The Field Game

And we’re back! Here’s to a happy and successful new term!

Unlike some of my friends, I’m a big fan of the Lent half. It may be unremittingly cold, dark and dank, but there are two features of it which set it apart. The first is the absence of trials at the end of term. The second is the Field Game.

Now, if you thought Eton was pretty ridiculous for inventing a sport and being the only school to play it (the Wall Game), then you may not be pleased to hear that it actually has two, the second being the Field Game!

For this reason you might think the sports were quite similar, but nothing could be further from the truth, for whilst the Wall Game is as dull as dishwater and practised by a select few, the Field Game is perhaps the greatest sport on earth and is played by everyone.

Unfortunately, a few loonies in each block don’t see it this way and prefer to play a sport that involves slapping a silly ball around a silly field with silly sticks. Frankly, they are probably girls trapped in boys’ bodies, but even if they are they must still play Field Game at least once or twice a term.

Explaining how the sport works to people who have never witnessed it before is notoriously difficult. Often it is reduced, for the sake of simplicity, to a catchy sound bite, such as ‘a cross between football and rugby’ or ‘football with scrums’. These rightly point out the truth that the Field Game borrows elements from both, but what these are requires further explanation. For this reason I listed the main ones below:

Football similarities:

• 11 players per team

• Played with a football (size 4)

• Pitch has goals at both ends (although smaller than standard football posts)

• Points are earned by scoring goals or winning corners (see explanation below)

• Handball is forbidden

• The rule on ‘sneaking’ is similar to offside.

Rugby similarities:

• Each side has 7 players in the ‘bully’ (like the scrum) and 4 ‘behinds’ (like the backs)

• The pitch has a halfway line, 22 equivalents and 3 metre lines.

• Breaks in play are generally restarted with a bully (there are two meanings of the word) which is when both sides’ bullies (confusing?!) come together in what resembles a scrum.

A goal that is scored through the posts is worth 3 points and a ‘rouge’ is worth 5. To score a rouge the ball must first become ‘rougeable’. This happens when the defending team touches the ball over their own goal line (‘winning a corner’) or when an attacking player charges down a ball that is kicked upfield by a defender. This second rule is far from watertight, since the charge down or ricochet off an attacker must be deemed an unconscious movement, which can be horrendously difficult for the referee to judge.

When a ball goes rougeable both teams sprint for the ball and try to touch it with their hands (the only situation in which handball is allowed). If the attackers win the race a rouge is awarded, but if not they are offered a choice between one point or an attacking bully on the 3 metre line. It is rare to see a team opt for a point, except in exceptional circumstances, since a bully on the 3 metre line can lead to a 5 point ‘bully rouge’, which is when the attacking side push the defenders over their own line whilst keeping the ball in the bully.

After a few minutes observation of a Field Game match it becomes apparent that different players on the pitch are subject to different rules. Importantly, no-one is allowed to roam indiscriminately, and the effect of this is that bully members from both sides are mixed in the middle with the behinds sandwiching them. 

Typically, the behinds have most possession of the ball and use it to gain territory by booting it upfield. The bully members on the same side give chase, hoping to tackle the opposition behinds before they can kick it back or even get there first if they are quick enough. In most cases the ball is returned, at which point the other side’s bully gives chase, and so the cycle is reversed and repeated. On occasions when the ball does land at the feet of a bully member, it is dribbled towards the opposition goal line with the aim of scoring a goal or a rouge.

If you still have no clearer idea of what a Field Game match looks like then you are far from alone. Every year hundreds of F blockers are equally oblivious, despite having listened to countless lectures from older boys on how the game works. Without exception, when they see it in the flesh for the first time they find it very different to what they had imagined. This was the case today when they all came to watch the first round of Senior League, the inter-house competition for B, C and D blockers. Afterwards played a practice game on the fields whilst receiving tuition from a knowledgeable beak or boy.

In fact, I'm glad I was not asked to help out with this because until today my understanding of the rules was very rusty. This happens to everyone after nine months of Field Game exile, causing the first match to be a battle of discipline – won by the team who concedes the fewest fouls.

Fortunately, our house today excelled in this department, and despite my best efforts to prevent us from winning by sneaking and playing the ball on the ground, we held on for a deserved victory.

My passion for the Field Game is not remarkable, a fact demonstrated by the hundreds of old boys who return each weekend to take on the school in matches. Only C and B blockers are eligible for these fixtures, so this year will be my first opportunity to get involved. The trials for the first games on Saturday are tomorrow, and although I'm a little nervous the large number of teams means I should squeeze in somewhere.

The Field Game is a fantastic sport in its own right, requiring a mixture of skill and athleticism, but what makes it stand out for me is the fact that no other schools play it. As a consequence, we are forced to play against each other constantly, which may sound repetitive but in reality is exhilarating. Playing up to three times a week alongside the guys you live next to creates an unbeatable team spirit and brings the house together. Heck,  I’ve even been known to high-five Runty on a couple of occasions!

The ultimate aim for each house is to win a competition, be it Ties, League or Non-Specs. Whether we will achieve this over the next few months remains to be seen. But what we can be certain of is there will be many thrills, the odd spill and the chance to make history along the way.

New Year's Eve

This is an account of my new year’s eve narrated in the present tense:

It’s 9pm. The party started at 8:15 but I reckon it’s best to be fashionably late. I’m nearly at the house now, wearing a big coat and smelling of the aftershave my uncle gave me for Christmas.

I arrive at the door and ring the bell. There’s plenty of noise coming from within but I’m waiting for almost a minute before a girl opens it. I don’t know if it's her party or not and before I can ask she's gone. As I step forward it becomes clear that arriving late was a a mistake - the party is already in full swing and the hallway is crammed with people clustered in small groups.

I feel disorientated as I wander round a house I’ve never been in before and have to squeeze past people I’ve never met. I’m looking for the Princess but I can't see her anywhere. I ask a blonde girl if she knows her whereabouts but she has no idea. Eventually, after what feels like an age I locate her upstairs in one of the bedrooms.

I begin to walk over but as I do so I recognise the boy she’s talking to. My stomach drops an inch as I see it's the stupid Jedward wannabe who I thought wasn’t coming! Here he is in front of me for the first time and I'm tempted to leave the party altogether, but I’m spotted by the Princess and beckoned over.

‘This is ________’ she says, introducing me to my nemesis.

‘Hiya’ I say, shaking his hand extra firmly.

‘What’s up buddy?’ he says, smiling awkwardly. I’m not sure if this is a rhetorical question or not so I decide to keep quiet. He’s wearing a white t-shirt, skinny jeans and a black leather jacket. Not as ridiculous as some of the outfits I’ve seen him in on Facebook but still more daring than something I'd ever wear.

We strike up a forced conversation about our current situations in life and he tells me he’s studying art at a sixth form college, which sounds a bit like a euphemism for loafing around. His manner of speech begins to immediately grate, as he moves wildly from a quick tempo to a snail's pace, presumably to emphasise the point he’s making.

It's bizarre and after a few moments I also recognise an unusual drawl in his accent.

‘Are you American?’ I ask him, ‘You kind of sound like it.’

‘No mate’ he says, with a tinge of pride in his voice, ‘but I did spend last summer in California with some friends’

What?! Am I really hearing this? He went to California on holiday this summer and comes back speaking like an American soap star? It's ludicrous.

Unfortunately the Princess doesn’t seem too bothered so I make an excuse about needing the toilet and leave them to it. This was definitely not the way the evening panned out in my head and I suddenly realise I have no plan B to fall back on.

Consequently, I disregard all resolutions made about not getting drunk like last year and head off in search of booze. I find a crate of beers in the kitchen and with no-one to talk to I down two pretty quickly. I move on to some Sourz shots and then fill up a plastic cup with homemade punch.

As I’m doing this a miracle occurs. Jedward comes down the stairs and walks over to me. I’m afraid he might punch me but he actually informs me he’s leaving.

‘Nice to meet you buddy, have to dash off to another party’ he says.

‘Oh, that’s a shame’ I lie, trying hard to conceal my joy.

With him gone I head back into the party with a spring in my step. It’s nearly midnight now and everyone is gathering in the living room to watch the fireworks on TV. I get caught up in the throng and spot the Princess in the far corner. Once the countdown is over and people have stopped cheering and hugging I make a beeline for her.

‘Hey, what’s up?’ I ask.

‘Ha, not much. You look like you’re having fun’ she says, pointing to my booze-filled cup.

‘Yeah I am! Now that I’m talking to you at least’

 I don't realise it at the time but the alcohol has given me a strong dose of Dutch courage.

‘Your dress is very sexy’ I say, ‘it shows off your cleavage really well’

‘Err…thanks!’ she says, her face going red.

‘Between you and me, I’ve been checking out all the other girls here and you’re definitely the hottest!’

‘Umm…ok’

I continue in this indiscreet fashion until she says something about needing to find her friend, leaving me alone once more. At this point one of the girls who I was standing next to during the countdown comes over to me.

‘Hey you, how’s it going?’ she asks, fluttering her eyelids at me.

‘Not too bad’ I say, surprised at her appearance.

‘I saw you earlier. You were looking at me.’

‘Was I? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it’

‘That’s ok, I quite liked it. Shall we go and sit down in the corner?’

Now, when it comes to girls my general standards are not that high. I’ve been told this many times before and have come to recognise it myself. Having said that, I'm not completely indiscriminate and the girl in front of me was, frankly, not someone I would look twice at in ordinary circumstances.

But these are far from ordinary circumstances – not only am I the one being chased for once but I am also in possession of a pair of extra strong ‘beer goggles;. ‘Sitting in the corner’ and seeing what happens next sounds like the best idea in the world right now.

The ‘corner’ is actually the conservatory, which is damp and gloomy but secluded from everyone else. As we sit down she asks me straight out ‘What’s the freakiest thing you’ve ever done with a girl?’ Let's just say it wasn't as freaky as what she's done with a boy and the level of flirtation does not dip below this line.

We talk for about half an hour and with hindsight it’s surprising we don’t just get it on. I’m up for it, she’s definitely up for it and we both knew how it’s going to end.

But just as she starts to make a move and stroke my thigh with her hand the sound of footsteps can be heard from the doorway. We look up and standing there in front of us is none other than the Princess!

I feel like I'm snapped back to a different reality and for a couple of seconds we stare at each other awkwardly. Then she mutters, ‘Sorry guys, didn’t mean to disturb you’ and walks out.

I run off after her, completely ignoring all thoughts of the other girl and catch up with her by the front door.

‘Hey…that was nothing back there.’ I say, ‘We were just having a laugh’

‘It’s ok’ she says, ‘I’m sorry if I made it awkward’

‘No, I’m the one who’s sorry’

‘Sorry for what?’

I can’t say it to her - it would sound weird and presumptuous. She leaves with her friend and I wave goodbye. I go back into the party and think I might as well try it on again with the other girl.

She’s having none of it though and with the people around me leaving for home and me sobering up I decide to cut my losses. I slink back home in the dark, kicking an empty Coke can along. What a terrible start to 2015!

New Year Resolutions

I don’t know if there’s a way of measuring if one's had a good Christmas or not, but if you’re going on the size of your solid in the toilet the next morning then I had a very merry one indeed!

Despite being considerably lighter now than I was at 8am, I must have still gained a stone or two over the past week. Gluttony has been my deadliest of sins and yesterday was my descent into hell. After a big fry up and champagne for breakfast, a steady stream of mince pies, chocolate coins and stocking treats were put away until 3 o’clock, when the roast turkey was brought forth in all its glory.

A big chunk of this, along with all the trimmings and Christmas pud was wolfed down, and topped off afterwards with fancy chocolates, savoury nuts and mulled wine until about 10. At which point I began to feel a little queasy and decided, like a veteran gladiator, to quit while I was ahead and retire to bed.

The only problem with Christmas, aside from the sick tummy, is the leftovers of the next day - stacks of dirty plates, streams of discarded wrapping paper and a crushing sense of emptiness. In other words, rubbish and post-Christmas blues. Only another 364 days till the next one I guess.

However, before one becomes too despondent there’s always New Year’s Eve to cheer things up. Although I'm not normally a fan of this end of year blow out (being generally averse to all organised fun) my plans this year are shaping up quite nicely. I’ve been lucky enough to be invited by the Princess to a house party at her friend’s place, and to make things sweeter a quick glance at the Facebook guest list reveals the cretin that is Jedward is unlikely to attend. Fantastic!

Having said that, I’m keen not to get ahead of myself and expect the Princess to simply fall into my arms. My track record of NYE is not a glorious one – last year, for example, I saw in 2014 with my head in a sick bucket, a victim of beer and gin. When I was younger I routinely fell asleep before the big moment. As a result I'm determined not to muck up this time, especially when my chances with the Princess are at stake. There’s nothing more tragic than being the one who gets drunk too early.

As with Christmas, the downside to New Year’s is the morning after. In this case however, there really is nothing to look forward to. Nothing but the cold months of January and February stretching interminably into the distance. No wonder there’s a sharp jump in divorce and suicide rates at this time of year.

This is where New Year resolutions come in. By looking at the first of Jan as an opportunity for renewal, a chance to discard bad habits and take up good ones, then desperation can turn into inspiration.

But before I sound too much like a life coach, I readily admit that my own history of New Year resolutions reads like a guide on how not to do them. There are several reasons for this, among them a lack of willpower, overambitious targets and being hungover and irrational when making them. Last year was a case in point, when in the depths of my headache and sick bucket shame, I pledged to give up alcohol till I was 18, take up long distance running and also learn Chinese. Respectively, these resolutions lasted about one month, two and a half miles and five or so symbols before the last bit of hope in me died.

Indeed, approaching New Year resolutions in such a faulty manner can do more harm than good, leaving you with nothing but a strong sense of guilt. Having realised this now, I have resolved to maximise my chances of success this year by coming up with a draft of proposals. From these I shall pick three sensible and necessary ones, but only in a rational, sober state of mind. Below are some examples:

Limit my Tudor Stores visits to once a week
Call my friends out on their clichéd opinions on football
Become house captain (not entirely within my power)
Stop Runty becoming house captain (entirely within my power)
Sample restaurants in Windsor other than McDonalds
Do some writing for one of the school magazines
Improve the 20:1 male-female ratio of contacts in my phone
Apply to run one of the societies next year
Stop being such a massive legend – harharhar!
Pick a niche musical genre and use it to impress those around me
Get with more girls and/or get a girlfriend (preferably the Princess)
Become a computer whizz and hack the school system à la North Korea
Buff up in the school gym

Looking back at these I'm struck by how deficient my life is. There needs to be some change, quickly. If you don't recognise me next year then you'll know. Let 2015 be the year of my reinvention!