Rugby League

"'Bout fuckin' time lad! Dave bellowed over the car park, making an exaggerated scrutiny of his stop watch.

"Thy should've been here half hour since, instead of greeding for overtime. I thought tha weren't coming!'"

"Well I don't come here for the rugby, just thy pretty face!" I threw back at him.

I grinned, yielding a deep chuckle from the coach. I'd always got on well with Dave, mainly as I was, allegedly, one of his most promising players and probably because he'd once been a staff sergeant in the same Signals regiment as my uncle. I'd certainly cheered him with a good start to the year, with a try the last weekend and two the week before, and I was I set on maintaining my four point average as a personal goal for the year.

Dave had another look at his stopwatch and made an emphasised sigh and looked my overalls up and down with a comical shake of his head in mock despair, which made me smile. You could always have a bit of a laugh and a carry on with Dave, but when it came to the rugby, he was completely serious, and had an admirable, determined manner of coaxing the best out of us, developing our skills, and getting the team working together. If he couldn't push us to victory, he'd still make damned sure that we still made a bloody good attempt. There was definitely no room for slackers on his squad.

Dave used his elbows to push himself off the wall he'd been leaning against, the movement creating an interesting shifting of his large bollocks in his grey sweat pants. Dave was pretty well hung, which I knew from subtle observations in the changing rooms and showers, and I loved watching the way his hefty crotch shifted about at the front of his sweat pants, the loose fit emphasising the bulge between his legs as his big pair of balls and thick cock shifted about in the jockstrap I knew he'd be wearing underneath. I idly wondered what he'd look like with a hard on.

I gave Dave a grin, and took my eyes away from his crotch before he noticed. He fixed me with a mockingly stern stare:

"Well don't be pissin' about out here you great fuckin' grease monkey, get thysen in, get kitted up, and we'll go over how we'll play this one. They're still waiting for their new props to get here, so we've a bit of time yet, mister come fuckin' lately!"

Dave seemed less full of perky enthusiasm than usual before a game, which almost chewed at my confidence slightly. I hoped the rest of the team hadn't picked up on it. I stayed where I was when I saw Dave looking funny over to the car park entrance.

"Ay up." muttered Dave solemnly, nodding his head in a stern address to our opponents coach, George Williams, who'd just arrived, in his flash as fuck, white Vauxhall Carlton GSi 3000. It was a "J" plate, brand new at the time and I disliked him already. Great motor. 3 litre six, and fast as fuck. Nothing as sad as envy. Williams climbed out. He always looked the same, a right little beady eyed weasel harrying his team about like a fucking ferret on acid, and was supposedly rather matey with more than one referee, which had seen a fair few penalties go in his team's favour in the past.

I felt a sharp nudge in my ribs from the coach, and Dave nodded causally in the direction of one of the last of the other teams to head in to change, who I clocked as the new winger. I recognised him from a few match shots in the sports pages at the back of the local paper. John Edwards I recalled. First made a name for himself in our opponents under 21's squad and by all accounts would shape up into a good adult player in his first year with the big boys. He'd knocked up 5 tries over their first three games, and still only 22. I had some serious competition to face this year. Fast like a fox and with unbelievable stamina and reserves he was going to give us plenty of focus for the defensive play.

"We'll be watchin' him, the little cunt, and I hope 'e fuckin' knows it." Dave grumbled.

"He's nearly as a good as thee lad!" Dave warned me.

"Fuck off Dave! There's no cunt as good me!" I told him, joking of course. I'm not that immodest.

Dave paused to grind out his cigarette under his trainer, the movement of his leg creating another set of interesting bouncing about of the bulge at his groin. Smoke finished, Dave gave me an open handed slap on my arse that nearly knocked me over, followed with a firm friendly squeeze of the right cheek of my backside.

"Right, fuck off in and I'll see you in there." Dave ordered, and stomped off into the changing rooms to prepare his troops for battle. I was just about to do as told and follow him in, when the last of our opponents finally turned up.

With a belch of smoky exhaust and the loud rattle of a poorly tuned 2.5 litre diesel engine, the clattering of which told me a tale of bad valve clearances, a filthy, rust dappled and cement spattered flatbed Transit van lurched into the car park. It halted smack in the middle of the Tarmac, with a scrape of loose shovels and unsecured masonry in the flatbed shifting about, nearly grazing the wing of Dave's red Ford Sierra estate. The Transit's dashboard was pretty typical for a builder's van, littered with tatty copies of the Daily Star, a dog eared Penthouse, Lambert and Butler cartons, Bic biros, duct tape, a couple of well battered dirty yellow hard hats and a chipped coffee mug. It was a miracle anyone could see out of the windscreen. I noticed the tax disc was out of date. I saw a hastily scribbled semi literate note covered in grubby fingerprints announcing 'In the Post' underneath. I recognised the name of the general builders & roofers on the side of the Transit's door: A small local construction firm of the variety you need spurs on your boots to work for.

The cogs in my head had a quick when I recognised the firms' name, and I racked my brain cells to work out why it was so familiar. Then I groaned inwardly when I put two and two together, from a bit of local and historical knowledge and instantly realised that this would be our opponents' new prop forwards. I groaned doubly because I'd suddenly realised exactly who they were: Darren and Trevor, otherwise known unimaginatively as Daz and Trev, a couple of semi local general builders in their thirties, though with mental ages still in the teens. Daz and Trev came with long reputations for being hot heads on the field and even longer reputations and petty criminal records off the field. You could always guarantee where there was trouble in the town, they would probably be involved, and where you found one, you would always find the other.

The two partners in crime were probably responsible for a good part of the fly tipping in every country lane within 20 miles, and it wasn't their only indiscrimination in tipping their loads. A couple of weeks before, Daz had got himself barred from yet another local pub after the landlord allegedly found him getting a blow job off some young lass in the tap room, presumably while Trev waited his turn. At least it had ended without a fight kicking off, the police getting called out and yet another assault conviction for the motley pair. Daz and Trev were notorious for kicking off, on the field and off it, fist first and brain later and just about every pub brawl locally would see one of those two involved if not directly responsible. If it wasn't for the amount of ale I'd seen them consume every Friday and Saturday night, they'd be have been the bane of every land lord within a twenty mile radius. The last time I'd seen Trev off the field had been on a Saturday night in Wakefield, after a few of my squad mates had been out for a good nights drinking up Westgate and I'd seen him around midnight, after his evening's drinking and fighting, kicking off outside Rooftop Gardens and getting manhandled into the back of a black maria, handcuffed and struggling. It had taken 4 coppers to achieve it and the police were getting a proper lamping.

Although it would be fair to say Daz and Trev were a couple of big, thick, rough as fuck, drunken louts, they had the one redeeming feature of being fucking good rugby league players. They were a good 10 years older than me, with one hell of a lot more experience on the field. They were going to be formidable in the opposition pack. They were both incredibly big, strong, well built blokes, and they predictably excelled as prop forwards, with plenty of power and weight to push into the opposition, and if they worked as pair, had the combined size and stamina to smash a path through just about any likely opposition for the best of the backs and try scorers to surge through. They'd played for a few teams, including ours, though before my time. Apparently, they had never been the most reliable players, usually with one or the other of them being unable to play due to a few weeks in prison or a hangover. I'd noticed that both had been absent from the rugby scene the last year, and I could imagine a fair few dubious reasons why, but, unlucky for everyone, the two big bastards were back, and back with a vengeance.

With their frequent on field brawling, high tackling, ear biting and sly knees in the bollocks, they were often regarded as too much of a penalty liability for a team, and I was a little surprised that the ultra conservative George Williams had seen fit to try them out on his prized squad. Dave Briggs had always thought them talented, but I don't think he'd regretted their defection a couple of years back, as he could never rely on them, either to turn up, or to stay out of the sin bin for more than twenty minutes play. I knew them from experience, as I'd crunched shoulders on the field with these bastards before and had once been blood binned off due to a streaming nose as the result of one of Daz's reckless high tackles. They'd absolutely flattened me a fair few times. Pair of bastards. Calling them dirty players didn't even begin to cover it, and you really had to watch them in the rucks, being more than likely to give you kick in the balls, or stamp on your face with a studded boot if the referee or the linesmen weren't looking.

Daz was the first to noisily make his presence felt, banging open the door of the battered Transit. He shifted round in the driver's seat, lifted his broad arse up, eased his muscular legs apart and farted loudly. He had a good sniff, wiped his nose on the back of his dirty, shovel like mitt, then wiped his snotted hand on the sleeve of a grimy yellow, ripped hi-viz coat hung over the back of the driver's seat of the Transit.

"All reet lads! The fuckin' cavalry's here!" he bellowed, before squeezing his enormous scruffy frame out of the door. Trev eased his even bigger body out of the passenger seat. I was pretty fit and well built myself, but these two gorillas were absolutely enormous, truly huge men. Physically, they were from the same mould, both built like brick shite houses, hairy, 6 foot plus, 16 odd stone apiece and one hell of a lot more of it muscle than fat, thick slabs of muscle wrapping their arms and shoulders, developed by many hard hours in the local gym and their daily labouring lark. Trev had a slight beer belly straining his thick leather belt, but was even more massive in the shoulders than Daz, with thighs that could have supported an aqueduct. He had to be one of the biggest men in local rugby league, a man mountain who put the likes of Brendan Hill to mind.

Both of them had heads shaved down to the bone, Trev's a sandy brownish dirty blond, to Daz's dark blackish brown and each boasted a fair collection of scars from rugby and other 'social' events. Daz had a couple of teeth missing and a deep scar through his eyebrow, and Trev a nose that said it had been broken more than once, with a pair of nicely blooming cauliflower ears. It wasn't as if they had faces entirely like a welder's bench though. I hated to admit it, but in a rough way they certainly weren't bad looking lads. Trev's hazel eyes almost looked sensitive in contrast to the bull like build of the rest of him, and Daz showed off a gorgeous pair of brown eyes under his brow, which has always been a weakness of mine. Neither of them looked like they'd shaved for a about a week, with Daz's jaw dark with a six o clock shadow and Trev was about two days growth short of what looked like a thick, sandy, round the gob beard, that I suppose you'd call a goatee these days.

"Wahey! You bunch of wankers! 'Ope yer ready to get proper fuckin' slaughtered" goaded Daz, as unsportsmanlike and immature as possible and grinning stupidly in my direction. He vaguely recognised me from previous encounters on the rugby field, and he'd seen me at the gym occasionally. Fortunately, with my shifts, he was usually leaving as I arrived, but he'd sussed me out and given me the odd nod as a fellow rugger and a player for his old team. He was scratching at one of his well pumped up pectorals, the action pulling his dirty T shirt down to show a thick patch of glossy black hair curling over his chest. Still looking at me, his brain at last having placed me, he decided to have a dig.

"You ready for a proper game o' rugby then grease monkey? 'Bout time I bloodied yer nose again for ya!" Daz snickered, scratching his well packed crotch.

I wasn't the only one who'd been working that morning by the looks of things. Daz and Trev looked like they had come to the game straight from their latest building site, still in their work clothes, filthy cement smeared jeans and brick dust powdered T shirts full of holes, showing off their thick, muscular, liberally tattooed arms. They'd probably spent the morning making an overpriced bodged job of bricklaying some poor bastards new garage. Daz spat out a big slimy gob of saliva onto the tarmac, landing with a splat, inches from the toe cap of his muddy size twelve rigger boot, the toe cap worn right through to the steel under the tan leather. He gave his substantially bulging crotch another good scratch, his filthy jeans tight over his thick tree trunk thighs, and farted again. I could distinctly see the shape of his big plum sized bollocks between his legs, the gusset of his jeans neatly separating his hefty gonads into twin bulges.

I'd steeled myself to ignore their predictable petty jibes, but true to their Neanderthal form, they were having none of it, and kept up with their goading.

"Yer might as well give up now and go home lad, 'cos were gonna fuckin flatten yer!" Trev continued, followed up cheerfully with Daz:

"Aye, you'll be a right sorry lookin' bunch a cunts in a couple of hours mate!" Daz pushed. I rose to the bait.

"I don't need to wait a couple of hours to look at sorry cunts mate," I responded,

"I'm looking at pair of 'em now!"

Daz stopped stock still, then bristled up in hopefully feigned, exaggerated outrage and anger.

"Whaaaat!" roared Daz in mock indignation,

"I'll fuckin' flatten thee now you little fucker!"

"Come on! Let's have the cunt!" chipped in Trev, and both of them lurched from the Transit toward me, thundering like a pair of stampeding bison, a two man mountain of muscle and malevolent intent, rumbling over the car park towards me.

Before I could even blink, Daz had shouldered me painfully, spinning me round, and grabbed my left wrist with his large hand, and twisted it up behind my back, as he simultaneously hooked his big, thick, hairy forearm around my neck. I could feel the heat of his body and the firm tense muscle of his torso against me as I struggled and wriggled, but strong as I was, I couldn't break out from his incredible grip, or pull his JCB piston like arm from round my neck with my one free hand. We stood there struggling and grunting for a few moments as I inhaled the warm musky smell of his sweaty, hairy body from his morning's labouring, sharpened with a stronger, sharper odour from his damp sweaty armpits wafting up my nostrils. Even through my overalls, I could feel his belly and the underlying muscle, firm against the small of my back, and the dangerous bulge of his crotch rubbing against my arse as the coarse dark hair on his forearms tickled my chin.

"Got you now you little fucker." he grunted, his breath warm and damp in my left ear and his three day stubble scrubbing the side of my neck, as I continued wrestling with him, trying to get him off my back and slip out of the arm lock. His arm was deliberately restricting my air supply, and I was beginning to gasp for oxygen as he squeezed tighter, my vision beginning to blur as I struggled to focus on the straining muscle in his arm and the Yorkshire white rose tattooed below his elbow. Trev had caught us up and grabbed the front of my overalls. His sturdy, muscular forearms were covered in dense curly sandy hair with a thick spread of it over the back of his dirty hands, down to his impressively scarred knuckles. Trev yanked the front of my overalls upward sharply, producing the intended result of digging the gusset sharply into my testicles, which brought a sharp grunt of pain from me. I was absolutely fucking mental with outrage, still struggling against Daz's grip, desperate to get out of it and give the pair of them a good, hard, well deserved kick in the balls.

"What do we do with thee then, grease monkey?" enquired Trev, grinning evilly, as Daz kept me pinioned. He leaned close to share his unpleasant thoughts.

"I reckon we should cut yer bollocks off, stuff 'em in yer gob an make yer fuckin eat 'em before Daz rips yer fuckin' head off yer shoulders!" Trev suggested.

His hazel eyes twinkled with a spark of evil intent instead of their usual glazed stupidity at his brilliant idea.

"Nah mate, I reckon we should string this cunt up by the balls, hang him off his own goal posts for a couple hours an let him fuckin' squeal." Daz offered in his deep rumble, full of evil delight at bullying someone slightly smaller than himself.

"Great idea! String him up slowly! He'll be fuckin' beggin' by time we've got 'im up on his toes" Trev added, evidently relishing the thought, his massive hairy mitts still holding me firmly by the front of my overalls.

I kept struggling, getting nowhere, still struggling to breathe in Daz's arm lock, clamped round me like a fucking vice.

"There's some rope in't back of the wagon, that'd be perfect for stringing the cunt up!"

I could still feel Daz's wet, slimy spit hitting the side of my neck as he talked. I decided I'd had enough and tried to reach back and poke the big fucking ape in the eye. Daz pulled back when he saw my finger going for his eyeballs, and tripped up, pulling me down onto the tarmac with his massive, throttling arm still round my neck, and Trev, still gripping my overalls, ended up pulled along, falling on top of us, flattening me under his huge bulk. We landed in heap, a great, grunting, wrestling pile of straining muscles, stamping rigger boots, smelly, sweaty flesh, flailing arms, kicking feet, swearing and struggling. Winded by the colossal weight of Trev's huge body falling on me, I tried to wriggle out from between them.

"What in the name of fuck's goin on 'ere!!!!" bellowed Dave Briggs voice, peaked with rage. He'd stealthily come back outside, unobserved, to see what was holding me up and what all the noise was about and found the three of us in a messy heap in the middle of the car park.

"Save it for the fucking field girls!" he roared, livid with outrage and disgust at our unsportsmanlike behaviour.

"Now sort yourselves out, you big bunch of fucking poofs, stop mucking about and get the fuck on with yourselves!" he roared, before storming back into the home changing rooms and slamming the door.

We untangled ourselves, me fuming with rage, humiliation and a desire for revenge, which at least I could look forward to venting on the field, but Trev and Daz were creased with mirth, laughing heartily which only incensed me even more.