‘British and Irish rugby legend,’ I write.
‘That’s a bit big-headed,’ says Dad when he sees it.
I shrug. ‘It’s true, though.’
Mr Morris nods when I tell him what I wrote. ‘Aim for the stars, lad,’ he says. ‘If you fail, you’ll still reach the sky.’
I win player of the year for Cardiff Schools Under-15s. I smile sweetly when I go up to accept the award and shake the hand of the guy presenting me with the award, but inside I’m seething.
Sure, I’ve won it this year, but the previous year I was on the bench all season and only played 17 minutes. I’d been a regular starter for the three years before that, and I was playing as well as anyone for Whitchurch, so why the difference?
Because the coach was getting free golf lessons off the number 7’s dad, that’s why.
To start with, I know her only as the badminton girl.
I hardly ever see her around. The school’s so huge – 12 classes in each year – that it’s split across two sites, and she’s usually on the other site from me. All I know is that she plays badminton at age group for Wales, and she looks really nice.
In year 10 we get to be in a maths class together. Friday afternoon, really bored, I’m sitting with my mates at the back, and we do what boys have done in mixed classes since pretty much the dawn of time: we start rating the girls out of ten. When it comes to Rachel Thomas, I go, ‘Oh, four,’ just so no one thinks I’m too keen. But inside I’m thinking, She looks really nice. Not just attractive, though of course she is – brown hair, big eyes, wide smile – but a really nice person too.
One of my mates adds her to my list on MSN Messenger, and we start chatting. Two years of messaging before we meet in person! Even though – and this is the really insane bit – all the time she lives four doors down from me, and neither of us ever know. We don’t even bump into each other on the street when going to and from school. She tells me all about her family, which is tight and close like mine: she has two sisters, her parents are always loving and loyal, they’ve got the same values I’ve been brought up with.
And just as I’ve never had a girlfriend, she’s never had a boyfriend. I ask her if we can meet up – anywhere you like, I say, even if it’s just for five minutes outside your house with a bag of sweets. She’s wary. She knows I play rugby, and she knows what kind of reputation the rugby boys have – girls and drinking and bad behaviour. I’m not like that, I say, but of course that’s just the kind of thing someone who was like that would say. No point in saying it. I have to show her. Once she gets to know me, she’ll see I’m really not like all the other rugby guys.
Christmas. The Lions are due to tour New Zealand next year. My folks give me a Lions jersey with 7 on the back: a real 7, with the Lions logo at the bottom. I wear this shirt everywhere, absolutely everywhere. I wear it to the gym, and out running, and in the school library when it’s a non-uniform day, and when sitting at home. Sometimes I even let Mum wash it.
2005. Rugby players have a bit of an image as thick louts, and I’m determined to be neither. I’m in the top third of my classes; not super-intelligent by any means, but better than average. Only two teachers reckon I won’t do well in my GCSEs. My biology teacher predicts a D, my RE teacher says E. No way, I tell them both. I’ll get an A. I might not be able to work everything out for myself from scratch, but I’m good at parrot learning, and if that’s what it takes then that’s what it takes. You can argue that the exam system is wrong and that it doesn’t take into account things that it should do, but it’s like wanting to play rugby at 7 – don’t bitch about it, just get on with it.
Prove the doubters wrong. It’s the easiest way of making me do something, to tell me that I won’t.
I get A’s in both RE and biology, just like I said I would. The RE teacher runs up to me and hugs me, thrilled that I’ve proved her wrong.
The biology teacher doesn’t say a word.
The prom, end of year 11. Rach is there. I’m more nervous than I’ve ever been before a rugby match. Do it, I say to myself. Talk to her. She’s right here. It’s now or never.
So I do. We sit on a bench and chat. It’s the happiest day of my life, honestly it is.
And that’s it. From that moment onwards, I’ve got no interest in any other girl. I know she’s the one for me. She’s the one I’m going to marry.
When you know, you know. And I know.
July. I immerse myself in the Lions tour to New Zealand, getting up at stupid o’clock to watch some of the games. Martyn Williams is my hero, and I’m so thrilled when he makes it onto the pitch as a replacement in the third Test, even though both the match and the series are long gone by then. I’m also transfixed by the way Marty Holah at 7 plays for the Maori All Blacks when they beat the Lions before the Test series begins.
The next time my beloved Lions shirt comes back from the wash, I fold it neatly and put it in the bottom of a drawer.
‘What’s up?’ Mum says. ‘Don’t you like wearing it anymore?’
‘Next time I wear that top,’ I reply, ‘it’s going to be the real thing.’
Rach and I start going out. I’m lovesick, quite literally; every time I see her, I’m so nervous that I throw up beforehand. I’ve only ever been sick before a match once, and even that was just reflex from a cough I had, but with Rachel it happens every time. ‘I’m not sure this is normal,’ Mum says. Maybe not, I think, but Kyle in South Park used to get sick like this too whenever he met a girl, so at least I’ve got company (even if that company is a cartoon character).
Sometimes it even happens when I’m with Rachel, in the car for example. ‘Rach, can you pull over? I just – there’s something I need to get behind that post-box.’ And then I’m out of the car and chucking my guts up behind the post-box, as if it’s two in the morning and I’ve had a skinful.
If I haven’t learned the lesson from last year’s case of free golf tuition, I do this time round. I’m playing two years up by now, and we go to face Glantaf. Last time we played them my opposite number started strangling me, and when I fought back he bit my finger. At the next kick-off, I told the fly-half to put it on him, and when he caught it I forearmed him in the face as hard as I could. He never came back at me for the rest of the game.
So there’s a bit of history here. I’m thinking about this and looking to see whether this bloke’s going to be playing again today, so when I see a Cardiff Blues car parked near the pitch I don’t take much notice. I assume they’re there to watch one of the Glantaf boys, a big, hard-running back called Jamie Roberts.
Turns out they know all about Jamie, and it’s me they’ve come to watch.
I do well at a Cardiff Blues academy training session and get taken on there. They pay me £50 a month, which for a teenage boy is the dog’s bollocks. No paper round, protein shakes whenever I want, travel expenses too. Happy days.
Not quite. The coach is really down on me, giving me three or four out of 10 when I know I’ve played much better than that. Not just one game or two, but every single time. Maybe he’s trying to motivate me, but if so there are better ways of going about it. I’m not a professional player, not yet. I’m a schoolboy who like all teenagers keeps a lot of insecurities tucked away behind the façade. Am I good enough? Am I tough enough? Am I wasting my time here?
Just as bad, he keeps putting me in the second row. I’m not a second row. I’m a 7. That’s where I play, that’s where I’m best.
One night, after another three out of 10 in the second row, I come home in tears. I go straight to the multigym and smash out