Game of Throw-ins Read online

  Ross O’Carroll-Kelly

  (as told to Paul Howard)

  * * *

  GAME OF THROW-INS

  Illustrated by

  ALAN CLARKE

  Contents

  Prologue

  1. Love and Honor

  2. A Problem with the Windows

  3. Once You Go Brack …

  4. The Daahk Aahts

  5. The Booby Trap

  6. Netflix and Chill

  7. Nidge’s Heir

  8. Club Can’t Even Handle Me Right Now

  9. Head Games

  10. Indicktus

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Follow Penguin

  For Martin Walsh

  Prologue

  The Saint Ignatius of Loyola Church is packed for the annual Castlerock College Thanksgiving Mass. There must be, like, five hundred past pupils here, filling out every pew and even spilling outside into the freezing cold night. We’re all belting out the words of what used to be Father Fehily’s favourite Christmas hymn, making sure we do him proud.

  Joyful, all ye nations, rise.

  Join the triumph of the skies.

  With the angelic host proclaim:

  ‘Christ is born in Bethlehem.’

  Hark! The herald angels sing,

  ‘Glory to the newborn King!’

  Christian offers me his hipflask. This is in the middle of the church, bear in mind, with Father Jehoiada up on the altar still wiping the chalice clean.

  ‘Yeah, no, I’m good,’ I go. ‘I’m driving.’

  He offers it to JP and Oisinn, who both say the same thing.

  Veiled in flesh, the Godhead see;

  Hail the incarnate Deity,

  Pleased as man with man to dwell,

  Jesus, our Emmanuel.

  Hark! The herald angels sing,

  ‘Glory to the newborn King!’

  When it’s all over, we shuffle out of the church and into the cor pork. Then everyone stands around in the cold for half an hour, hundreds of old school friends just catching up with each other, sharing memories, swapping news and generally talking about how the whole recession thing never really affected them at all.

  ‘I was just remembering,’ JP goes, ‘how much Father Fehily loved that song. I was thinking about him conducting with his hands as he belted out the lines.’

  We all laugh. He used to do that.

  Oisinn goes, ‘You’d miss his Christmas Mass, though – and that’s not being disrespectful to Father Jehoiada. His little speech at the end, then wishing everyone a Frohe Weihnachten. By the way, has anyone got plans for New Year’s Eve?’

  JP’s there, ‘You’re joking, aren’t you? We’ve all got kids now!’

  I look at Christian and I feel instantly sad for him. He doesn’t have his kids. Not anymore. Long story. It’s for another time.

  Luckily, he’s shitfaced, and he doesn’t seem to hear.

  ‘I’m having a porty in the George,’ Oisinn goes. I presume he’s talking about the yacht club, not the gay bor. ‘Look, it’s not a major deal. It’s just a few drinks to celebrate my dischorge from bankruptcy.’

  Me and JP are just like, ‘What?’ because it’s come around so quickly.

  ‘Yeah, no,’ Oisinn goes, ‘as and from the first of January 2015, I’m back in the black – my debt to society paid. I thought, you know, it might be worth ringing in the New Year properly this year.’

  I’m like, ‘Fair focks, Dude. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’

  JP goes, ‘Yeah, Chloe can ask her old dear to look after Isa. By the way, did anyone hear from Fionn?’

  I’m there, ‘Yeah, no, we had a cord the other day.’

  The dude’s been living in New York for the past six months, working for the United Nations. I’ve no idea who they are or what they do – all I know is that it’s his job to basically advise them on how to deal with, like, international piracy and shit?

  ‘He’s not coming home for Christmas,’ I go. ‘He’s only got, like, three days off. I think his old pair are going over to him. And his brother and sister.’

  God, I must put his sister back on my Drunk Dial list. It’s been too long.

  I suddenly spot my old man tipping over. He’s got his lucky Cole Haan camel-hair coat on – so-called – and that ridiculous focking hat he insists on wearing.

  ‘There they are!’ he goes. ‘The backbone of the team that brought Leinster Schools Senior Cup glory to Castlerock College in the year of Our Lord, one thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine!’

  He’s the wrong side of a bottle of brandy, judging by his volume and the focking hum off him.

  The goys are all like, ‘Hey, Charles!’ because for some bizarre reason they all think he’s great.

  He goes, ‘Gloria filiorum patres! Parare Domino plebem perfectam!’

  Courvoisier always brings out the Latin in him.

  ‘Couldn’t have said it better myself, Charles,’ JP goes, loving my embarrassment. ‘Although I’d throw in a pendent opera interrupta for good measure.’

  ‘And I wouldn’t stop you,’ the old man goes. ‘No, indeed! By the way, Kicker, there’s a chap over there who’s rather keen to meet you. Brother Melchior?’

  I’m there, ‘I don’t know a Brother Melchior. Which means you’re full of shit.’

  ‘Well, you wouldn’t know him, he’s lived in Tanzania for the last fifty years. But he knows all about you and your extraordinary exploits on the field!’

  ‘Continue.’

  ‘Well, he said it to me just now. He said, “Your son was the famous rugby player – is that correct?” I said, “You’re absolutely right – got it in one!” and he said, “Well, I would love to meet him – just to say I shook his hand.”’

  I suppose I did bring glory to the Jesuits as much as I did to the school.

  ‘Oh,’ the old man goes, ‘here he comes, look!’

  Brother Melchior ends up being this, like, old dude – we’re talking ninety, possibly even older – and he’s literally bent over double, moving really slowly, like someone who’s dropped a contact lens and is terrified of stepping on it.

  He just, like, extends his hand to me and goes, ‘I’ve always wanted … to meet you.’

  His voice is sort of, like, high-pitched and a little bit shaky.

  I’m like, ‘Yeah, no, cool,’ giving his hand a good shake.

  ‘I’m Brother Melchior,’ he goes. ‘I don’t know if Denis … ever mentioned me … We were in Africa … together … oh, many, many moons ago.’

  I’m there, ‘He may have done. He said a lot of stuff. I mostly remember his quotes.’

  ‘Oh, he loved his quotes … loved them … well, he told me all about you … in his letters, you see.’

  ‘This is all good stuff for me to hear.’

  ‘He was the first one to tell me … about this player he’d seen … he said watching him play rugby … was like looking into the face of God.’

  I was good. I could try to be modest about it, but I’d just come across as a dick.

  I’m there, ‘What specific qualities of mine did he mention that set me aport from other players – the likes of Gordon D’Arcy especially?’

  I’m a sucker for a compliment. I can hear Oisinn and JP both groan, but fock them.

  ‘He said you had … everything,’ Brother Melchior goes. ‘The most complete player … that he’d ever … ever seen.’

  I’m there, ‘Like I said, this is a definite boost to the old ego. Of course, the man definitely knew his rugby.’

  ‘Oh, he loved his rugby … He said to me, “This boy will be … one of the all-time greats … And I’m talking about on a world stage” …’

  ‘If only I’d me
t a coach like Joe Schmidt,’ I go, ‘who understood what I could bring to the set-up and stopped me drinking like a rock star. Johnny Sexton has said that about me in interviews. I could have had it all. On the record.’

  ‘Well,’ the dude goes, ‘it gave me great pleasure … later on … to watch your career … and to see that Denis … was absolutely right about you.’

  Of course I’m enjoying the praise so much that it never occurs to me to go, What focking career? I haven’t kicked a rugby ball since I was in UCD.

  Instead, I go, ‘Keep going.’

  ‘To see everything you did,’ he goes. ‘I’m sure he was looking down on you from Heaven … enjoying your achievements … just like the rest of the country …’

  ‘I’d love to think that. I genuinely would.’

  ‘Grand Slams … Heineken Cups … captaining your country …’

  Oisinn is the first one to cop it – he actually laughs? Then I hear him turn around to the old man and go, ‘He thinks it’s Brian O’Driscoll!’

  The old man’s like, ‘Good Lord!’

  ‘I used to read about you,’ Brother Melchior goes, ‘in the papers … I had The Irish Times sent to me in Tanzania … every day … I read about all those important tries you scored for Ireland …’

  Fock, this is embarrassing.

  The old man has to stick his hooter into the conversation then. He goes, ‘The thing is, Brother Melchior, he’s not actually the chap you think he is!’

  I turn around to the old man and I go, ‘Shut the fock up, will you?’

  ‘You were a credit,’ Brother Melchior goes, ‘to yourself … a credit … to the country … and a credit … to the game of rugby.’

  I’m there, ‘I’ll take all of that.’

  ‘Even though he thinks he’s talking to Drico,’ Oisinn goes.

  I’m like, ‘Don’t listen to them.’

  The dude goes, ‘I want to shake your hand again … and tell you thank you … thank you … thank you …’

  So I let him shake my hand again, then off he focks, delighted with himself for having met one of the true legends of the game.

  The old man goes, ‘Sorry, Kicker. I should have suspected something when he mentioned the hat-trick of tries you scored in Paris. It should have rung an alarm bell.’

  JP goes, ‘I can’t believe you stood there and let him think you were Drico.’

  I’m there, ‘Hey, I just didn’t want to hurt the dude’s feelings, that’s all.’

  Oisinn and JP both laugh. Even the old man looks away in embarrassment. ‘Good Lord,’ he goes, ‘isn’t that What’s-it over there? I haven’t seen him since God-knows-when,’ and then off he goes as well.

  We all wish each other a Merry Christmas, then we head back to our cors. I’m the one who ends up having to drop Christian home to Carrickmines. I could weep for him. Divorceland, they call it – where Celtic Tiger marriages go to die.

  He sleeps the whole way there, drunkenly muttering the names of his children and calling Lauren a bitch in his sleep.

  It gives me time to think about the conversation with Brother Melchior, which has left me a little bit, I don’t know, sad? Look, I’m not knocking Drico. He achieved all the things he achieved in the game and I’d still consider him a hero of mine, as well as a mate. But talking to Brother Melchior has made me suddenly realize more than ever that it could have been me – that it should have been me?

  I know there were a lot of factors – we’re talking bad luck, we’re talking issues with my famous rotator cuff, we’re talking switching from pints to shots the night I told Warren Gatland a few home truths in the Berkeley Court Hotel. All those things played a port in me not actually making it.

  But suddenly tonight – at the age of, what, nearly thirty-five? – I’ve been reminded of the amazing career that I could potentially have had. And it’s left me feeling very, very old.

  1

  Love and Honor

  Santa Claus is coming to Finglas. That’s not the title of the shittest Christmas song of all time. It’s an actual fact. It’s, like, seven o’clock in the evening on the last Thursday before Christmas and we’re standing in a queue in the middle of some random shopping centre on the northside with six or seven hundred other people, waiting for the dude to arrive – we’re talking me, we’re talking Sorcha, we’re talking Honor, we’re talking Brian, Johnny and Leo.

  Of course it’s not the real Santa Claus? I’m explaining that to the boys. I’m there, ‘It’s one of his helpers,’ even though it’s actually Shadden’s old man – as in K … K … K … K … Kennet Tuite – who’s wearing the suit this year. It’s the kind of thing that I’m sure will play well with his probation officer, what with him being out on temporary release and everything.

  The boys are definitely excited about seeing him, though. The three of them are straining at their leash like feral dogs and it’s taking all of my strength to hold them back. ‘Focking Santa!’ Leo is going at the top of his voice. ‘Focking focker! Focking focker fock!’

  Yeah, no, he discovered the F-word a couple of months back. But Sorcha read in a magazine that telling children that a particular word is bad actually increases their fascination with it? So we’ve gone with the strategy of doing fock-all about it, even though it’s getting worse by the day. I mean, not that I care. I think it’s kind of funny. Especially when strangers look at us in total disgust.

  ‘Focking Santa!’ he’s going. ‘Fock off, Santa! Fock off, Santa, you focking fock!’

  Out of the blue, little Brian – who’s given to occasional violent outbursts – smacks his brother hord across the face. Leo responds by shoving the heel of his hand into Brian’s nose, which then storts pouring blood. The two of them are suddenly screaming the roof off the shopping centre, while Johnny storts crying hysterically.

  Sorcha tries to calm Johnny and Leo down while I attempt to stem the flow of blood from Brian’s nose.

  This is actually what they do all day – Brian and Leo go at each other like Itchy and Scratchy, while Johnny bursts into tears the second it kicks off. Johnny is actually the quiet one? Mostly, he just sits there, saying little or nothing, possibly taking everything in. Apparently, I was the same as a baby. He’s either very, very thoughtful or very, very thick.

  Time will tell, I suppose.

  Johnny doesn’t talk, but he does eat – and by that I don’t mean that he has a healthy appetite. What I mean is, everything he picks up, he puts in his mouth and swallows, we’re talking fifty-cent pieces, we’re talking keys, we’re talking – two weeks ago? – the top from one of Sorcha’s lipsticks.

  So there they are, the triplets at the age of, what, two and a half? I definitely love them, there’s no doubt about that, but they’re a little bit like Owen Farrell – great, but focking annoying.

  Sorcha is down on her hunkers, telling the boys, ‘Don’t be fighting! Santa will be here soon!’

  ‘Focking Santa!’ Leo goes.

  Jesus Christ, it might even be Tourette’s.

  ‘That’s right,’ Sorcha goes, ‘Santa! He’s the one who comes on Christmas Eve and brings all the presents! But only to good little children who know how to behave themselves!’

  I think that’s when I first cop that Honor is being unusually quiet tonight. I turn around to her and I go, ‘Here, Honor, I wonder does the shopping centre know that Kennet’s got a criminal record longer than this focking queue?’

  She doesn’t answer me. She’s just, like, staring at her feet – it’s like she’s miles away?

  I’m there, ‘Honor?’

  She suddenly snaps out of it. She goes, ‘What?’ at the top of her voice. ‘I said what – are you focking deaf?’

  ‘Yeah, no, I’m just saying, Honor, maybe we should go and find the manager and tell him that the dude playing Santa Claus has a string of criminal convictions and he’s only out of the Joy on parole.’

  She goes, ‘Er, why?’

  ‘Why do you think? To get him sacked from his job
! As a matter of fact, I’m pretty disappointed that you didn’t come up with it first!’

  She doesn’t give me the excited response I’m expecting from her. She just goes, ‘Whatever’, then goes back to staring at her Uggs.

  A few seconds later, I turn around to her again and I go, ‘Hey, Honor, why don’t you take your brothers over there to see the moving crib outside Argos?’

  It’s just so I can have a word with Sorcha.

  I hand her the leash and off they go – it’s like she’s being dragged along by sled dogs, with Leo leading the way, effing and blinding like a focking docker.

  Sorcha links my orm, puts her head on my shoulder and goes, ‘Oh my God, Ross, look at our lovely children!’

  I’m there, ‘Okay, are we going to ignore what just happened there?’

  She goes, ‘We’ve discussed this, Ross. All of the really good parenting magazines say that children who use bad words are just testing their power over you – the worst thing you can do is let them know they have that power?’

  ‘Yeah, no, I don’t give a fock about the swearing. I’m talking about Honor. I just offered her the opportunity to get Kennet fired from his job and she had literally no interest.’

  ‘It’s very unlike her, I have to admit.’

  ‘I’m wondering did she maybe bang her head getting out of the people-carrier?’

  ‘Do you know what’s weird? She’s actually been really quiet recently?’

  ‘I thought that, too. It’s like she’s, I don’t know, stuck in her own head or something.’

  ‘Maybe she’s plotting something and we don’t know what it is yet.’

  ‘Yeah, no, hopefully it’s just that.’

  All of a sudden, the word goes around that Santa slash Kennet has arrived and the excitement goes up a few notches.

  Honor arrives back with the boys. Leo is going, ‘I want a present! I want a focking present!’

  ‘Presents are for good little boys!’ Sorcha goes. ‘And you’re going to be good, aren’t you, Leo?’

  He goes, ‘Focking present!’