93. And the phone rang ... (2/3)

 All day and all night the thought haunted me. Did I have any questions? 

'Do you have any questions for this man?' I asked my son.

'No.' He answered flatly. Which, of course, set me off on a rant.

'What do you mean 'no'? You must have some questions! You should have some questions! Plenty of them! I mean it is your future and your passion we are talking about here! ... I think you could try a bit harder and think up of some sensible questions to ask.'

'Well? ... I'm waiting!'

He only looks at me, bored apparently. That does not stop me.

'Maybe you should show your motivation by asking him how you can prepare for this!'

As I am saying it, the penny drops. Hey! Here's my question! I get on the phone right away.

'Hello? Yes, ... Yes, I am calling because I do have a question.' I feel so responsible saying this that I am back on the Queen-Victoria-coming-down-the-stairs mode.

'Yes, I do have some questions.' I lie a little, hoping one question will lead to an other. My number one aim is to show I can cope with this, that, as a mother, I am involved.

The man sounds happy to answer my question. Am I the only mum with a sensible question? Or have the other mums not bothered because they can deal perfectly well with their teenage sons for six months?

'Well, yes, there are things he can do to get ready for this challenging year ... but not too much sport ... you do not want him to get injured ...'

The word 'injured' alarms me and I wonder if I will still have the courage to ask my son to peel the potatoes. 

'So just gainage.'

'Gay what?' Here we go again, I am lost! What on earth is gainage? I'm going to have to buy a notebook for new vocabulary.

'A little endurance is good also'.

I am thinking cycling into town to meet his pals for a drink on the terrasse should pass for endurance. 

This is getting too technical for me. I am beginning to lose interest here. Also I am truly worried this man is going to tell me to get up at 6, drive to a muddy sports fields somewhere and record the number of laps when something he says catches my attention.

'You know, it's not just the physical side of the preparation. ... It's just not good to think that guys playing rugby have no brains.'

'Erm, no, no, ... no, of course not.'

'Schoolwork during the holidays is essential.'

I am in a state of shock here. Did I hear him right? 

'Schoolwork is essential as he won't have much time for it. And he will get as much as everyone else. So he has to get ahead where he can, and catch up where he should.'

Quick, my note book, I want to write this down. Quick! Paper! A pen that works. I shuffle bits of paper and rummage around for a pen. 

But he goes on. I can't keep up. 

'And he needs to read too.'

Oh my word! Am I dreaming? Is this for real? I lose all self-control and, very stupidly, I ask:

'Read what? Like, books?' 

This guy can't have met my son. My son must have got a place in that school on wrong assumptions. ... Should I tell him about Gatsby?

'Yes, get him to read the classics, to boost his general knowledge. This is really important.'

By then, I have collapsed on a nearby chair. I am staring at the garden outside, my son coming out of granny's flat with a content look on his face (full stomach) and I want to cry. I want to cry onto this man's shoulder. And tell him how I suffered for six long weeks to shove The Great Gatsby down his throat. But more? More reading? More books? More culture? I do not think this is going to be possible!

I scribble on my bit of paper: read books, do holiday homework, culture. But I want to get this conversation back on track, back on the practicalities I know.

'What about matches? Do I have to drive him?'

'No, of course not. We travel on the team bus. But parents are expected to come and support their sons.'

'Oh! Ok!' I say timidly. Then I put the phone down. And armed with my bit of paper I run down the stairs shouting at my son.

'I've been on the phone to your future head coach. He's really nice. And I've got a list of things for you to do over the summer.'

My son seems keen to hear what this is all about. He comes over as I chuckle inwardly. Yes! I have this man on my side. I am looking forward to meet him and exchange about my summer reading list for young rugbymen! Maybe I could print it and pin it on the dorm room.