Coach

Cold, wet, muddy and miserable, it was a typical October afternoon in the North of England. Against his wishes Mr Hick had agreed to cover for Mr Rathbone and take Class 10B for their rugby lesson. He was not a man who fitted comfortably into shorts. His acquaintanceship with the laws of the game was cursory at best. He was here only because he had been too slow to think up an excuse. To his surprise he was having a wonderful time.

Mr Hick looked down the row of miserable faces and wondered who deserved to go next. His gaze settled on the boy who had coughed `Mr Dick` interrupting his discourse on Hamlet’s First Soliloquy last month.

“Heathcliffe, there’s the ball, try and run it past Tariq”

Tariq grinned black, the colour of the mouth guard he wore. Heathcliffe trudged up to the ball like a man on his way to the gallows. Many a time Mr Hick had cursed the day when the use of the cane had been outlawed in the classroom. Now he had discovered something even better. If he couldn’t hit the little sods himself then he could hit them with Tariq.

Heathcliffe broke into a sprint, the boy was surprisingly quick. The others had more or less plodded to their fate, to be painfully and entertainingly introduced to the turf. Tariq was quick himself and moved to close down the angle. At the crucial moment, just as he was about to make the tackle, Tariq’s boot slipped away from him in the mud. Heathcliffe skipped around and away, celebrating like he’d scored the winner at the Super Bowl.

That was no fun thought Mr Hick. Let me try it one more time.

“Again” he shouted. Let’s not miss this time Tariq.