The Ashton Road Gang Chapter 2 February. part 2

The school's star player was being made to look stupid and the team was losing to a bunch of no-hopers who only did games because they were not given the choice of doing something else.

When Finnegan arrived, scraping mud out of his eyes and mouth, Mr. Peach said to him. "If you don't buck your ideas up, my lad, you will be out of the team."

The game went on. Neither the ball, nor anyone needing tackling came anywhere near me. Mr. Peach moved me to the back of the scrum so Finnegan could not get at me then either. I began to enjoy watching the game from the protection of Mr. Peach's side. He did not seem too happy about my following him. I could put up with him glowering at me.

The School team were getting worse. It did not seem to matter what they did, they could not score. The harder they tried the worse they got, the worse they got the angrier Mr. Peach became.

Then I made a foolish mistake. One of the school team took the ball, saw a gap in our defence and hared through it. He did not see me hiding behind the bulk of the teacher. Forgetting everything in the excitement of the game, I tackled him. The tackle was straight out of the coaching manual. He went down like a lead balloon.

Mr. Peach stopped the game. He looked at me with an odd expression and announced that the Rest had beaten the School Team by two tries to nil. We gave ourselves cheer. Mr. Peach stopped the cheering with a stern look.

"Since the School team appear to have forgotten everything which I have spent the last three years teaching them about Rugby," he snarled. We sniggered. He frowned. We stopped. "And since the rest of you have never even bother to try to learn them." We muttered. He frowned. We stopped. "We will spend the rest of the session practising the basics." We groaned. Mr. Peach smiled.

"And since the only decent run and the only decent tackle came from you," he pointed at me.

I would have bowed if he had not been in such a foul mood.

"You can show everybody else how to do it."

Terrifying thoughts began to creep into my brain.

"The school team can practise taking the ball on the run and how to be tackled," finished Mr. Peach. He made the School team line up opposite me. When he shouted, they had to catch the ball from his pass and charge at me, one at a time. In the normal run of things, I could have done that all day. The one thing I could do in Rugby was tackle.

The first person to be called was, naturally, Finnegan. I had to decide whether I was more afraid of him or the teacher. To judge by the way Mr Peach's moustache was bristling, he was very angry indeed. I felt like one of those Roman gladiators. "We who are about to die salute you." Let's face it you can only die once, but I had another year and a half to suffer from Mr. Peach. I prepared to die.

Finnegan took the ball and charged as if he was in an Olympic 100 metres Sprint final. There was going to be no fancy dodging or weaving for him. This was his chance to go straight through me and out the other side. The expression on his face was one of indescribable viciousness. Behind me I heard the watching boys take a deep breath, anticipating the body breaking crunch. My body that is.

I concentrated, going quickly through what I had been taught about tackling. It is amazing how many thoughts can flick through your mind in a short time. The tackle was perfect, head well out of the way, shoulder driving into the attacker's midriff, allowing his weight and speed to take him down. In his desire to trample me into the mud Finnegan must have forgotten everything he knew about being tackled. When I stood up to a cheer from my team Finnegan stayed where he was in an untidy heap. He had landed on the ball and winded himself.

Mr. Peach said, "Well done," to me and sounded as if he meant it

By the time he had recovered the School team were practising tackling. This was quite enjoyable. Nobody was trying to hurt anybody. Finnegan tackled the first lad who ran at him, gingerly, but hard and fair. Then it was my turn. Mr. Peach shouted "Run!" Finnegan crouched down ten yards away. But, instead of glaring at me as he had done all day, his eyes kept shifting left and right as if he was seeking a means of escape. A wonderful, glorious happy though leapt into my brain, he was afraid of me. I had won.

The ton of lead in my stomach instantly evaporated. My step lightened. A second later I crashed into him. It was not deliberate. To some extent it was his own fault. My left knee connected with his right eye.

The rest of the lesson passed in a daze as did the bus ride back to school and the walk home. Stew was waiting for me. I told him what had happened. We laughed so much that my father came out to see what was the matter. I explained it all to him.

Next morning I strutted into school Finnegan was stood on his own. I went over to him. His right eye was blackened and half closed. I looked at him. He looked at the ground. "I heard you were after me," I said. "Well, here I am".

My father had told me it was better to face Finnegan and get it over with. I was not feeling as brave as I sounded, but Dad said that I had to talk big so I was.

"Look 'ere, you," said Finnegan.

"I'm looking" I forced myself to speak calmly and sound confident.

Finnegan went on, still looking down. "You keep out of my way and I'll keep out of yours."

"That's all right by me," I told him.

"Good!" said Finnegan

We never ever spoke to each other again.