The night before, the easterly wind at its piercing best had proclaimed that winter had plans. Cold, nasty ones. Even though it was only March, it was a blunt forewarning to the people of Dannhauser. His mom said they might have snow in town again this year, which made Pete excited. He loved the snow. He loved how it covered the grey winter landscape in a blanket of perfect white, all the harshness transformed into a soft layer of magic. Now, however, he was standing with his hands on his hips, fighting to get his breath back. Mr Le Roux was telling the cheese-and-wine teams exactly how useless they were; not just regular useless, but bottom-feeding, runt-of-the-litter, rotten-apple useless.
For once Pete agreed with him. This bunch of dimwits gawking at Mr Le Roux with disdainful disinterest was, first and foremost, lazy, and secondly, and probably more alarmingly, without a shred of talent to back up their air of superiority. Worst of all was that he, dynamic up-and-coming centre, was just as bad as the lot of them. He had stepped in their trap by listening to their relentless slating, training session after training session, and seeing how their laziness benefitted them. Now he too had become a passive participant, subconsciously trying to fit into this group of misfits. In sharp contrast, his best friend for whom acceptance had always been just as important as sandwiches, shamed him by training like a man possessed, despite the others’ torturous scorn.
Pete wondered why he was so weak. Why he’d just given up? Could that night truly be the reason?
“Pete, a quick word,” Mr Le Roux said. While the group drudged away, he walked back to Mr Le Roux. His coach still wore his Dundee High School hockey cap to every practice and spent most of the training sessions gazing longingly out towards the hockey fields.
“We’ve arranged warm-up matches against Mr Theunissen’s squads next Thursday. It’ll give them a chance to prepare before their upcoming rugby tour.” Pete wondered why Mr Le Roux had the look of someone about to break up with his girlfriend. The mere thought of going on a rugby tour sounded incredible. He could picture the tour bus crossing the mountains, with him at the window, the first-team scarf wrapped around his neck. Perhaps, when the bus returned, he would remain behind, wherever that may be, anywhere but here.
Mr Le Roux fidgeted with his cap.
“I’m just going to say it. I know you have big rugby ambitions, but frankly, Pete, you’ve shown me bugger all: no guts, no drive. I’m going to start you on the fourth team. It’s just a warm-up game, but you need to pull up your socks and show me something before the league games start. Otherwise, you’ll be in fourths all year. Am I making myself clear?” Pete’s gaze was transfixed by the shadow cast over his coach’s face. He could see himself walking away from the tour bus, down a long, tree-lined street, at the end of which he turned right and skyscrapers emerged out of the red dust like anthills. He kept walking, down a deserted street, up to one of the anthill skyscrapers. He opened the door and the cool rush of air-conditioning flowed over him and then he disappeared, forever ...
“Pete, am I making myself clear?” Mr Le Roux seemed annoyed, but also too bored with the conversation to commit to any emotion.
“Uh-huh. As clear as a mountain stream,” Pete mumbled.
“You call me sir or Mr Le Roux, and you don’t ‘uh-huh’ me.” He was now fully committed to an emotion: he was livid. Pete smiled. Those words, or perhaps the tone of Mr Le Roux’s voice, reminded him of that night, of Petrus, and how he had discovered a part of himself for the first time.
“If you laugh at me, you’re out of fourths; hell, you’ll never play for any team in this school again!” Mr Le Roux’s voice broke and he pulled his cap up so that it resembled a sinking ship on his head.
“I apologise, Mr Le Roux, sir.” Pete’s smile pounded against his mouth like a mosquito bite begging to be scratched. He had to bite hard on his bottom lip. Mr Le Roux waved him away and stormed off. Pete chuckled for a moment and thought about this man who had just lost his cool and thought about himself. He was Mr Le Roux. He must have looked like a total idiot, just short of loony, when he’d acted like that two months ago. His smile faded and he stared at the grass. A sadness consumed him, out of nowhere; it had no face, no voice, but it was loud and urgent, and there was nowhere to run.
The sports bus’s hooter yelped in the distance. He dragged his sadness and sports bag up the embankment, through the bus door, past the impatient driver, past Barend, who would be playing without him for the third team next week, right to the back, where he sat alone on the broken bench. Just him and the churning sinkhole inside him.