Page 29 of The Player in New Zealand
“Line-outs! Line-outs!” became the chant.
Tane groaned. “All right, all right, ease up and line up.”
The kids cheered and followed directions, getting in an orderly line facing Tane. Another coach twirled a rugby ball in his hands, just to the side of the end of the line. The first kid, a redhead wearing the jersey of the losing team, at Tane’s signal, turned around and backed away from the line. Tane stood to the side and counted off—three, two, one—before stepping in behind the kid and grabbing his shorts, lifting the boy up overhead. The coach snapped the ball up and the kid caught it, practically squealing in delight.
I winced, thinking that would lead to one hell of a wedgie.
Tane let the kid down, and the kid tossed the ball back to the coach and ran to the end of the line.
“Oi, one each, scamp. Nice try.” Tane pointed off to the sidelines and the kid slumped his shoulders dramatically before trotting over to his family.
“What is this?” I whispered to Nina.
“They’re called line-outs. They don’t do ’em much in the younger grades, but it’s good practice for them to learn.”
We watched as Tane hefted a young girl, maybe eight years old, over his head and let her legs dangle down as she caught a gentle toss from the coach. He didn’t let her down, though, bracing his arms and letting her squirm up in the air.
“He’s going to tire himself out,” Nina remarked. “Silly man.” We took our seats again, content to watch.
But Tane made it through the whole line of kids, three dozen or so, most of them younger. By the end he was sweaty, wiping his forehead as he walked toward me and his sister.
The evening was still bright, a long, late January day making the stadium lights unnecessary. Tane accepted a bottle of water from Nina and chugged it down.
“I don’t remember being that heavy at that age.”
“You weren’t. You were heavier,” Nina teased.
Tane let himself fall back onto the grass. The loose edge of his shorts rode up a bit and I diverted my eyes, feeling very puritan. All that muscle. All that thigh. Yowzah.
Natty and Nora ran up, the older one pumping her arms and legs while the younger one toddled behind—I couldn’t remember which was which anymore—and piled onto their uncle. It reminded me of a video I once saw of a sugar glider trying to play with a Saint Bernard. They bounced around and were mostly ignored, content to play a version of King of the Mountain while Tane greeted Hemi.
Until one of them accidentally landed on Tane’s junk. Then Hemi wisely took the girls back to the playground.
“So, Claire,” Nina said, leaning back and pulling me into the conversation. “What did you think of your first rugby game?”
Tane’s eyes snapped to mine and he smirked. “A rugby virgin, eh?”
“I don’t know if watching a youth league game really popped my cherry,” I joked.
Nina and Tane threw their heads back in laughter. “Too true,” Nina chuckled. A wail came up from the playground and we looked over to see Hemi picking the older girl up off the ground. Hemi glanced over at us.
“Well, that’s my signal,” Nina said, getting up from the chair. “I’ll be back.”
Tane broke the silence between us. “I know rugby’s not that popular in the States. Which sports do you watch?”
“Honestly, not many. Growing up in Boston, you pretty much have to be a Red Sox fan, but I was never into the sportings.”
Tane ignored my use ofsportings.“What do the Red Sox play?”
“Baseball,” I said. “I don’t think we have many sports in common with New Zealand on a professional level, except maybe soccer.”
He scoffed, either at the wordsoccer—football here—or just American sports in general.
I wanted to know more, but I wasn’t sure how much Tane would be willing to talk, since he’d shut down our last conversation about rugby. But things had changed, so maybe I wouldn’t put my foot in my mouth this time. “Which city did you play for?”
He told me, and explained that that was the regular season. “But then there’s the national team, and, by the way, the States have one and they’re terrible. We play around the world against other countries. The Rugby World Cup is every four years. The New Zealand team is without a doubt the best rugby team in the world—rugby union, anyways.” He grumbled something about Fijians and sevens that I didn’t understand.
“Who’s the second best? Or, like, your biggest rival?”
