Tillman had character; we were a rag tag group of misfit kids hell bent on winning

I woke up to find the dentist, Dr. Grant, on top of me, straddling my hip area with his knees and pulling my wisdom teeth with what looked like a pair of pliers. He was using all the power he had.

Personally, I didn’t have time for this; I had a high school rugby game to play. This was Grade 12. During Grade 11, our team of 18 kids had exactly zero minutes of rugby experience. We came from different sports and the streets. Misfits, to be sure. We ended the season 1-10.

This year, we were 2-1 after three matches and were brimming with confidence. It helped that we dropped a division and, of course, had a year of experience under our belt.

Anyway, Dr. Grant struggled, breathing heavily, grimacing. He reminded me of Dirty Harry with a pistol: “You’ve got to ask yourself one question: ‘Do I feel lucky?’ Well, do ya, punk?” That’s the look that was on his face, inches from mine.

About three hours into the ordeal, he finally finished pulling the four wisdom teeth.

I was left for a few minutes alone in the chair, face full of gauze, staring at the ceiling; numb from the brain down to the chin.

After what seemed an eternity, the nurse returned. She proceeded to sit me down in a chair in the waiting room. She asked me to stay for 30 minutes, so she could assess me to see if I would be fit to leave.

As soon as she turned the corner, I fled and staggered back to school. When I got there, I changed into my rugby kit and headed down to the pitch.

“Kelsall, what’s with all the blood?”

“Wizz numb theeth pooled by dennish.”

“Dennis who?”

I made hand motions to indicate dentist, but there are no universal hand movements for dentist, unless you know sign language, which I do not. Nor does Jake, so even if I had known to sign, it would have been a mute point.

So, Jake thought I was hand-signalling that someone used a knife on me.

“Where did this happen to you?”

“Dennish off us.”

“I’m calling the police, and I do not think you should play.”

“No!”

I waved him off and began warming up. Damn, I felt good as the anesthesia continued its magic.

The first tackle I made was not so much a tackle, but a flying horizontal human bar. I ran at a line of guys moving the ball to the outside while they ran at us, three of them. Sideways, I helicoptered, taking out the trio.

Pretty good for a 135-pound winger.

Blood everywhere.

“Kelsall, I am taking you out of the game; you need first aid,” said our coach, Tillman, the national coach, who happened to be rather big and nuggety and full of character.

I reluctantly left the pitch. We won by a single try.

Next practice was on Wednesday after school. As I made my way to the pitch, I could hear the hooting and hollering growing louder.

Tillman did not use a whistle to stop plays we ran in practice; he hooted. We laughed every time. “HOOOOT.”

At the end of practice, whoever was caught dogging it would receive the rugby ball and would be placed at center. The team would be on the touchline. When Tillman yelled, “HOOOOT,” the team would chase the ball carrier and tackle him. After the first practice, we found out that no one was going to dog it again. But Tillman still had to pick a player to make his point.

Dan Schein received the ball. He was 5’8” and approximately 250 pounds. Strong like bull, smart like tractor. We had some fast people on the team, including me. He flew. When he got to the soccer goal, he leapt, grabbed the crossbar while in full flight, and flung himself over the top like a gymnast. He found himself sitting on the crossbar, right in the middle. It sagged. We stood there as a team looking up and watching the bar bend, bend some more, creak, crack, and finally snap, and down came Schein. He landed on the turf with the crossbar embedded deep in the crack of his cheeks.

Three days later, the stitches held and I hadn’t bled since the game. I went back to practice. The broken crossbar stood as a stark reminder of the consequences of dogging it in practice.

After the next practice, Murray Chang received the ball. It was barely perceptible to the human eye, but someone had to be chosen, and Chang was it. This guy was not fast, but he was today. To center, he went with the ball, and before Tillman fully elicited his loud hoot, Chang was off at what appeared to be a Ben Johnson-level full-out sprint.

Lance Wilson, we all knew, was high as a kite. He was also on the spectrum, and when Wilson was given a task, he locked onto it with extraordinary focus and determination. This was where Wilson was at his most useful. He was a task fulfillment engineer. As we had experienced much difficulty catching Chang, Wilson, in great desperation, dove through the air like Superman, caught hold of Chang’s shorts, and hung on for dear life.

The shorts tore off Chang’s body. He was now running in just a jockstrap, his bare bum on display. As he sprinted, the left foot went up, the left cheek went up; right foot up, right cheek up. Rinse and repeat. This was mesmerizing for Wilson. The cheeks were hairless, and to Wilson, they were like two babies fighting under a blanket.

For Wilson, the missing shorts were not his focus. He had a task.

Chang was desperate that under no circumcisions was he going to allow himself to get caught; Wilson was focused. Soon, Wilson was pursuing Chang down Grant Street, who had a look of horror on his face, hair streaming back, teeth bared, yelling loudly, “Call Wilson off, call Wilson off.”

Wilson, in full flight, removed a shoe and swung it at Chang with force. And then he took off the other shoe and hit Chang again.

Wilson didn’t seem to notice that he had lost his shoes. He had a task.

By this time, Tillman was running hard across the parking lot. “Chang, RUN BACK TO THE FIELD; THE TEAM WILL INTERCEPT HIM,” yelled Tillman.

Chang followed the instructions, ran straight back to the field, with shoeless Wilson in full flight, very focused. No one helped. Chang went flying by with Wilson in hot pursuit.

Chang turned to look back and ran directly into one of the two freestanding posts that had been the soccer goal. He bounced off it, hard. Dropped to the grass and lay there holding onto the ball, blood coming out of his nose. Wilson stood over him as the post fell, first in slow motion, then, suddenly fast, it bonked Wilson on the head, knocking him out.

The two, Wilson and Chang, lay there, beside each other.

Sixteen of us stood laughing to tears. Schein announced, “I’d rather have a crossbar up my ass than lay there knocked out with my jock on display.”

The howling continued. We laughed so hard we cried.

My wisdom teeth sutures ruptured, and blood crept down my chin.

I didn’t care. Next week, I was scheduled to have a root canal.

I did. I bled. We won.