Too Cold For Snow

previous evening’s whisky, managed to bumble to the heart of the matter:
    ‘Is he allowed to play for us, as a woman, that is?’
    Charles Eminent, Q.C., had a voice desiccated from his time in ancient European libraries, pursuing his passion for medieval bestiaries. The law, for him, was just a means to an end, a way of bankrolling his time among the strange animals that wandered the corners of old vellum manuscripts.
    ‘It’s such an unusual situation that there isn’t anything in the statutes at any level,’ said Mr Eminent, exhausted from so much legal spade work.
    ‘And will he be, well, equipped for the challenges of the modern game?’ asked Prosser, looking for a way out. He always felt like a vole in a room full of buzzards. His were antiquated, reactionary views but he felt he represented the fan in the street. Once upon a time he did, but then came electric light, the dawn of flight and the suffragettes.
    Gerry Harthill, the physio, reminded the board that women were stronger in many ways than men.
    ‘And he’s growing breasts, I understand?’ asked Prosser. ‘That will be a distraction, if nothing else.’
    ‘I’ve discussed that aspect of things with both him and the other players…’
    ‘And…’ prompted Prosser.
    ‘They say no one fancies him!’
    The laughter dissipated the tension in the room. Not that it was strictly true. One of the second row players had caught himself looking at Keiron a bit too often. Something about his eyes, and the softness of his skin.
    The press conference was electrifying. Barely had they got to the substance of the event before one of the shabbier papers sent a cohort of reporters, armed with cheque books, to ferret out lovers, winkle out one night stands of his. But Keiron had been celibate for a long time, and before that he’d had one long term girlfriend who had become a nun. She lived on a holy island and sent him cards at Christmas and Easter that she decorated herself with dried seaweed. Keiron had a fleshy memory of her wearing a basque and wondered what God made of her then.
    At the news editors conference at the British Broadcasting Corporation they were having conniptions over who should be covering this most delicate phase of Keiron Lye’s transformation. Should it be the Health Correspondent or was this a story for the Chief Reporter? With his head in his hands, the editor of Radio Wales News pondered how they were going to deal with things. In a recent phone-in there’d been a strong wave of protest against intruding in the man’s private life, and he was finding it hard to explain how any coverage of the sex-change was going to be in the public interest. The editor regaled his colleagues with a tale about the war years when the BBC sent out truth to fight the Nazi propaganda machine. One night a stentorian newsreader announced to the People of Free Europe, ‘Good evening, this is the British Broadcorping Castration.’ How appropriate.
    Around him there was a scrum of competing voices. Ian Bridei, the head of the Political Unit was making reference to a poll which suggested that were Keiron to stand for election in his native Newtown he would win with 98% support.
    ‘There’s something Messianic about it, there really is. He’s more than just a rugby player; he’s the fullest expression of people’s desires and the oath finder to how to realise them. Even soccer fans love him. Even people who hate rugby and all other sports love him. He’s the most quotable sports player in the history of any game, and even though what he’s doing flies in the face of the most fundamental machismo at the heart of rugby all the men love him and all the women love him. Should the Iranians launch a missile strike against Israel it would have to take second place on our news agenda to Keiron’s tackle, as it were.’
    They decided to do a live outside broadcast from the car park of the clinic and started making calls to get permission to park the satellite truck. Keiron’s op was happening on the same day as a Welsh game. It had a certain elegance.
    Marrying a steady hand with an accomplished eye, the glinting blade of the scalpel cuts through the flesh, the tiny pipette vacuuming away the blood. The surgeon cuts against the grain of the flesh, as if preparing carpaccio from Keiron’s muscular brisket. High class removals, that’s what the anesthetist calls it.
    Without their star player, their dependable totem, Wales only scraped a win