Journalistic Intentions

Hooker

Prompt: Rugby

         

         

         

         

         

         Myrtle plumped a couple of pillows and plopped down next to her gal pal on the love seat in the retirement home's common area. In doing so she elbowed poor Hester in the ribs.

         "Hey, steady old girl. That's gonna leave a bruise," objected Hester rubbing her side.

         "Sorry dear. Once my knees bend there's no going back. What's on the boob tube this evening? A juicy murder mystery?"

         "I'm afraid not. On the way I stopped to chat with Ol' Man Pike and because of this Mildred got here first. She snatched up the controller before I even spotted it. I was expecting we'd have to snivel through one of her sappy romances, but she couldn't wait to offer it to George. He actually smiled at her."

         "Oh lovely. Another dreary fishing snorefest then?"

         "We're in for a treat, pet. Action."

         "Do tell. Anyone we know? Maybe that actor with the muscles?"

         Hester spluttered. "Oh, I expect there will be muscles all right. One word. Rugby."

         Myrtle's repetition of this word echoed and reverberated in the stuffy room. Seated, or was that snuggled, next to George and the single television, Mildred stamped her foot before emphasizing, "Yes, rugby. George used to play, didn't you George love?"

         George mustered up a grunt.

         "Is she for real?" hissed Myrtle. "What is rugby anyway? Rugs are meant to hide bare floors and muffle sound. You and I, everyone, wipes their feet on them. Now I trip over them. Chrome dome George could use wearing a good rug."

         "I heard that Myrtle. There's nothing wrong with a bald head. It's kind of neat and tidy."

         And with that Mildred patted the shiny pate glistening next to her. George shrugged her hand away without peeling his eyes from the onscreen action.

         After a few minutes of begrudging focus Myrtle exclaimed, "It's just like football, but without all the padding. Look at that huddle."

         Mildred hollered over her shoulder, "It's called a scrum."

         Grabbing Hester's arm, Myrtle huffed, "Did you hear that? She called me scum."

         "No pet. She didn't. She clearly said scrum."

         From the television set a roar erupted, the voices of screaming fans. A broadcaster delivered a blow by blow account in a garbled, fast-pitched delirium. Now that's the trick. The hooker has snatched the ball and he means business. Where are the blockers? He's wide open. Will he pass? I don't believe it. He's running. The most ferocious groans the women had ever heard blasted around them. We've lost him in the tackle. Can he hold onto his ball?

         "Were you a hooker then George? Big guys chased you to grab your ball?" hooted Myrtle.

         Struggling to rise to his still impressive height George turned to glare at Myrtle. She had to strain to hear his growls.

         "No, I aspired to play hooker. I was a flanker and as such I tackled my fair share of ruggers. What did you play, Myrtle?"

         Myrtle shrugged.

         "Sorry old boy. I can see you love rugby. I played the clarinet in the school band. Not quite the scrimmages you were involved in."

         After George had resettled in his armchair, Hester turned to Myrtle with a whispered observation.

         "I believe those are the most words he's ever uttered. You sure have a knack for drawing people out. I told you we'd see action today."

( 561 words )