Wednesday morning after assembly everyone dispersed to their classes. Klayton ran up to Pete and shoulder-charged him off the footpath and mouthed something about rock spiders, which was followed by a cry of laughter from his friends.
Pete didn’t react. He just stepped back on the footpath and continued walking. His mind was still caught up with the events of the day before. First Mr Le Roux had told him not to go to rugby practice, and then, to top it all, he went for a run and Petrus wasn’t there, again.
“Someone ought to hoist that guy up the flagpole by his balls,” Barend said.
“Now that would be something to write home about,” Pete said.
Barend let out a wheezy whistle and clicked his tongue. “Speaking of writing home about something. I haven’t even told you about yesterday’s practice. It was bonkers, china.” Barend’s eyes were as round as the full moon.
“Yeah?” Pete asked.
“We were doing laps and the first team had a contact session. Next thing we heard this sickening crash – bang – followed by some shouting. We ran back and all the first-team guys were huddled in a circle. Coach was shouting at a few guys to get the first-aid kit. We couldn’t see what was going on at first, but it turned out Gareth and John-John both went for a loose ball and had a head-on-head collision. Some of the guys said John-John was lights-out for a few minutes.”
“Bloody hell,” Pete murmured.
“Yes, can you believe it? In one dopey moment, both first-team centres got themselves a date with the school nurse. Looks like they lost their heads,” Barend laughed heartily at his joke, but Pete could only shake his head.
“Will they be able to play Saturday?” Pete asked after Barend’s laughter subsided.
“Dunno. I think they went to the hospital last night to check for concussion.”
“Wow,” Pete muttered.
Pete’s imagination ran riot during his maths and geography classes. He imagined being called up to the first team, the tries he would score, the white first-team scarf draped around his neck. But by the time he walked into his biology class, he had reminded himself that he was not even playing for the fourth team any more, thanks to Mr Le Roux’s tantrum. But it would have been something amazing, he thought, as he watched Renate’s blonde hair, like a golden veil, floating past the classroom window. It could have given him a chance, however minuscule. A chance is a chance.
During breaktime, Pete and Barend sat on their favourite tree stump, as usual, immersed in their peanut-butter and syrup sandwiches. They didn’t really talk, except for the odd comment about how stupid maths was and discussing the practicalities of hoisting Klayton up the flagpole by his balls. Around them some kids basked in the autumn sun, others exchanged sandwiches from their lunchboxes, a few spent their pocket money in the tuck shop, and couples tried to sit close enough to one another so that the teachers and prefects couldn’t see they were holding hands: strictly forbidden on school grounds, and anywhere else when in school uniform.
Mr Theunissen appeared near the hall and walked in their direction. They watched him as he snaked through the breaktime crowd, ignoring every single greeting that came his way. He headed straight for them. Pete turned to Barend, who just shrugged his shoulders and pursed his lips.
“Pete, Barend, good, you’re both here,” Mr Theunissen said.
“Morning, sir,” they said as one.
“Barend, Vleis has been struggling with his hamstring since Saturday. Yesterday he could hardly train. He needs a week or so to rest, to give his hammy time to recover. So, tomorrow, you are practising with the first team. As long as you don’t get up to something stupid and get yourself injured, you’ll start on Saturday.” Barend’s face lit up, his cheeks like glowing pink tomatoes.
“I won’t let you down, sir, I promise, I will—” Barend started.
“You’ll only get one chance so, no, you won’t let me down,” Mr Theunissen interjected.
“Pete, you probably heard about the unfortunate incident yesterday?” Mr Theunissen continued without drawing breath. Pete wanted to answer, but the coach’s eyes told him not to dare.
“It places me in a predicament. Saturday is derby day. We haven’t lost to Sarel Cilliers in five years, and we are not about to break that run. They have some good players this year, some have played Craven Week, but we cannot and will not lose to that bunch of spanner swingers,” Mr Theunissen spoke through clenched teeth and did not attempt eye contact.
“I’m going to have to do something I really didn’t want to.” He closed his eyes and tilted his head skywards.
“I’m pulling you in. Come to first-team practice with Barend tomorrow. But you leave your cockiness at home, you hear me? By some miracle, I have to build a Rolls-Royce with tractor parts. Stupid kids. Concussion, pfff,” he grumbled and walked off, not looking back, not greeting anyone until he turned towards the office block and disappeared out of sight.
Pete and Barend stared at each other, speechless. The bell rang, but they remained seated as if glued to their stump. It was only when a prefect whistled at them that they snapped out of their trance. They walked to Afrikaans class, wondering if they dared to believe that their time had finally come.