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The guys duck their heads into each other and push. Somewhere, a player of the opposing team rakes the ball out from underneath a bunch of guys who look like they’re trying to wrestle each other to the ground and tosses it—backward—to a teammate, who makes a run for it.
When he can’t break through before someone jumps on him, he passes to another player, and they play a game of passing it down the line until the last guy makes a break for it and runs.
“No!” Noah shouts, as into the game as the rest of them.
The player makes a dive and lands on the ball behind the line, and the crowds lose their mind.
“If he converts, we’ll have to bring it back quicker,” Noah says, his jaw tense. “That dive was a try, and it counts five points. If they convert, by kicking the ball between the posts, it’s another two.”
“Right,” I say.
Noah watches in suspense as the player lines up, taking the time to focus. It looks far to me.
When he kicks, the ball flies through the air, knocks the post, and bounces away.
“Yes!” Noah cheers. “He just missed that one.”
“But they’re still ahead?” I ask.
“Yeah, but it’s okay. We can catch them.”
The ball is handed to our team, and one player kicks it in to put it back into play.
Twice, it looks like one of our guys is going to break through, only to be tackled at the last moment and pass the ball to someone else. Noah explains to me what happens as it happens, explaining the rules as we go along, and I’m starting to understand it.
And I’m starting to enjoy it.
Noah is only the general manager for the team. But he knows the rules as if he’s lived and breathed them for years. By the way he tells me what they should rather do, he could be the coach.
“Oh, that’s not going to—” Noah cuts himself off and we watch as the player gets tackled and the ball bounces out of the field.
“Line-out,” Noah says, just as the teams line up. On either side of a player who throws the ball back into play. They lift each other until our team plucks it out of the air, and the player makes a run for it.
Now that I get what’s going on, it’s becoming more intense. The player runs and manages to sidestep an attempted tackle; he pushes a player coming toward him to the side and passes to the next player, who breaks through two big guys. He’s tackled down eventually, but a third guy catches the pass just before he goes down, and he makes a break for it.
Noah screams as loudly as the rest of them while the player outruns everyone behind him and pushes the ball onto the grass behind the line. He runs on with a cocky attitude and pumps his fists in the air.
“Now the conversion,” Noah says, and we watch as one of our players lines up, takes his time to think about it, and kicks.
Everyone is so quiet I can hear a pin drop. The ball goes through the post, and the crowd goes mad again.
“Right, just a few more of those, and we’ve got it.”
I watch the game with the same enthusiasm as Noah does. I don’t understand it nearly as well as he does, but he explains it here and there, and it’s fun to watch, either way. The guys are beasts. They’re rough with each other, and I still can’t believe they’re only wearing mouth guards.
At one point, a fight breaks loose. Two opposing team members. Start punching each other, and as if it’s a bar fight, rather than a sports match, everyone climbs in. It takes a while for the referee to pull them apart, and everyone watching is as involved as the players.
Finally, when the game is over, Noah’s team emerges victorious. He’s over the moon, and when the players run off the field, he turns to me.
“What did you think?”
“It’s the craziest sport I’ve ever seen,” I say.
Noah laughs. “It is. But I’m starting to love it. Come on, let’s get out of here.”
We leave the stadium, and I watch Noah. He doesn’t look back longingly to the locker rooms. He doesn’t look miserable that this isn’t his game, and he’s not out there. He’s pumped that we won and excited to go out and celebrate it.
“What do you think Ava and Maria are doing?” he asks in the car on the way to the restaurant.
