Read Online The Book of Fame by Lloyd Jones - Free Book Online Page B

his work when he’s hit by a late charge—his legs fly up and the frozen ground receives his head. Shadows and shapes of all kinds drift in and out of Billy’s brain. As he comes to, the first words he hears are, ‘You all right, Bill?’ ‘Jesus no, I’m not,’ he says. Helped into a sitting position he rubs his eyes and sees O’Sullivan and Gallaher in a heated exchange with one of the Scottish forwards.
    Our reply came with Seeling taking a long throw to the lineout and charging upfield. In the tackle he places the ball for Glasgow to kick past Scoullar, the Scottish fullback; Scoullar has to turn and run back and Frank wins the race to fall on the ball over the line.
    We were keen to build on that score, but the icy ground took away our feet. We couldn’t feel the turf. We couldn’t prop without our feet sliding out from under.
    Instead, we did it by numbers. From a scrum near halfway Fred threw a cut-out pass to Jimmy Hunter. Thereafter it was just a matter ofprocedure—drawing and passing, Jimmy to Bob Deans with Smithy’s finish in the corner.
    Our 6–4 lead ended following a stupid mistake. A ball from a lineout on our line went loose. Two of our players diving for it contrived to knock each other clear and a Scottish forward fell on the ball.
    The Scots went to the break up 7–6 and this was another new experience for us. Behind at half-time!
    The Scots sniffed possibility. The crowd too. They forgot it was freezing. You saw them smiling past their red, dripping noses. The crowd was roped off but the Scots officials marched up and down the sideline shouting encouragement to their boys.
    The loose cannon who flattened Billy banged up our forwards as they leapt for lineout ball, but if we retaliated the crowd hooted. Nothing was going our way. The Scots defence got in the way of our back play. We could hear our boys in the stand yelling out to us—‘Ten minutes! Ten minutes to go! Open it up!’
    Four minutes to go we put down a scrum on halfway, fifteen in from the sideline. McDonald and Glasgow won us a clean heel. The Scottish halves, as they had done all game, rushed Fred and Billy Stead. This time Fred threw a lovely dummy and went alone. On an angling run he finds Bob Deans who draws and passes to George Smith, and with soaring hearts and grinfuls of pride we watched George cut infield and swerve out again leaving the last Scotsman on one knee, his hands spread over the cut-up turf. Downfield George carefully placed the ball between the uprights. My God! It was a beautiful sight.
    In the stand the medical students were on their feet and yelling. Between the shouts we heard the creeping silence of the Scots.
    We carried little George back to halfway on our shoulders.
    On the stroke of full-time we picked up bonus points after Cunningham fell on a loose ball over the Scots line, and that was more or less it. Heartbreak at one end of the field. Joy at the other.
    In the changing shed Frank Glasgow let the air out of the ball; he’d folded up the leather and packed it away with his kit when a Scots official arrived to demand the ball back. It was our custom for the man who last touched the ball to keep it. We explained this to the official. Gallaher waded into the debate. ‘Hold on,’ he said. ‘There seems to be some confusion here.’ To the Scots official he said, ‘We are the guests here. At least, I think I’m right in saying that.’ And he looked around for support. ‘Boys? Am I right?’ ‘We are the visitors,’ someone said. ‘But in Scotland it doesn’t necessarily mean you are also guests.’ The Scots official closed his eyes. Two heavy lines appeared where his eyes and mouth had been. In the end, Frank said, ‘To hell with it’, and threw him the piece of leather. We told him, ‘This would never happen at home. I can tell you, mate!’
    We dined alone that night.
    Sunday. We woke to a skin of ice on the windows and turned over in our beds and went back to sleep. Our feet were