What Comes Home With Dad After Rugby Practice?
Brian Armer
Lucy met her dad at the front door carrying a notebook and a pencil with no eraser. “How was rugby?” she asked. Miles looked down at the mud on his cleats. “Quite muddy.” Lucy wrote something.
“Are you interviewing me?”
“Yes. Shoes off first.”
Miles left his cleats outside and went to wash and change. When he came back, Lucy had moved the interview to the living-room rug. Her stuffed rabbit occupied the chair beside her. “He’s the photographer,” she explained. Miles sat on the floor. “Excellent. I prefer his work.”
“Did you score?” Lucy asked.
“It was practice.”
“Did you score at practice?”
“No.” She looked at her notebook. “Then what happened?”
Miles thought about the new player who had dropped three passes in a row. On the fourth, he had caught the ball and looked so surprised that he nearly forgot to run. Miles had shouted his name and pointed toward the open space. The whole drill had briefly become a celebration.
“A new guy caught a good pass,” he said.
Lucy waited. “And?”
“Everyone cheered.”
“For catching?” Miles nodded. “He’d been trying for a while.” Lucy rubbed her pencil over the place where an eraser should have been. “I dropped the ball in the playground today.”
“What happened after that?”
“I said I didn’t want to play.” She looked at the rabbit rather than at Miles. He stayed on the rug beside her.
After a moment, he picked up the little cushion behind him. “May I borrow a rugby ball?” Lucy gave him a doubtful look. “That’s a cushion.”
“Budget cuts.”
He passed it gently across the rug. She caught it against her pajamas. The next one slid through her hands. She looked up quickly. Miles was reaching for the cushion. “Again?”
Lucy nodded. They passed it back and forth, the rabbit watching from his chair. Once, Miles dropped it himself. Lucy laughed so hard that her next pass went sideways and hit the sofa.
“That one doesn’t count,” she said.
“Certainly doesn’t. Terrible pitch.” She retrieved the cushion and stood a little farther away. This time she caught his pass cleanly. Miles raised both hands. Lucy tried not to smile and failed.
Later, she tore a page from her notebook and handed it to him. Under a drawing of two people and a suspiciously square rugby ball, she had written: Dad came home. We played.
“Is that the whole report?” Miles asked. Lucy leaned against his shoulder. “That’s the best bit.”
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