Chapter 13
Rugby's Not For The Weak
Jonah
It’s a blistering summer day. I spent most of the morning outside with the animals before I arrived at rugby practice—early! Man, I am nailing this responsibility thing.
Despite my internal pep talk, I’m buzzing with nerves, which is weird because I haven’t been nervous about rugby since I started playing in high school.
I’ve also never had to prove my dedication to a team.
Showing up at some point and scoring points was always enough for me to earn my spot in the A-side starting lineup.
But being late is old JoJo. My brother’s right—if we’re gonna level up as a team, I need to do the same. I had to beg him to let me train this summer, and I don’t want to continue disappointing our family and teammates.
“As I live and breathe,” Wheels chuckles, before plopping his kit next to me on the ground. He plays fullback and has thighs the size of tree trunks. Wheels glances at his watch. “Did someone tell you practice started an hour earlier or something?”
I finish lacing up my boots. “No, I just wanted to get here early. I’m excited about the season.”
“You know the season doesn’t start until fall, right?” he teases, but there’s a very real possibility he’s not. He gestures around the empty field. “This is only summer training.”
“I know,” I smile. “Bring it on.”
When the rest of the team arrives, I receive much of the same teasing. They've always ragged on me for being late, and though it never bothered me, it's kind of nice to be teased for my punctuality. I'm taking this seriously now, and they're noticing, even if they're laughing about it.
Warm-ups go the same as they always do—a couple of laps around the field followed by dynamic and static stretching.
Then we launch into partner drills. We match up with someone of equal size, so Dane and I naturally gravitate toward each other.
We practice tackling and racing with the other piggyback.
He doesn’t say anything about me being on time to practice, and the more time we spend together on one-on-one drills, the antsier I become for acknowledgement.
When we go into a scrimmage, my legs and core are shaking. It’s an inferno on the field. Despite the heat, the team’s tempo is unbelievably fast. It’s hot as hell, and we’re all sprinting like we’re being chased by Satan himself.
The forwards split away to do their own thing, and I join the backs. Our quick hands turn into tried-and-true plays, and I feel like a gazelle tearing through gaps in the B-side. That is, until I collide with someone and a chorus of inaudible gasps and Oh damn’s break out.
He called my bluff when I tried to juke him.
Sugar, that hurt.
After that, nothing goes right. I trip over my own feet and miss a perfect pass.
I get too greedy near the end zone and try to score, only to get tackled again and reprimanded for not offloading the ball to the player who was yelling, “With you on your right.” To make it all worse, every time I look at the forwards, I catch my brother, El Capitan, watching me like a hawk.
Ughh, that’s not helping. Why’s he so obsessed with me? It’s freaking me out, and I already feel like I’m on a razor’s edge here.
“Get your shit together, Philly,” Coach hollers at the backline, but I know it’s directed at me. He blows the whistle, and barks at us to sprint seventy meters to the try line and back. Then three more times because I’m pretty sure he’s sick in the head. Listen, I’m in shape, but even I’m heaving.
“You think we’re gonna make the Premier League lookin’ like this?” he yells. “Get your heads out of your asses and run the loop again.”
The groan I suppress is on the tip of my tongue, but Coach is right. This next level will be more demanding than what we’re used to. If we want a chance to compete with the big dogs, we have to play harder—and train harder—than ever before.
Coach shows us mercy once he’s satisfied with our progress, and we all gather by our bags for a water break.
I dig through mine, sweat pouring from my hairline and shirt half-soaked.
I freeze when I realize I forgot to bring water.
It’s not uncommon for someone to forget their bottle and to ask another player for a swig of theirs, but with the way my brother’s been watching me like he’s waiting for me to fail.
.. yeah, I’d rather eat rocks than admit I didn’t bring any water.
Luckily, I find a plastic bottle hidden at the bottom of my bag with just enough water to wet my whistle. I open the tiny cap and throw it back before spewing it on the grass—coughing and sputtering. That’s disgusting! How long has that bottle been in my bag?
Two guys laugh at my misfortune. “I remember my first beer,” one of them says.
“You okay, JoJo?” Raf asks, and extends his water to me. “You want some of mine?”
I clear my throat, but the rank taste lingers and now it’s crawling up my nasal passage. “I’m fine. Thanks though.”
“D’you guys hear our Daddies won Beachside Sevens?” one teammate asks, referring to our summer tournament team—the team I would have been playing on this summer if we weren’t trying to level up.
My heart twists as I remember my experience at Beachside Sevens.
All the drinking songs and partying... I miss that.
Summer sevens is not serious, and the games don’t count for anything other than a wacky trophy and bragging rights.
You can sub out whenever you want, drink a beer on the sideline, and yell at the ref if you’re feeling saucy.
Heck, the ref is drinking their own beer at halftime.
I could have been there—carefree, drunk, playing mermaids in the water after each game.
A few teammates continue their summary of the tournament, and Dane laughs along with everyone else. He’s so confident in his choice to be here that he can joke around and not miss the same games we once played together.
Why am I doing this to myself?
Do I even belong here?
Coach cuts the Beachside recap short when he whistles for our return. Like always, we split into A-side and B-side for a scrimmage, but when I join the A-side, Coach stops me. “JoJo, switch with Pacha.”
Excuse me?! Pacha is a rookie and has never been in the starting lineup. He’s B-side for a reason!
I’m flaming hot, ready to question Coach when Dane forces himself in front of my face. “Do what you’re asked,” he says through clenched teeth, his eyes the same Johanssen blue as mine but with an intensity I rarely have. “Just go,” Dane murmurs, and he shoves me in the opposite direction.
Pacha runs past me grinning from ear to ear.
Lucky him.
Saltier than a pretzel, I slot into the defensive backline and flip my mouth guard into place.
Play begins. A-side’s scrum half feeds the ball into the tunnel of the scrum, and every forward engages—every muscle tight, every player locked into each other like a Chinese finger trap, fighting for advantage.
To my surprise, our B-side hooker snags the ball. I make the split decision to run a 10-loop so I can prove to Coach I know what I’m doing and don’t deserve to be on this side.
“Winning, winning, winning,” I holler to my backline, and throw my arm out to remind them to get steep.
When our scrummy has his hands on the ball for the pickup, I’m already in a dead sprint in the opposite direction, looping behind the two closest players.
This trick play exploits the gaps in the opposing team’s backline.
The inside center should replace me, fake to the outside center who’s the most obvious choice, then whip it out to me.
But before I can take my place, my winger shouts, “Losing! Losing!”
I gape as the rookie who replaced me on A-side retrieves the fumbled ball.
“What the fuck was that, JoJo?” my scrummy chirps.
“I was running a loop!”
“Then warn us next time!”
Seconds later, our players force the A-side ball carrier out of bounds, and I take a second to recoup. That was a dumb thing on my part not to communicate that to my team. As fly-half, it’s my responsibility to call the plays for the backline.
Of course I catch my brother eyeing me, but it’s less observational and more like he’s trying to figure out what’s wrong with me. I shrug because... I don’t know either. I’ve had bad practices before, but this one is different—I feel like an outsider on my own team.
Swallowing my pride, I apologize to the backs and set up for a lineout.
Taking a deep, dehydrated breath, I channel my frustration into focus.
I signal to my backs that in the unlikely case we win the lineout, we’ll run a simple quick-hands.
There’s nothing fancy about this play—run forward and pass the ball to the person next to you as fast as you can.
It’s basic, but after a failure like the one I just caused, it’s necessary.
The jumpers are lifted into the air, and as I predicted, the other team takes possession. The lineout is faster than I expect, and the jumper tips the ball to my brother-in-law, who is taking off for the try line.
He’s zoned in, but so am I. He's searching for real estate, but he knows his pack is supporting him, ready for his next move.
This is just a scrimmage, which means the intensity of play is around seventy-five percent that of an actual game. But there’s a bloodthirsty victory gleaming in his eyes, and we’re both at full tilt when I wrap around his waist and take him down.
Both of us grunt when we hit the ground.
Dane and another player ruck over us, and I scurry out. Raf compliments me on a good tackle while he feeds the ball to his side.
“Good job, bro,” Dane grits out while someone rucks against him.
It was a good tackle. Nothing groundbreaking about it, just a textbook takedown. Yet, a surge of confidence makes my chest puff out at the encouraging words from my brothers.
I’m pleased to find my backline is already in place when I join them. Meanwhile, the forwards battle out several more phases.
Maybe it’s the quick breather, or being out here with the guys, or that sweet thrill of seeing your hard work turn into something real—but something inside me clicks.
I want this.
Not just for Dane and the team—I want this for me. I want to work hard to get this team to the Premier League because I want the satisfaction of earning my elite rugby position.
When practice ends and the sun sets, everyone’s dead with exhaustion. During the cooldown stretch, everyone discards their shirts and socks, left covered only in shorts and sweat. I collapse when I reach my bag—my jelly legs unable to support me any longer.
I close my eyes and listen to the hard breathing of my teammates and their continued tales of Beachside Sevens.
There’s a nudge on my shoulder, and I turn to find Dane standing tall, holding out a blue sports drink for me—a full one.
My mouth would water if I weren’t so dehydrated.
I hesitate. He says nothing, but there’s a hint of a smile. No big speech, just quiet... approval?
I take his peace offering with a tired but genuine grin—feeling like I’ve earned something more.
Dane sits next to me, and I down the entire bottle in a couple seconds. I lay back and relax, listening to my teammates laugh about the antics of our social sevens team—my earlier envy gone.
For once, the fun can wait. I now have something better—a shot.