The Sporting Chance

Andy Wilkins cheered and whooped with the rest of the home fans as the final whistle went in the rugby game. His beloved Devil-Sharks had trounced their local rivals, Leigh Lions 14-10. Friday night rugby was great. Friday night rugby, when your team won, was just amazing. Having clapped their winning team off the pitch, he joined the other fans as they spilled from the stadium, and out into the night, talking excitedly about the game they had just witnessed.

Andy had been supporting the Earlham Devil-Sharks since he was a kid. His parents used to take him along to the stadium on Sunday afternoons to watch their local team play. While a lot of his friends, both then and now, were more into soccer, rugby had always been his thing. There was something special about the game, and about the team he followed. 

Now in his early twenties, he worked in a warehouse, as a fork-lift truck driver. He was happy with the job, it kept him busy, paid fairly well, and his colleagues were a good bunch. His family and friends knew of his obsession with rugby and the club. Every birthday and Christmas, he would receive t-shirts, mugs and other bits to do with the Devil-Sharks. 

During his high-school years, Andy had played for the school rugby team. He had been a decent player, never the man of the match, but always held his own. After leaving school, he had focused more on watching rugby rather plan playing it. 

The following Friday night, Andy went to the rugby game as usual. They were playing Wigton Vikings and the fixture always provided a lot of drama. As full time approached, the score was 18-18. There was less than a minute to play. Every kick, every pass, every tackle counted. All eyes were on the pitch and the clock on the score-board.

Then literally in the dying seconds of the game, the Devil-Sharks winger caught the ball. He paused for a moment to focus, and then kicked the ball with all his might. The whole stadium looked on, as ball shot high up in the air, towards the goal posts. As the ball sailed in-between the sticks, for a drop-goal, Andy and the home fans went crazy, cheering and hugging each other. What a way to end the match. The game, and the last minute goal, would be talked of for a long time. 

As he filed out of the stadium, a guy in a Devil-Shark fleece jacket handed him a flyer. Andy stuffed the paper in his jacket pocket, and headed for the car. Still buzzing from the excitement of the closing moments of the game, he climbed in the car, and joined the snaking line of post-match traffic.

 The next evening, Andy was meeting a few friends. They were meeting up for drinks in the local pub. He shrugged into his jacket and headed for the pub. A few beers and a catch up with his friends would be just perfect. He would try and explain about the excitement of the rugby game the night before, but they wouldn’t understand. For them the ball was the wrong shape, the game was all wrong, it was soccer or nothing. He headed for the bar, and ordered a pint of beer. As he reached in his pocket for his wallet, to pay the barman, he pulled out the flyer from the rugby game. He crossed the pub to join his friends, sipping his pint and reading the leaflet with interest.

One of his friends asked what he was reading. He told the group to check it out, and placed the flyer on the table as though it was a winning poker hand. 

‘Earlham Devil-Sharks? I don’t do rugby.’ One lad said.

‘They are holding open trials.’ Andy explained. ‘You don’t have to be spotted by a talent scout, don’t have to be already playing for a lower league club. They are looking to recruit players, any age, any ability. They are giving the public the chance to try out for the team.’

‘Oh right.’ His friends looked at him in confusion. ‘And?’

‘And, I am going to try out. Even if I don’t get through, it will be so cool to try out for the team. Just being on that pitch, playing rugby would be amazing.’

 His friends quickly changed the subject, discussing the holiday to Spain a few of them were going on later in the month. Andy joined in, enthusing about the beaches and sunshine, agreeing that they would have a great time. His mind wasn’t on the conversation. Two words rattled around his brain. Open Trials. If things went to plan, in a month’s time, he would be taking part in trials at the rugby club he had supported for most of his life. This kind of thing didn’t happen every week. Most of his friends were Manchester United fans, you couldn’t just turn up at the training ground, to try for the team, but that was exactly the opportunity he was now being given for his rugby club.

The next morning, he registered online for the open trials. When the screen changed, and showed a message, thanking him for his application, he nodded. It was done. That was all he could do for now. He busied himself tidying up the garden, mowing the lawn, dragging up the nettles and giving his yard a good going over, all the while his mind raced with the thoughts of trying out for the rugby club. 

Early that afternoon, he was having a cup of tea, in front of the television, when his mobile phone pinged. One new email message. The sender of the email was the admin office of the rugby club. With trembling fingers, he clicked on the new email message. He gasped as he read the email. He re-read the message, trying to process the information. He was to report to the stadium on a Saturday morning in a month’s time, where he would be assessed with other applicants. This was just fantastic. Regardless, of what happened on the day, he had a trial with the club. He had a trial. 

He called his parents to tell them. His mother put him on speaker-phone so his dad could listen in too. When Andy explained that he’d applied to be on the team for the rugby team, his mother was thrilled, wishing him good luck. His father said he would have to train for the trial, adding that, these days, Andy didn’t even run for the bus, never mind, do any regular exercise. Andy laughed, but admitted his father had a point. 

After he hung up, his father’s advice came back to him. He was right, of course. Andy couldn’t turn up in the shape and condition he was in now. He would have to train for the trial. He grinned. Was this actually happening? Was he actually figuring out how best to train for a trial with his club? He dashed upstairs and grabbed the rugby ball from his spare room. He held the ball close to him, and imagining himself, racing towards the score line, ran back downstairs, placing the ball on the living room carpet as though had just scored a try. 

Out of breath, he flopped on the sofa. If a flight of stairs could knock the wind out of him, then he would really need to improve his fitness, to be able to play eighty minutes of rugby. A shiver went through him. This still felt like a dream, indeed, as a kid, he had imagined playing for the Devil-Sharks. This was too good an opportunity to squander. He would have to up his game and train for his session with the club. Yes, this would start now. 

From that point on, Andy was focused and dedicated. He would get up early before work and run five kilometres, before getting showered and changed for work. His evenings were spent watching previous matches, studying the tackles and plays. He slept with his rugby ball, hoping that the ball would almost become an extension of his arm. At the weekend, he would be on the park, training, running, kicking the ball between the posts, over and over again. He trained like the national team preparing for the World Cup. In his mind, he was performing in a movie training montage, to a 1980s rock soundtrack. He kicked the ball between the posts until his legs hurt. He would train until darkness fell. His friends would call inviting him out for a few drinks. Andy would refuse, saying he was in training. There would be plenty of time for drinking and socialising after his try-out.

Finally the day of the trial came. Andy woke before the alarm and packed his training gear in his sports-bag, and headed to the stadium. He crossed the car-park and approached the entrance to the stadium, eyeing the logo over the revolving door. This was his club, and this session meant so much. He was shown through to the changing rooms. The room was full of men of all ages. Some were in their teens and others looked like his grandfather. All talk was of rugby and the team. Andy sensed that each of them had the same dream. 

A guy in a Devil-Sharks tracksuit came into the changing rooms. He wore a baseball cap and a whistle on a string around his neck. Andy recognised him from the bench at the rugby games. He was clearly part of the training team at the club. He introduced himself as Terry, one of the coaching staff. Terry explained that they would go out on the pitch, run through a few drills, a few practise games, and then see where they went from there. 

As they were led out onto the pitch, Andy tried to stay focused, stay in the zone, despite the grand location, and the hallowed turf on which he was standing. His eyes wandered to the stands, to the spot he usually stood and watched the game. He tried to imagine playing out here while the stadium was full of cheering supporters. He shook his head. He wasn’t here as a fan, he had work to do. 

There must have been around fifty people on the pitch trying out for the club. They were divided up into smaller groups and given different training tasks to do. As they trained, people with clipboards monitored them and made notes. Andy tried not to think about what noted they would be making about his performance. He threw himself into whatever task he was given. He passed the ball as accurately as he could, he launched himself at the pads while practising the tackles, he dashed and zig-zagged avoiding those trying to tackle him while clutching the ball tightly to his chest. 

A few hours later, Terry blew his whistle and told everyone to gather round. They were told to listen for their names. The first group of people were told to head for the dressing rooms, to get changed. The second group were to stay on the pitch. Andy’s name wasn’t called out for the first group, so he waited on the pitch with the dozen or so other people. It had to be a good sign that they were still out on the pitch, didn’t it? Before Andy could ponder on the decision any further, and still clutching the rugby ball, he heard Terry call out for those remaining to come in closer. He huddled up close with the others to get the news from Terry. 

‘I’m not going to sugar-coat this, but if you’re still out here, then you haven’t passed the try-out. I’d like to thank you for coming along today.’ Terry said. 

There were chunnerings and mumbles of disappointment. The group turned and headed off the pitch, heads hanging low, making their way to the dressing room. Andy was gutted. He stood frozen to the spot, not wanting to leave the pitch. Moments later, he was the only one of the try-outs left out there. Until that moment, he had thought the trial would be enough. Now, he realised how much he wanted this. He wanted to be part of the club. He half turned to leave the pitch and join the others in the changing room, then stopped. 

Everything came to the surface, it all became too much. His mind raced with memories and hopes and dreams. He had been coming to the club for over a decade, he never missed a game, he had trained so hard in the past few weeks. It had been all he could think about. And it was all for nothing. He swore and kicked the ball, angrily, as hard as he could. The ball sailed high, up into the air, spinning over and over, across the pitch, and right between the posts. He turned to leave the pitch, still fuming, when he spotted Terry watching him. Terry had a shocked look on his face. Terry pointed at the goal posts.

‘Can you do that again?’ Terry asked.

Andy grinned and grabbed another ball.

By Chris Platt