This Sporting Life

A Novel

David Storey

• Publisher: Open Road Media
• Year: 2015
• Print ISBN: 9781504015080
• eBook ISBN: 9781504015066
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Literature General
• Index: Literature

A rugby player finds fame and fortune in a bleak mining town, but he cannot outrun the emptiness he feels inside in Man Booker Prize–winning author David Storey's seminal first novel
On Christmas Eve, Arthur breaks his two front teeth. A teammate on the rugby pitch is too slow with a handoff, and instead of catching the ball, Art catches an opponent's foot right in the mouth. When he regains consciousness, the match is almost over, but he keeps playing regardless. Where else would he go? His entire life, Art has only cared about sports and nothing grabs his attention quite like the lightning-fast violence of Rugby League. He knows it could kill him, but it also makes him feel alive.
 
In this hard-bitten Yorkshire mining town, the warriors of the rugby pitch are treated like gods. Through the aggressive sport, Art finds money, friends, and countless women. But when his lust for violence begins to fade, will he have the courage to leave the game behind?
 

Part One

1

I had my head to Mellor’s backside, waiting for the ball to come between his legs.

He was too slow. I was moving away when the leather shot back into my hands and, before I could pass, a shoulder came up to my jaw. It rammed my teeth together with a force that stunned me to blackness.

The first thing I see is Mellor’s vaguely apologetic face alongside that of Dai—the trainer—who’s bending down with the sponge, whipping water at me.

‘Come off for a bit,’ he says. ‘You’ve cut your mouth.’

I stand up with his hands knotted in my armpits. I call Mellor a few things; the players watch unconcernedly, relieved at the interlude. I walk off with Dai shoving an ammonia phial up my nose.

I sit on the bench till he’s finished shouting some advice on to the field, then he presses his fingers round my mouth and his thumbs roll back my lips. ‘Christ, man,’ he says. ‘You’ve broke your front teeth.’

‘That’s good,’ I tell him sibilantly. ‘Blame me.’

He stares in at the damage, his eyes dodging round the end of my nose. ‘Don’t blame Mellor,’ he says. ‘Does it hurt? It looks as though you’ll need a plate.’ The reserves gather round him to peer at the scene over his shoulders.

‘How d’ I look?’

Dai’s eyes move up to mine for a second to see just how anxious I might be. ‘An old man. You don’t want to see no girls for a week.’

‘It feels numb,’ I tell him when his thumbs drop the flap down. ‘I’ll go back on in a minute.’

There’s no real need to go back. We’ve a twelve point lead over a tired side with less than ten minutes to go. The crowd have already accepted the decision, and are standing by to be entertained by incidents like mine. Perhaps it’s for that reason I go on again, to show just how much I care. Already it’s getting dark and that mist is rising from the valley to meet the low ceiling of cloud. One of those cynical cheers wafts over the ground and groans through the stands, as I trot on to the pitch in the gloom, waving my arm at the ref.

I’ve time for one burst. The effect of the benzedrine’s already worn off. I run down the middle of the field swinging the ball between my hands to give the impression of a dummy that wouldn’t deceive a boy. I go down with the tackle, play the ball, and stay away from trouble until the final whistle. We troop off in ones and twos. The crowd has parted down the middle like a black curtain, to trickle through the main exits either end of the ground. The lighted upper decks of the buses waiting in a row in the street outside show above the banking. It should be, in fact, the best hour of the week for me: the same time every Saturday when the match is over, the lights flickering up through the dusk and the air clean from a day of no work, and the prospect of a conqueror’s leisure before me. Instead I watch Mellor’s stinking back and pump into it every kind of revenge. He’s got his head down as we go into the tunnel and he isn’t looking at anybody as he breaks indifferently through a crowd of eager officials. He’s always wise like that—affecting to feel nothing. It could explain the imbecile stillness of his face.

He’s no different when we’re sitting crowded in the bath, the hot water jerking at the broken skin. A thin seep of blood and mud darkens the surface. It breaks and coils round the slumped men. The heads stick above the water like protesting animals in a pool; I give over trying to think.

Behind us the reserves, helped by a hunch-backed groundsman, are sorting out the jerseys and shorts, trying to avoid the muddied sweat by treating it only with their fingertips. Their raincoated figures look resentful. They move slowly. Overhead the tramp of the departing crowd still echoes through the metal joists of the stand. The air in the room—the yellow lamp swinging in a draught—is thick with the smell of sweat, sewage mud, liniment, grease, and leather, circulating in a coil of steam that hides one wall from the other.

Standing in the mist is George Wade. I almost knock him down as I clamber over the side of the bath and stagger to the massage table. I don’t recognize him till I feel the paw of his dog under my bare foot and hear the whimper. He comes and stands over me as Dai greases and thumps my thigh.

‘How d’you feel, Art?’ he says, leaning on his stick and bending over the landscape of my body. He’s careful to look only at my mouth.

I grin illustratively at his old retired face. He finds it funny and laughs. ‘You won’t be able to shoot your mouth as you used,’ he says. ‘Least, not for a few days.’ He sees how amused I am. ‘I’ll fix up a dentist for you on Monday … no I can’t, can I? Monday’s Boxing Day. I’ll see what I can do.’ He peers at me a while, absorbing this new impression of me without teeth. I think it pleases him, for he asks me as though I’m a reasonable person, ‘Will you be coming to Weaver’s tonight? I thought he said you was.’

I’ve already thought about this. A Christmas Eve celebration, and the chance of meeting Slomer for the first time. I can’t make up my mind. ‘About my teeth,’ I say. ‘Can you get them fixed for me tonight? It’s going to be a week before I get to a dentist otherwise.’

Wade chews his lips, and narrows his eyes in affected contemplation. ‘Isn’t there a dentist in the Supporters’ Club?’ I encourage him.

He shakes his head. ‘I don’t know, Arthur. I don’t know at all. I could see.’ He looks at me to see if it’s going to be worth that trouble.

‘Could you find out now, sir?’

He turns round, and dragging the dog stumbles through the mounds of dirty clothing to the door. The animal staggers as it tries to get a hind leg over one of these piles of laundry.

‘I’ll see, old lad. I’ll see. Leave it to me,’ he calls through the yellow mist.

‘I want it tonight,’ I shout. He injects a cold stream of air as he goes out.

I get off the bench and sit under my clothes. There’re a few screams from the bath: somebody’s behaviour below the waterline is causing objection. One or two come shooting over the bath side and stand watching the water as they scratch themselves. ‘Dirty frogs, man,’ Dai’s telling himself as he joins the inspection before laughing. I’m in the mood I’d have given anything to avoid this particular day.

Frank creaks the bench beside me, unconsciously pressing his great bulk against my arm. He looks at me understandingly, sensing my feeling in his slow miner’s mind. It’s with the same reluctant concentration that he rubs his shoulders: the nearest he can get to direct sympathy. I’m smiling at him; I’m always smiling at him—he has that humility professionals acquire after ...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Dedication
• Part One
• Part Two
• A Biography of David Storey
• Copyright