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Ironic that the teammate I was trying to protect in the air was the same one I’d been tearing strips out of earlier.
“Extend your arms, Gibs,” Johnny continued to instruct.
“I’m trying,” I huffed. “When’s the last time you had two hundred pounds of prick on your shoulders?”
“I carry your drunk ass around most weekends,” came Johnny’s sarcastic response and I thought I might scream.
“Fucking backs,” I grumbled to myself. “You’re all shit and show, hunting the glory, while us forwards do all the hard slog.”
“Hard slog? You’ve never seen a hard day’s work in your life, lad.”
“I’ll have you know that I spent most of my summer helping Mam at the bakery.”
“Yeah,” Hugh goaded, joining the conversation. “And you have the gut to show for it.”
“Call me fat one more time and I’ll sit on you,” I warned, outraged. “I mean it, Hugh. It’s called being big-boned. And yeah, so I’ve put on a few pounds over the summer. Big deal. I can lose the weight, but you can’t lose that face, lad.”
“Did you just call me ugly?”
“Did you just call me fat?”
“Pack it in, will ye. Bunch of bleeding babies,” Johnny instructed, while turning his attention back to me. “Your weight isn’t the problem here, Gibs. It’s the smoking.”
“I told you that I’ve cut down.”
“I’m not interested in anything less than zero a day.”
“What shit craic.”
“Don’t twist my melon.”
“Don’t put your melon in my face to twist.”
“Focus!”
“Hold up—what the fuck is a melon?”
“He’s referring to his brain, Gibs.”
“Melons are brains?”
“Yours certainly is.”
“I take offense to that.”
“Jaysus, I’m surrounded by idiots.”
“Okay, now switch,” Coach Mulcahy interrupted with a bark. “Four take Seven and start again. Two, I want a clean ball. None of this crooked bullshit.”
“Coach, he’s not ready for the lift,” Johnny began to say, but was cut off when Coach turned his glare on him. “Who’s calling the shots here, Thirteen?”
Jaw ticking, Johnny retreated with more grace than I would have been able to. “You, sir.”
“That’s right,” Coach replied, dusting the metaphorical feather in his cap at publicly scolding our cap. “You had a good summer with the Irish squad, but don’t get too big for your boots, Thirteen.”
“Too big for his boots?” I shook my head. “His boots shouldn’t be anywhere near this shithole pitch. He’s too fucking good for us, and you’re just jealous.”
“Are you questioning my authority, Seven?” Coach narrowed his eyes. “Did you not get enough grass in your lungs when you were in the plank?”
