Digging

Second session today. Boxing, shoulder-charging, wrestling, sprinting, interval running, ball games. I was just as tired today as I was on Tuesday, but I could feel my lungs recover a slight bit quicker, like the air was better or something. It gives you a little encouragement. Practice was a bit more personal today, as only 20-something showed up due to, get this, other rugby commitments. What's encouraging is that I am officially now faster and fitter than the props and locks, which is only a slight breath of fresh air, since they weigh between 230-260 pounds from the look of it.
Conditioning was about 70 minutes straight away. My training partner was Sammy for the first bit, and Seymour for the second half. Sammy likes to grin so wide his face looks like a mess of white tiles, and laugh and tell you how bad it's possible that he smells today. He's so quick I can't catch him, and in one of the ball games I have to ditch the idea of intercepting his pass and instead give it my best Shaq smack, like "Get out my house!" Warming up was fun, because we did wrestling to get shoulders loose and I was able to toy with the bigger guys by getting out of their grip and putting myself at odd balances. Not the point of the drill, but I'll take it where I can get it, eh? Boxing with Seymour was exhausting. You think you're getting rest while he's hitting, but you're not, and as soon as he's done with his minute you run shuttles. Repeat that but with shoulder charges. Repeat four more times, shuttles and all. Then switch positions and do the whole damn thing over. My mind is going again... gone.
It gets really personal when you start digging. If nobody pushes you, you'll slack. The only way to motivate someone you don't know is to talk to them anyway. "Good shit, mate, more power" he says. "Hit me, motherfucker," I say. Seymour responds to that and his punches are harder. His face is wild now, tongue hanging out of what would be a smile if he wasn't breathing so hard. The skin around his eyes is pulled back like a ghoul. It's the kind of look you get when you truly hit the wall and realize to your amazement that you're still moving, that you can work beyond the wall. He's laying into me now, even though his knuckles were bleeding half an hour ago, and after every achievement he makes I run congratulatory suicides. Watching a man dig deep is only this twisted and satisfying when you're digging with him.
I see Scott and tell him that I need to learn some things that the other kids seem to know instinctively. He says "Yeah, mate. Call the office next week, and you come in here a half hour a day and we'll talk about life. How's that sound?" It sounds pretty good. I am so tired this evening that I talk to Jason the trainer about meeting in 5 minutes to work out a weightlifting program for my off days, and then I immediately leave the club. On my way home, the same guy in the car drives past me and blows his valve off. "WHISH." I remember the crew of islander street boys that tried to get my attention on the walk to practice. "Yo, what's up?! Hey! What's up?!" The Linwood neighborhood has self-esteem problems. I get picked up by Nile, another player I met today. He drives me the next two blocks to my house. It's the thought that counts. I made a friend for every blister on my feet today.