by James Corden
The feeling of being close to the bottom of a bundle is without question one of the scariest experiences any young boy can go through. You can’t breathe and you can’t move – never a good combination. This bundle was particularly unpleasant because of the sheer size of some of the boys involved. Most bundles would feature a combination of one or two big guys, but because this was the rugby team, every single one of the school’s bloaters was now on top of me. If anything, it was the pinnacle of what many bundlers had been hoping for. Not Alan Turpin, though. His face was a shade of beetroot I’d never witnessed before or since. He couldn’t breathe and was trying to say something, maybe his last words. Honestly, he looked as if he was going to die. I wanted to shout to save us both, but when I opened my mouth, I couldn’t speak either.
It was the voice of Mr Atkinson that finally managed to collapse the bundle. He stormed into the room and went totally mad, shouting at the top of his voice, telling us we all had to grow up. At one point, he yelled, ‘Look at Alan.’ I don’t think he meant for the rest of the class to laugh, but what could we do? Five minutes after the bundle had collapsed, his face was still so red he looked as if he had the worst sunburn known to man.
Mr Atkinson told us that we needed to concentrate, that training was one thing, but playing in a match was another. With time ticking away towards kick-off, he talked us through the set plays, the line-outs and the scrums and spoke about the need for discipline. Finally, he told us he was proud of every single one of us and that we had it in us to win this game.
With our chests puffed out and our heads held high, we walked out of the changing rooms and took our first steps onto the pitch. I don’t know what we must’ve looked like. The most mismatched rugby team in history? All of us completely out of shape – either huge or tiny, tough or terrified, with nothing in between. Craig Thompson looked like a man possessed, Nedeem was shaking like a leaf and Alan Turpin – still red-faced – didn’t really know what was going on. We were about half as ready as we’d ever be.
The game kicked off and it soon became clear that Alan wasn’t the only one without any idea. We were a shambles: running into each other, dropping balls and generally getting absolutely battered. We were 12–0 down within five minutes, and it got worse from there. As the game continued, they scored try after try after try. Inevitably our heads dropped, but Mr Atkinson was still there on the sidelines, barking orders.
The defining moment of the match came with a scrum about fifteen minutes into the first half. The front row of the scrum was Simon Phillips, Craig Thompson and me: basically the biggest boys in the school. We put our arms over each other’s shoulders, leant over and pushed forwards. We were pushing back and forth for about twenty seconds and then a blood-curdling scream erupted from their side of the scrum. I can still hear it now: it was deafening. ‘AAAAAaaaaRRRGH! OH MY GOD! OOOWWWWWWW!’
The referee blew his whistle and the scrum collapsed. No one had any idea what was going on until we saw the screaming player with a hand pressed to his ear. He was almost in tears and in a hell of a lot of pain. ‘He was biting my ear,’ he whimpered and, as he moved his hand from his ear, blood started trickling down his face.
‘Who? Who was?’ asked the referee.
‘Him!’ he said, pointing at the boy in question. We followed his finger out past Simon, past Jez Pope, past Alex Carver until there, standing in front of all of us, was Craig Thompson, his teeth covered in blood, looking like a vampire.
‘So? He didn’t have his ears taped up.’
He honestly thought that it was totally legit, and so he kept on arguing with the referee. Mr Atkinson, who was now on the pitch, was trying to pacify Craig, but he wasn’t having it. He was getting more and more angry, literally spitting blood everywhere. ‘Why did you tell us about it if it’s against the rules?’ When the referee raised his red card to send him off, the red mist descended and Craig shoved the referee back so hard that he fell over, which made the opposition teacher get involved. All hell broke loose and, before we knew it, the game was called off.
I trudged back towards the changing rooms, disappointed and angry. This was supposed to have been a monumental day in the school’s history, and we hadn’t even lasted until the second half. I didn’t get changed. I just grabbed my uniform, scrunched it up inside my bag and left.
As I walked home in my muddy kit, I felt so annoyed that such a great chance had been thrown away. I felt for Mr Atkinson, who’d nearly built this bunch of misfits into a real team, only to see it crumble. I got in and told Dad what had happened. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘you’ll play again. They’re not gonna build that pitch and go to all that trouble for just one game. It’s in the past now, All you can change is the future.’
He was right, of course, and the ever-optimistic Mr Atkinson started the next PE lesson with a full and frank run-through of the rules of rugby. The phrase ‘You cannot – and I can’t stress this strongly enough – punch or bite other players’ was used a lot.
We played seven matches in total, over two terms, and we never even scored a single point. The whole team was a disaster. The worst was when we got beaten 177–0 by the Royal Grammar School. And that match also descended into a fight. During a line-out, Jez Pope and Chris Briggs both decided they’d had enough and just started throwing punches all over the place. We were losing so badly that I think they thought they might take some solace in at least winning a fight. Only they didn’t. They got well and truly whupped, along with the rest of our hardest lads. I think a few of our team enjoyed seeing the bullies get a taste of their own medicine, even if it was in between try after try after penalty after try. It was difficult to keep any faith with the thing, to be honest. One match we played, quite a few of our team didn’t turn up, so we used the other school’s substitutes and Mr Atkinson filled in too.
I think word must have got out about how rubbish we were to play, because the last match we ever had was against a local young offenders’ institute. Watching them get out of the minibus was quite possibly the scariest thing I’ve ever witnessed. They didn’t have matching kit, and one of them played in his jeans. They walked onto the pitch and just stared at us.
Right before kick-off, one of them put his hand up and said, ‘Hang on a minute.’ He then reached inside his pocket and jogged over to the touchline where he handed Mr Atkinson ten Silk Cut and a lighter and said, ‘Hang on to these, will ya, mate.’ These guys were real.
The game kicked off, and for once we were the better team. Athletically they were good, but we’d obviously played in – and lost – more games than they had. We were moving the ball nicely around the pitch and matching them muscle for muscle when we needed to. It was a nasty affair at points, but no one complained because we were both playing the game in the same way. One lad punched me so hard in the stomach I fell to the ground like a dead bird, but there weren’t any afters. I picked myself up and carried on.
For a long time, the game stayed at nil–nil. We’d played six matches and had never scored a point: no try; no penalty; no drop kick, no nothing. It was a sad state of affairs, but that, finally, was all about to change …
The ball was picked up out of the scrum and passed out left towards Greg Pearson. He passed it to Will Harvey, who, amazingly, dropped a shoulder and burst past two of their players. Then there was a succession of about seven or eight passes, each one taking us closer to the try line. Richard Dunn made an impressive darting run and, just as he was tackled, managed to get it to Rob Higgins. Higgins stepped inside but was met by a sea of opposition shirts – all different colours. At least four convicted hard-nuts were bearing down on him fast but, incredibly, for someone who didn’t quite know the rules, he kicked the ball out to the right. It flew about fifteen feet in the air, over the heads of the opposition and into the arms of the only man who didn’t want any part of it. Yep, you guessed it: Nedeem Jacobs. He’d caught the ball – a massive achievement in itself – and was holding it, just staring at us, his team mates.
The opposition were now all charging towards him at a real clip, and so, fearing for him, we all just shouted, ‘RUN, NEDEEM! RUN!’ Mr Atkinson was pointing at the try line and shouting pretty much the same. And so that’s exactly what he did. Little Nedeem Jacobs started running as fast as he could, his thick head of flat-topped hair barely moving as he did what he did best, what he’d been perfecting for pretty much the past decade – running as fast as he could to get away from the bullies. And, man, was he fast. He left all but two of them for dead, his head down, focused on the try line. But the guys chasing him were quick and they were catching up with him fast.
‘GO ON, NEDEEM!’ shouted Jez Pope.
‘COME ON, JACOBS! YOU CAN DO IT!’ was the cry from Simon Phillips.
‘What’s going on?’ said Alan Turpin.
Nedeem had now run almost half the length of the pitch and was starting to tire, when one of the biggest young offenders appeared out of nowhere, making inroads diagonally across the field. He was really gathering momentum and all we could do was watch and wait for the inevitable: he was gonna take Nedeem out. It wouldn’t be a legal challenge, but it would definitely mean we wouldn’t score the try.
‘MAN ON NEDEEM!’ shouted Mr Atkinson.
Then suddenly the boy jumped, the whole humongous force of his body intent on bringing Nedeem down. Everything dulled into slow motion. He leapt, arms stretched out to grab and rip Nedeem apart and, as he did – and I’ll always remember this – Nedeem had a burst of pace, side-stepping to put himself out of the young offender’s reach, which in turn meant the boy chasing behind him clattered into his team mate, ending with both of them on the floor. It left Nedeem with an open field.
Mr Atkinson was jumping up and down. ‘YES, NEDEEM! GO ON!’ It was the most beautiful moment. We were cheering and jumping around, none of us able to contain our excitement as Nedeem made stride after stride towards the touchline. We couldn’t believe we were going to score a try. This team of misfits and outcasts was actually going to have achieved something. To win, just once: that was all we needed.
As Nedeem sprinted over the touchline, he held his arms aloft and turned and looked back at us. I had never seen Nedeem look so happy. He punched the sky and shouted, ‘YEAAAHHH!’ and we cheered right back at him. This was his day in the spotlight, his moment to be the hero. It was spectacular until … well, then he did something that neither I nor anyone else on the team that day is ever likely to forget.
Nedeem shouted out, ‘YEAAAHHHH!’ again, and then threw the ball on the ground like an American football player. He just tossed it on the floor. We all looked on, stunned. In rugby, the ball has to be touched onto the grass behind the try line; if it’s not grounded, it’s not a try. Everyone, pretty much in unison, shouted, ‘NOOOOOOO!’ Mr Atkinson crouched down with his head in his hands, his face a picture of disappointment and bewilderment. In that moment, Nedeem’s face turned from elation to abject despair. The young offenders burst out laughing and, to cap it all, eventually went on to win 3–0.
That was it. Over the next few weeks, every one of us lost our appetite for rugby. I think even Mr Atkinson went off it too. Who could blame him?
Nedeem left the school the following term, though I think it had more to do with his family moving away than the rugby incident. On his last day he came and told me how sorry he was about the try. I told him to forget about it, that it was just a game and it didn’t matter.
‘I enjoyed it though,’ he said quietly. ‘That moment. Being in a team. It was good fun.’ Looking back now, he was right. It was amazing fun while it lasted. And I hope that wherever Mr Atkinson is, whatever he’s doing, he’ll look back on those couple of terms and feel proud. Despite the fights and the record-breaking losses, the rugby team did exactly what he wanted it to: it brought a group of mostly lost souls together. And for a moment, just a short moment, we all believed in something. Ourselves.
CHAPTER 6
BEST MUSICAL ACCOMPANIMENT:
‘Pass the Dutchie’ by Musical Youth
BEST FILM TO WATCH ALONGSIDE:
Dazed and Confused
BEST ENJOYED WITH:
a bag of Wheat Crunchies, a Yorkie and a Twix
SO, WITH THE rugby season finished, school dragged on until we reached the summer term and, inevitably, exams. I don’t suppose it will come as much of a shock to discover that I was completely unprepared for my GCSEs. Nor will you fall off your chair when I tell you that I had no idea about this weird ‘revision’ thing everyone was talking about. It was supposedly so important that we’d been given the last two weeks of the summer term to spend doing it.
I phoned Claire Alcock, who I was in love with at the time. We’d been to see Take That together and I was besotted by her. In return, she told me she liked me ‘as a friend’ – a phrase that was becoming all too familiar.
I called her to ask her what we were supposed to do exactly for revision. She picked up the phone and, as I heard her voice, my heart skipped its usual couple of beats.
‘Claire,’ I said, ‘they’ve given us this time off but I don’t really know what to do with it. I mean, I’m not sure what revising is really.’
‘Well, it’s just looking back over your notes, James, isn’t it?’
I paused for a moment and said, ‘Right, right, your notes. Yeah, I knew that, of course.’
‘It’s not difficult,’ she told me. ‘Just go back over the stuff you wrote in class and it’ll help you focus on the questions in the exam.’
Notes? What was she talking about? I didn’t even have any books, never mind notes.
So, the weeks of precious cramming time went by and I watched a lot of Wimbledon and then all too soon there we were in the exam hall, seated at solitary desks, working on papers that were supposed to shape the rest of our lives. I remember European Studies in particular; I’d love to lay my hands on that exam paper. I remember exactly how it looked – crisp and white and sort of virginal. The idea was to fill in the answers on the pages provided; some had big chunks of white space, others much smaller. Needless to say mine remained relatively clean.
I remember writing my name, though, and also that there was space in the border next to the first question for the examiner to make their comments. I decided to address this space specifically and write the examiner a friendly note. It went something like this:
Dear Examiner,
How are you today? Very well, I hope, though I imagine a little bored? I guess that marking paper after paper must be just a tad tedious, yeah? I mean, question after question from all these different students, offering little more than variations on the same answer. Well, here’s a variation for you, a way of easing your pain. My aim today is not so much to pass European Studies as to pass the time and also to brighten your day. I’d like to try and lift you from the monotony of this repetitive process because there’ll be nothing to mark here. I haven’t done any work. I wanted to do Music and RE but they wouldn’t let me do that and I had to do this instead, so as a kind of protest I used to go to the classes without so much as a pen, let alone any books or a bag. So now you’re aware of the history, I’m going to try and make you laugh. That’s my mission here and, if I succeed, if I can lift you from the boredom, I was wondering if, by way of thanks, you might give me an ‘A’. What do you think? It would shock everybody, wouldn’t it? It’d be really good karma, don’t you think? So that’s the purpose of this paper, just so’s you know from the outset.
I remember questions along the lines of ‘Who invaded what country on such and such a date and what were the immediate repercussions?’ I would write something like ‘Fred Flintstone invaded from Bedrock, together with Barney Rubble. He moved at night, took over the town and blew up the quarry’ or some other bit of nonsense. It was all an attempt to make the examiner laugh and see if, together, we couldn’t fly in the face of convention.
He gave me a ‘U’. That means Ungraded – so bad it’s not even worthy of a mark.
; I could live with that. It was only European Studies, and if it hadn’t been for Holmer Green’s no Music or RE policy, I would never have taken the class anyway. The thing I’m really embarrassed about is my Drama exam.
The only coursework you had to do for Drama was keep a diary. Not very difficult. There was no structure, no right and wrong; you merely had to keep a record of what you’d done in the lessons and hand in the diary at the end of the year. But I didn’t keep a diary, so I only got a ‘B’ when I should have walked an ‘A’. Actually, it was miraculous I even got a ‘B’. Mrs Roberts, my suffer-no-fools Drama teacher, told me I was a complete idiot. I must have been a constant source of frustration to her because, even though I didn’t bother with the coursework, hers were the only lessons in which I paid any attention. Back in the staffroom, I’m sure she must have heard from my other teachers what a nightmare I was in their lessons, so she wasn’t overcome with sympathy.
‘You’re an idiot, James.’ I can still hear her voice and remember wilting under her gaze. ‘You’re so stupid. All you had to do was hand in a diary and you could have got an “A”. But you just couldn’t do that, could you?’
To this day I can’t tell you why I didn’t bother. It would be easy to say I was a maverick, that I was misunderstood or whatever, but I don’t think it was that at all. I was just plain lazy.
‘I know I should’ve handed in the coursework,’ I told her, ‘but I’m going to be an actor, Mrs Roberts. None of my GCSEs are going to matter.’
She looked at me long and hard. ‘James,’ she said, ‘right now you’re a big fish in the smallest pond in the world and when you get out there, you’ll be a tiny fish in an enormous ocean. You’re not going to know what hit you.’ I remember my feeling of disappointment to this day.