RUGBY BOYS FILL the hotel room, laughing and clutching their half-finished beers. Hey, boys: shut up, will ya? Chopper’s lying on one of the hotel beds, no shirt on, under the clean white sheets, and he squints at me. What’s he doing here? It’s all right, Justis tells him. That’s Fraiman, he’s writing something for the Watch. We don’t have to keep anything from him. Over by the corner of the room, Willy leans on a desk and starts to talk, so everyone quiets down.
It’s been proposed that we throw tonight’s game, he says.
“The team is mostly rookies now—small-framed kids with guts but no experience. When you see them together, you get the sense that they’ll make a strong team one day, cohesive and well-trained; but now, they just seem young. When we get out of the van and walk towards the Sevens barn, a few of them run ahead; Justis stays behind, walking at his own pace. He’s been team captain since his second year, a title he can boast for only a few more weeks. “Sometimes this makes me feel old,” he mutters, and we enter the barn.”
My (presumably) last feature for the Watch. I’m pretty proud of the narrative style of this one, though the formatting on the website is absolutely incorrect. I don’t expect anyone who reads this blog is too picky, though. Or existent.