Chapter 20
Bronco Drill: A fitness test involving a series of shuttle runs at increasing distances designed to assess a player’s aerobic capacity.
Translation: These youths won’t know what hit ’em.
Wolf
The Denver Grizzlies youth rugby program is dedicated to providing underserved youth in Denver with free access to rugby training,
mentorship, and academic support. It uses the sport to build teamwork, confidence, and pathways to education or career opportunities.
Or at least that’s what the marketing pamphlet says in our locker room.
The reality of the program is a bloody hell lot messier.
“Coach Wolf! Jamal stole the cones again.”
I glance up from my clipboard just in time to see a small, wiry kid sprinting across the field with three bright orange cones
stacked on his head like some kind of unicorn horn.
“Oi, bring those back,” I call after him, jogging in their direction. My trainers sink into the grass that’s still damp from
last night’s rain, weather that perfectly matched my sour mood the past couple of days. “This is rugby, not Dungeons and Dragons,
mate.”
Jamal laughs so hard he nearly trips over himself, then deliberately launches the cones into the air and pulls back an imaginary bow and arrow like he’s piercing them in the sky.
A boy named Marcus tries to catch one and misses, landing flat on his back, causing a chorus of ten-year-old giggles to erupt.
“Right,” Fergie mutters, coming to stand beside me. “First rule of coaching kids? Don’t turn your back, or they’ll start a
mutiny.” He waves his hands and shouts loudly, “Bring it in, ya gobshites!”
“You talk funny,” a boy with a gap-toothed smile deadpans at Fergie before running off.
“I’ll show you talking funny,” Fergie growls and moves to walk toward them, but I grab his arm to stop him in his tracks.
“I’ve coached kids before,” I state calmly, looking out at the field of chaos in front of us. It’s one of the things I knew
I’d miss coming to the States, and this opportunity to work with these kids was welcome. “They’re like puppies. We just have
to tire them out, and then they’ll be better-behaved.” I blow my whistle and draw all their eyes to me. “We’re running broncos!”
I call out and then take a moment to explain that they’ll run out to the twenty-meter line, then forty, and sixty, and that’s
just one set of five they need to complete. When they all start complaining, I add, “Last one in has to pick up the practice
gear, and if anyone beats me . . . that’s five quid in each of your pockets.”
“Squid? Gross!” Marcus makes a retching sound.
“Dollars,” I correct, rolling my eyes. “Five dollars. Ready? Go!”
And without pause, the full lot of them tear down the pitch like their lives depend on it, legs pumping, arms flailing, greasy
hair blowing in the wind. It’s a messy, corner-cutting sort of competition that involves me yelling at anyone who doesn’t
touch the line with their hands. But they’re laughing and enjoying themselves instead of terrorizing poor Fergie, so I take
it as a win.
My lungs burn as I push myself to impress the lot of them, and bloody hell, it feels good to run without a crowd judging my every move. I lap Marcus on the twenty-meter line and scoop him up under one arm like a rugby ball.
“Oi! No fair!” he squeals, kicking his legs as I thunder past Jamal and another boy named Ricky.
“Adapt, improvise, overcome,” I call back a phrase my Trinity coach used to bark at us during training sessions. I barrel
toward the post and drop Marcus over the line like I’m scoring a try.
Fergie is laughing and shaking his head when I finish well ahead of them, even with my Marcus detour. I drop down onto the
grass and fight to catch my breath because no matter how many times I’ve done a bronco test, they still crush me.
But Christ, it felt good to clear my mind a bit. Everly has been occupying way too many of my thoughts, which is the exact
opposite of what I hoped for when requesting distance from her.
Working with these kids today is reminding me why I love rugby so much. Rugby saved me in ways I think I’m still unpacking.
I was thirteen when I first started, all elbows and bony knees, watching the world from the sidelines and feeling like I didn’t
belong anywhere. Then Cliona made me start playing with her, and when I stepped onto that muddy pitch for the first time,
it was like someone lit a fuse under my skin.
Suddenly, my lanky size wasn’t a curse—it was potential. My anger wasn’t appalling—it was fuel. On the brown grass at Ballymun
fields, the noise in my head went quiet, replaced by the rhythm of boots pounding into the dirt, the crack of bodies hitting
one another, and the roar of lads playing beside me. Rugby gave me a place, a purpose. It told me I could be strong when all
I’d ever felt before that was weak. It was the first time I ever felt worth a damn.
That’s what I want to give these kids. If I can do that, then it will make this whole insane trip to Colorado worth it.
One by one, the kids finish and begin dogpiling on top of me, breathless and laughing and a hell of a lot more ready to listen than they were when they arrived.
“You’re fast, Coach Wolf,” Ricky says, his face beet-red.
“I wasn’t even giving it my all,” I say, hoisting myself back onto my feet. “Now that I’ve proven I’m more athletic than all
of you combined, who wants to actually learn how to play rugby?”
Every hand shoots up, and my heart swells with pride. This is what it’s all about. I clear my throat gruffly and clap my hands. “Good. Pair off. We’re learning how to tackle properly so you don’t break your
necks, and then we’ll do a proper scrimmage and see what you’re all made of.”
I grab a tackling pad and demonstrate how to lead with the shoulder, keep your head out of the way, and wrap your arms around
your subject. They mimic me with all the coordination of baby pandas. Ricky forgets which direction he’s supposed to drive
and ends up spinning in a full circle before falling on his face.
“Nearly there.” I crouch down beside him, brushing the grass out of his hair. “Try it again, but this time, look where you’re
going, yeah?”
The more we practice, the sharper they get. Jamal nails a textbook tackle on the pad and pops up, grinning like he’s just
scored the winning try in the Six Nations.
“That’s it,” I shout, giving him a fist bump. “Perfect form. You keep that up, and you’ll be breaking through defensive lines
like butter in no time.”
“Like butter?” Jamal giggles. “That’s weird, Coach.”
By the end of our scrimmage, everyone’s red-faced and filthy, even Fergie, who somehow got flattened by a ten-year-old, much to everyone’s delight.
I pat the lanky kid who took him down on the back.
“Well done, lad. You’ve just taken out a professional rugby player.
You best brag about that to all your mates. ”
He grins shyly, and I can’t help but think he looks just like me at his age. Like he’s too tall for his body but trying to
make it work for him.
“Good work today,” I tell them as a big yellow bus pulls up. “Same time next week. And, Marcus—no more cone hats, yeah? It’s
giving traffic warden, not future All Blacks.”
He frowns, having no clue what I’m referencing. I wave him off, watching all of them load up onto a bus that will take them
back to the youth center where they spend their summers.
I watch them go, this pack of rowdy, stubborn kids who remind me so much of myself at that age. And of my friend Finn. Just
a couple of young lads still figuring out their place in this world.
“Well, Wolf . . . you’re good with little gobshites, I’ll give you that,” Fergie says, patting me on the back as he wipes
the sweat from his brow. “If you want to get out of that Mount Millie gig, you should consider applying for one of the coaching
positions the center is hiring for in autumn. Apparently, the youth center received a big grant, and they’re expanding their
sports outreach division. You’d be great at this, and it’d be a proper job that could work around your rugby schedule when
you get an offer from the team.”
“If I get an offer,” I correct, shrugging dismissively. “I don’t feel certain about that at all.”
“What do you mean, lad? Everyone loves you on the squad, which is saying a lot because we all thought you’d be this big, scary
beast when you arrived. But if anything, you’re a wee bit soft.” He laughs and gives me a playful shove before walking off
to retrieve the rest of our gear.
I frown as I wonder why that is. I’ve been different here in America.
Calmer and less anxious. Lower stakes, maybe?
Perhaps I just needed a fresh start? Or perhaps there’s a certain someone in my life who’s getting in my head a bit.
Either way, if I want this Colorado thing to work out, I need to keep my eye on the prize.