A Score for a Beginner
"Left. Check the spacing."
"Leeeft! Mind the gaaaps!"
You'd think the boy had dreamed himself into the army. Was that throat of his already tuned to a battlefield? Tennessee had lived a good long while, and he had never heard a voice this large. It wasn't only the volume, either.
"Don't chase."
"Don't chase! You're scouts! You don't have to bring him down!"
Trust Jack, who actually understood the tactics.
"Back."
"Dropping baaack! Check the rear liiine!"
The shortest phrases turned, under that bellow, into fairly specific orders. At this rate he wasn't a megaphone so much as an interpreter.
Of course the rugby itself couldn't improve on the spot. Even when they gave up a try, they reset the line step by step and ran the tackle all the way home. The small mercy was that the defenders were beginning to find the feel of it; now, even without an order, each of them more or less held his own patch of ground. As if to sneer at that very mercy, Park Jihoon knifed straight into the packed defense.
The spacing was beyond reproach. Lockstep. Even the way they moved as a unit was excellent. And he meant to come in anyway?
Tennessee watched the run to its end before he spoke.
"Now."
"Gaaary!"
In that instant Gary launched himself, as if he had been waiting for the word. Just before Jihoon could change direction, Gary had the waist wrapped up. By any ordinary measure, that should have been the end of the carry.
Jihoon sank his weight backward and slipped the worst of it, then drove down on Gary until the grip went slack and, with a sharp twist, tore the arms off him after all. The defenders who had thrown themselves in turn, certain the tackle would stick, found themselves diving at empty air and hit the turf in a heap.
Having shed the line in a single beat, Park Jihoon glanced up and, pointedly, checked Tennessee's position first. He could have hunted the try down the far side and still had a fair chance. He came this way anyway, out in the open.
So he wanted a contest.
"Move."
Tennessee let the word out short. Jack, already lifting his voice to relay what he thought was an order, promptly grew a question mark.
"I'm telling you to get out of the way. I'll stop him."
Had Jihoon been hoping for exactly that? The moment Jack stepped aside, a smile rose on Jihoon's face, and then he came—a bull that had made up its mind, shooting straight in.
Tennessee watched him the way a seasoned bullfighter watches a charge. Fifteen meters, more or less. Would he cut at the last instant? Ten. Or was he truly going to throw his body? Five. Neither of them could dodge a head-on collision now.
Tennessee clenched his teeth and met him. The impact stopped Jihoon's advance cold, and more than that, it lifted him clean off the ground.
I won!
All that remained, he thought, was for Jihoon to come crashing down. In that same instant the boy's head flicked left. Just before he fell he twisted, and a behind-the-back pass whipped away.
Tennessee had been sure he'd pinned the arm. Had Jihoon broken the grip by turning as he went down?
The ball found its mark.
"...!"
It dropped dead into the hands of Leo, who had been chasing in behind Jihoon. With the last of the defense already wrecked, Leo simply trudged over the try line, untouched.
"Hoo. Hooo."
Maybe it was the tension snapping all at once. Breath that had been held back came pouring out together.
I failed a tackle? How does that even make sense?
Tennessee looked at the fallen Park Jihoon and asked.
"Were you reading the timing?"
The boy, plastered in turf, nodded instead of answering.
"How?"
"Before that, mind giving me a hand up?"
Ah.
Only after Tennessee had taken the hand Jihoon offered did the boy spring to his feet.
"How'd you know?"
Jihoon's answer was simple. The moment both feet left the ground, he had more or less expected to be driven into.
"So you turned that against me?"
"Not exactly."
"...?"
"I wanted to hang on, whatever it took. Wasn't easy."
Of course it hadn't been. The tackle had gone in on absolutely perfect timing.
"Then the pass?"
"I'd already run all this way. Seemed a waste. So I slung it."
"You improvised?"
A nod. Then another.
Ha!
I'm handing a score to a beginner?
The competitive fire that had been asleep lifted its head again.
"Do it again."
"Do what?"
"What you just did. Do it again."
Tennessee's voice had gone deadly serious.
After school, the weight room.
"He wouldn't follow us all the way in here, would he?"
At Jack's words I let out a short laugh.
"And here I thought he was lukewarm about everything. That guy's obsession is practically monstrous."
Jack had exactly one reason for saying so. Tennessee had kept challenging me to rematches. That wasn't all. Every break, we went out on the ground and settled it. At first it was five against five. The more we played, though, the more it slid to four against six, and Tennessee's more seasoned side took the upper hand. Around then he seemed to come to his senses, belatedly.
"This is why I hate rugby."
He blurted out something I could hardly believe, then left with an embarrassed face.
"You not tired?"
"I'm having fun, actually."
And why wouldn't I? For the first time I'd met a defender worth the name. Until now I'd gone at it with Devon, but he hadn't been any kind of match. When that grew unsatisfying and I tried Jack, we were both attackers, and the chemistry never worked. Then, of all things, an outstanding defender started calling me out every hour.
Thank you. Truly, thank you.
I was turning all of this over when footsteps came down the corridor. Step, step. Today of all days, I thought the teacher was early.
And what do you know.
"Guhk!"
Jack let out a one-note groan at the shadow draped across the doorway.
That guy. Again!
He shot me a look that asked whether this was going to be all right. Heh. I was enjoying it.
Tennessee quietly loosened up, as if the weights themselves were the whole point and the two of us had nothing to do with it. Even so, he kept glancing at me in the mirror. Coming all this way meant even a record of six wins to four wasn't enough for him. Sooner or later he would find a gap and say let's go again.
Fine by me.
I only smiled once more, bright as anything.
Meanwhile, in the faculty office.
Class was over, at least. Devon changed at once. An Ultimate hoodie! He had thought a big size would mean easier competition, but just in case—really, just in case—he had gone to the shop the day before. And what do you know? There was already a line. The memory still made him dizzy.
If I'd taken my time, I'd have been in real trouble.
Devon shook his head from side to side. Anyway! These were clothes won with blood and sweat (allegedly).
That Park Jihoon kid... he doesn't even brag about owning a pile of Ultimates! He just shows up in a different one every day... Heh. Now I've bought them all too, just so you know.
He was about to stand, pleased with himself, when a thick voice came from behind.
"Sir?"
Good grief! He turned to see what it was, and a face the size of a watermelon was planted squarely there.
"Second year. Ralph, sir."
"What now?"
"It isn't anything else. I came about the selection match against the first years."
"Didn't you say you weren't doing it?"
"Ah, well. Thinking it over from every angle, I concluded we ought to accept."
"Are you lot joking right now?"
When Devon glared, Ralph tucked his neck in like a turtle.
"What wind blew in this time?"
"Well... the value of rugby does lie in unity, of course. But accepting the first years' proposal also struck me, seen largely, as a kind of unity..."
"Carl Bernstein tell you to pass that along?"
"Sir?"
Devon's face asked what explanation one player owed another.
"No, sir. We gathered our views... democratically..."
"Even a dictator holds a vote."
"Pardon?"
"They just check who you marked, with guns and swords in hand."
"Ah—we, sir, we have none of that. Nothing of the sort..."
Ralph bowed on instinct and was turning to go when Devon's voice caught an edge, and he whipped his head back around.
"And you."
"In life you can have trouble with the boys under you. School's a place where people live, and I don't feel like meddling in all of it. But."
"...!"
"Don't go picking fights on a cement floor like you've got no fear in your skull. That's what I'm saying."
"What do you mean by..."
"Don't get it? Then memorize it. If it isn't on the mat, we don't start a fight."
"...?"
"You repeating it, or not?"
"If—if it isn't on the mat, we don't start a fight."
"Again."
"If it isn't on the mat..."
"Louder!"
"If it isn't on the mat...!"
Only after a full three choruses did Devon let him go (supposedly).
Thirty minutes later, the weight room.
"Eight! Nine! Ten!"
When I got the barbell up ten times, Tennessee answered.
"Ten! Elev... hah... en."
He looked as if he couldn't rest until he'd ground out one more. I had been training steadily, while he must have taken a fair break from exercise, and still he clenched his teeth and kept up somehow.
One thing stood out. No matter how hard it got, Tennessee never lay flat on the floor. Aristocratic face, perhaps. Most of the time he rested on his feet, and only when he truly couldn't manage did he half-perch on the bench and pant.
"Hoo. Hoooo."
Even the new boy was working that hard. Maybe it was time I shifted up a gear. I braced my waist, closed my hands on the bar, and told myself to lift as far as the strength would go, and to mean it.
Had he read my eyes? Even Devon's voice took on a fighting edge.
"One! Two! Three!"
"Fifteen! Sixteen! Seventeen! Want another? Ooh, eighteen! Jihoon's in good shape?"
I didn't have the breath to answer, so I only nodded, and Devon slipped in a joke.
"Match your friend. Yeah. Keep up with him, brat."
Now it was Tennessee's turn. He was the sort who couldn't rest until he'd won somehow, and perhaps he already knew the contest was decided before he even tried. The look on his face as he stared down at the barbell was not a good one. He tried to lift anyway.
"Ten! Eleven! Tweeeelve. Thirteeeen... Hey, stop. I'll pass out if I keep counting."
If it had been up to his temper, he would have taken more. The weights came down with a thud. What it takes to lift a load is strength and technique, and nothing else.
"Tch."
He swallowed his anger and had to turn away with a heavy heart. Through the rest of the session he kept meeting the same result.
When it was all over, Devon asked what we wanted to eat.
"What do you want?"
"..."
"Right. Then you'll eat what you're given."
He stepped out to buy the food. Jack and I were sprawled on the floor when, step by step, Tennessee somehow made it over to me.
"Want a chance to get even?"
Out of nowhere.
"Rugby, I mean. I won more, didn't I? Doesn't that burn?"
At that I half sat up.
"Burn? Hardly."
A defender who could take me down was watching my back. So.
"It only felt solid."
"...?"
"We're a team."
Maybe it wasn't the answer he had wanted. Tennessee pouted, then spun on his heel and left.