Chapter 30
The sun beats down on my neck as I step onto the rugby pitch, the screams and grunts of the men”s team practice assaulting my ears. The noises they make are a far cry from the much quieter women’s team. We definitely yell, but it’s nothing compared to this. It’s as if they’re frat bros at the gym, purposely trying to pick up the heaviest weight and doing exaggerated grunting in a ‘pick me’ move.
The grass is vibrant green and freshly cut, the scent mingling with the musk of sweat and effort. Across the field, a junior women’s team whoops and hollers as they practice rucks and mauls, while the steady thwack of baseballs echoes from the nearby diamond.
The sun beats down on my neck as I make my way across the manicured pitch. The thick scent of freshly cut grass fills my nose while shouts from coaches and the thud of colliding bodies echo in the distance.
I clutch my notepad tightly, glancing around, momentarily overstimulated by everything going on around me. Why am I here again? Oh right, coach wanted me to study tactics and teamwork. As if I don”t know how to tackle. But it”s more than that, she said. There”s always more to learn.
I find a spot on the sidelines, and settle in to observe. The team is mid-scrimmage, intensity etched on their faces. This isn”t just practice to them—it”s everything.
Noah catches my eye as he charges down the pitch, the ball tucked tightly under his arm. There”s a ruthless determination about him, a singular focus. The others fall into his wake, but no one quite matches his drive.
He crosses the try line and slams the ball down, breathing hard.
As the others congratulate him, I notice his expression. It”s not triumph I see, but discontent. He”s already critiquing his own performance, replaying each moment for flaws.
A leader who thinks he has to carry the team alone. Does he know they”re there to carry him too? I guess that”s why I”m here—to learn about balance. Mine and theirs.
I turn my attention back to the field as they reset for another drill, scribbling notes. What more can I discover by just watching and listening? What lessons lie beneath the surface, if you know where to look?
The sun inches lower as I study, pondering teamwork with fresh eyes. Maybe I”ll get something out of this after all.
I continue watching as the team runs drill after drill. Noah continues to be a commanding presence, directing his teammates with confidence. But there”s a wall around him so thick it’s almost visible—he holds himself apart even as he leads.
”He”s so intense out there,” I comment to the woman next to me.
”Oh, that”s just Noah,” she says with a knowing smile. ”Puts a ton of pressure on himself. Wants to be the best so badly it”s like he forgets there are others on his team.”
I nod, seeing it now. How he brushes off encouragement and focuses on each mistake. The weight on his shoulders—self-imposed but almost debilitatingly heavy nonetheless.
”Why doesn”t he let the others help more?” I ask. ”Isn”t that what a team is for?”
The woman shrugs. ”Guess he”s not used to relying on others. Noah likes to be in control.”
I watch him prowl the field, demanding precision. His teammates are eager to please but also wary, like animals who know they haven”t yet gained their alpha”s full trust.
Leadership through fear and intimidation rather than inspiration. It may work for a while, but is it sustainable?
I want to tell Noah he doesn”t have to do it all alone. That sometimes surrendering control is the only way to gain strength. But some lessons have to be learned firsthand. Plus, he’s been playing rugby for longer than me, and his illustrious career leaves mine in the rear-view mirror, so who am I to coach someone like him?
The whistle blows as practice winds down. Maybe someday Noah will see he can”t just lead others—he has to let them lead him, too. But for now, all I can do is watch and learn myself.
The players head to the sidelines, grabbing water bottles and towels. Noah lingers on the field, hands braced on his knees, his chest heaving. For a moment, his invincible fa?ade cracks. He looks less like a superhero and more like a younger man carrying the world”s weight.
I approach slowly, not wanting to startle him. ”Hey Noah.”
He glances up, surprise flashing across his face before he rearranges it back to neutral. ”Oh hey, Dylan. Just running some drills. Didn’t expect to see you here. I thought I imagined you sitting over there. What brings you by?”
”Picking up some tips from the best,” I say lightly.
His mouth quirks. ”Appreciate that. But go easy on the praise...I”ve got a long way to go.”
I shake my head. ”You”re too hard on yourself. It”s okay to ease up sometimes, you know. And I’m not creeping on you, I promise. Coach sent me over here to observe how you run drills.”
He smiles wryly. ”Easier said than done, but thanks for looking out. And you’re welcome to come watch any time.”
We chat a few more minutes about innocuous topics like weather and schedules. But my mind is churning. Noah”s strength is a shield, but also a prison. One he doesn”t yet know how to leave.
I want to show him he doesn”t have to be Atlas, carrying this team alone. Even superheroes need allies. But it”s a lesson that has to come from within.
As I walk away, I sigh, glancing back at the field.
Someday, I hope Noah learns he can rely on others” strength. Until then, all I can do is be there when he”s ready.
With patience and understanding, barriers crack and bridges form.
Even between awkward roommates like us.