
Mac
God’s truth boy! Why on earth didn’t you take the easy option and rule the way of your, er, ‘mates’ for once?
Seems to me that ‘self preservation’ isn’t something that was high on your teenage agenda!
Me take the easy way out? I think you know me a good deal better than that. Given what you know about my home life I think you can probably guess just how atrociously bad my sense of self preservation was. The bonfire night incident is a perfect example, didn’t ask permission, got drunk etc and John’s Mum phoned home to say I “wasn’t well” which was correctly interpreted by my parents. Going home the next evening was fun!
Love
Malcolm
It is always interesting to me reading other people’s comments and learning what caught their attention in your writings. In my case it was in the very last line, “but in the end opted for hiding in a corner of the bus shelter.” Just these few words brought me back to one of my less then stellar attempts at soccer during a high school gym class. It would have made a perfect youtube video, as the soccer ball went rolling through my legs, passed the goalie and into the net as a score for the opposing team. My face had to have been the brightest shade of red that exists. Here was someone who tried to always melt into the background now having all of the attention focused on him. If only there had been a corner of the bus station to hide in on that open field. I will just say that the locker room experience mirrored yours with the addition of smacks from wet towels on the way to and back from the showers.
Thank you for sharing your life with us. Hugs, JR
JR
How reassuring to hear of a fellow sufferer in the field of sporting ineptitude. In many ways I’m so glad that mobile phones and similar devices didn’t exist in my childhood, I’d have found myself the unwilling star of all too many clips. How well I know that hot, unpleasant feeling when you know that your face is almost glowing it’s so red. The changing room so often became a gauntlet that had to be run and always made worse by being the least developed boy in my year.
Bus shelters and I have a curious relationship. Three years of sexual abuse started in the bus shelter at my home village when I was ten but the one opposite my school often served as a gloomy little hiding place when I’d done something, not always sport related, to upset the other boys.
Love
Mac