Game of Throw-ins Read online

  He’s like, ‘Consommé?’

  Ari hands him the bowl. ‘If I wanted cold soup,’ he goes, ‘I would have asked for vichyssoise, which I clearly did not. I’d like a fresh one, please – and I don’t mean the same bowl heated up. You know what? Second thoughts, forget the consommé.’

  ‘The thing is, Sir, that’s not … actually consommé?’

  ‘You’re damn right it’s not. It’s not only cold, it’s got no flavour. You’re lucky I don’t pour it over your head. Now get out of my sight. And don’t let me see that on the bill.’

  The waiter walks off with the bowl, looking totally bewildered.

  I look at the old man and Helen as if to say, Jesus Christ, he’s as nutty as a focking Snickers!

  The old dear opens the wine menu and puts on her glasses to study it, like she’s in any way fussy about what she drinks. I saw her make a Bloody Mary once by pouring vodka into a jor of Dolmio spaghetti sauce. Drank it straight from the focking jor as well.

  Sorcha goes, ‘Your dress is fabulous, Fionnuala! Victoriana is so on-trend at the moment.’

  I’m there, ‘What my wife is trying to say is that you look like a corpse. You look like something Dr Marie Cassidy should be going at with rubber gloves and a bone saw.’

  I even catch Honor smiling at that one.

  And that’s when the weirdest thing happens. Ari suddenly storts staring at the old man and Helen, as if he’s seeing them for the first time.

  ‘Fionnuala,’ he goes, ‘you didn’t tell me we were having company.’

  I look at Sorcha – one eyebrow orched.

  ‘Yes, you met them a moment ago, Ari,’ the old dear goes, in the same patient voice Sorcha uses when she’s explaining to her grandmother how the Sky Box works. ‘It’s my ex-husband, his second wife, my son, Ross – remember? And his wife, Sorcha, and their lovely daughter, Honor?’

  He goes, ‘You have a son?’

  ‘Yes, I have a son.’

  ‘You’re too young to have a son.’

  The old dear doesn’t even respond to this. She just goes back to reading the wine list while the rest of us are just, like, staring at each other in literally stunned silence.

  The dude suddenly stands up then. He goes, ‘I got to use the, er … I’m trying to think of the word you English use for it. Do you say the John?’ and then off he heads.

  He means shitter.

  There’s, like, ten seconds of silence at the table before the old man goes, ‘Are you sure this chap of yours is, well, fully compos mentis, Fionnuala?’

  She goes, ‘Sorry, Charles?’ pretending she has absolutely no idea what he’s talking about.

  ‘It’s just he seems a tad, well, confused to me.’

  ‘Oh, I know why that is. He had a Martini before we left the house. I told him not to drink on an empty stomach.’

  Helen goes, ‘Are you sure that’s all it is, Fionnuala? He does seem a little, well, muddled.’

  I actually laugh.

  I’m there, ‘He’s not muddled. And he hasn’t been drinking on an empty stomach either. He’s bananas. He’d have to be, of course. I mean, why else would he want to marry you?’

  ‘How dare you!’ the old dear tries to go. ‘He’s old, that’s all. I can assure you, Ross – I can assure you all – that he is in possession of his full mental faculties.’

  It’s at that exact point that we become aware of what would have to be described as a disturbance coming from the balcony looking down on the main restaurant floor.

  Someone’s going, ‘Shush, shush, shush, shush, shush, shush, shush – can we have some shush, please?’

  We all look up – and it turns out, of course, that it’s Ari doing the shushing.

  Silence, I don’t know, descends on the restaurant? Every conversation in the place suddenly stops.

  ‘Better,’ he goes. ‘That’s much better. Ladies and gentlemen, tonight I would like to pay tribute to a very special lady. She is the most beautiful woman in the world and I am truly blessed to have her in my life. I want to take this opportunity to say thank you to my wonderful wife of fifty-three years, the lovely Avis. I know you enjoy very much the music of Cole Porter and I’d like to dedicate this next song to you.’

  The old man goes, ‘Good Lord, the chap’s not going to sing, is he?’

  Ari’s there, ‘It’s called ‘‘Begin the Beguine’’.’

  Then he launches into the song. You can see the staff looking at each other, wondering whether they should go up the stairs to stop him.

  The old dear goes, ‘He can be terribly romantic.’

  I’m there, ‘Romantic? He just called you Avis, you comical-looking pisshead. He thinks you’re his first wife.’

  I’m banjoed. And when I say banjoed, I mean totally banjoed? I thought training was going to get easier, but tonight was even horder than Tuesday and I can’t believe we’ve got a match in, like, two days’ time.

  At the same time, I’m determined not to let it show. I feel like throwing my lunch up, then lying down on the floor of the dressing room to go to sleep, but I know Bucky and these other fockers would just love that, because it’d prove them right, that I’m just an old man trying to relive old glories.

  I’m sitting there just leaning forward with a towel over my head and I’m listening to them talk about who’s on what season of Game of Thrones, and their college essays that are due, and some bird who one of them scored in Everleigh who’s supposed to be going out with someone on the Ireland U-20s team, and some tune by Kanye that’s apparently the best thing he’s ever done, and some place in the States where everyone is supposedly heading on their J1er this year, and a video of Conor McGregor knocking some dude basically unconscious with one punch that’s got, like, two million hits on YouTube.

  And no one’s even talking to me. I’m what is known as a social piranha.

  Byrom steps into the dressing room and he reads out the team for Bective on Saturday. Mine is the second name on the list. All I can hear after that is silence. I know I’m getting filthies from pretty much every player in the room, but I’m grinning from ear to ear under my towel. Fock knows how I’m going to recover in time to play, but in that moment I don’t actually care? I’m about to make my All Ireland League debut at the age of thirty-five.

  Byrom finishes reading the team, then turns around to Bucky and goes, ‘Dud yoy talk to Russ abaaht the loyn-aaht coydes?’

  Bucky’s like, ‘No, because I honestly didn’t think you were going to go through with this.’

  ‘Oy’ve just rid ahht the toym and he’s pucked. So nah would boy a prutty good toym to guv hum the coydes, don’t yoy thunk?’

  I hear someone else go, ‘Here, my old man played for Wanderers back in the seventies – he could definitely do a job for us at full-back.’

  Everyone laughs.

  I take the towel off my head. I look at Byrom and go, ‘Thanks for believing in me. I won’t let you down.’

  He just nods and goes, ‘Bucky’s going to give yoy the loyn-ahht coydes – usn’t thit royt, Bucky?’

  Bucky just shakes his head and goes, ‘This is a mistake. I’m saying that now. Okay, I make all the lineout calls. And we work off a simple code. Three options with the throw – front, middle or back. That’s F, M and B.’

  ‘Yeah, no,’ I go, ‘that sounds pretty straightforward.’

  Everyone laughs.

  ‘For fock’s sake,’ Bucky goes, ‘I don’t just shout F, M or B. How long do you think it’d take the opposition to work that out?’

  If I got it straightaway, my guess would be not very long.

  He goes, ‘It has to be encrypted. So I’ll shout the name of a country and then a number. For instance, it could be Colombia Three. So what you have to do is count back three letters. The third last letter of Colombia is B, which means the lifters are expecting you to throw the ball to the back. Germany Four means you need to throw the ball to the middle. France Six means it’s going to the front. Also, you’ll hear me thr
ow in a third word, usually a colour or an animal, just to confuse the opposition. So I might shout Belgium Kangaroo One. Magnolia Namibia Three. Ignore the animal and the colour. It’s just a decoy word. All you need to think about is the country and the number. Do you understand?’

  Oh, fock. This shit is so far over my head, I couldn’t reach it with a stepladder. Of course, I don’t want to look stupid in front of everyone, so I go, ‘Yeah, no, that’s pretty basic actually.’

  Byrom goes, ‘Yoy definiteloy got thit, Russ, did yoy? Ut’s just that ut looked loyk yoy moyt have zoyned aaht while Bucky was exployning ut.’

  I should say something? I should just tell them that I didn’t catch a focking word of what was said. Instead, I go, ‘No, it’s fine – all of that information has gone into my, I don’t know, mind.’

  And Bucky goes, ‘Good. So there shouldn’t be any fock-ups.’

  I grab a shower then.

  There’s, like, seven or eight of the other goys in there with me, and, for the first time in my life, I feel – I’m just going to say it – body-conscious? I can’t help but notice that they’re all, like, seriously ripped – we’re talking actual eight-packs here.

  I’m, like, sucking my stomach in and clenching as I rub the shower gel over me, but I can feel them all having a good look at my Minka Kelly.

  In my head, I go back over what Bucky just said. Is it the country or the colour that’s the decoy word? Or is it the number? No, it couldn’t be the number, because the whole point of it is using that number to, like, count backwards through the letters.

  Jesus, I can’t even spell going forwards, never mind backwards.

  I get out of the shower, dry off and throw on the old threads. I hear someone go, ‘I wonder how many points it was for a try when he last played the game?’

  I just ignore it. I blank it out, like I used to blank out the haters when we played Blackrock or Clongowes or any of the others back in the glory days.

  I grab my gear bag and I head out to the cor, feeling miserable but at the same time happy? Because I’ve got a chance to prove myself – and that’s all I ever wanted.

  Just as I’m throwing my bag into the boot, I hear the beep of a horn outside on Churchview Road, then I hear a voice go, ‘Rosser, you transsexual!’

  I just laugh. Ronan would put you in instant good form. I look up and I end up having to do a double-take. My son is sitting behind the wheel of a double-decker bus.

  It’s not an ordinary double-decker bus either. It’s been painted black, roysh, and on the side there’s a twelve-foot-high picture of Nidge pointing a gun and then, in massive letters, it says, ‘The Love/Hate Tour of Dublin’.

  ‘I calt out to the gaff,’ he goes, ‘and Sorcha said you were playing rubby for Ballybrack.’

  I’m there, ‘The team is actually Seapoint, Ro.’

  He looks confused. He’s like, ‘You’re a long way from the fooken sea, Rosser.’

  I’m there, ‘Yeah, no, I know we’re technically in Ballybrack, but we don’t represent Ballybrack? We represent Seapoint.’

  ‘I gev up throying to wontherstand that game of yooers years ago. What do you think of me bus?’

  I can’t lie to him. I’m there, ‘It’s incredible. I’m going to have to say fair focks, Ro. I really am.’

  ‘We’re doing the foorst toower on Suttonday morden if you’re arowunt. Ine arthur tedding your auld fedda alretty.’

  I’m there, ‘Yeah, no, I’ll be there.’

  ‘Hop in,’ he goes. ‘I’ll bring you for an auld spin.’

  So I lock the cor and I climb into the bus and Ronan closes the doors.

  He goes, ‘We’re cheerching twenty euros for a two-hour toower – all the sites, Rosser.’

  I’m there, ‘Ro, I can’t tell you how impressed I am by this,’ as he takes the roundabout outside The Graduate and heads towards Dún Laoghaire.

  ‘Hee-or,’ he goes, ‘you’d want to see the bleaten looks I was getting offa your neighbours – snobby bastards.’

  I laugh. I’m like, ‘Yeah, no, they wouldn’t be used to seeing public transport on the Vico Road. They’ll be on to Dublin Bus – terrified it’s a new route!’

  ‘Good one, Rosser.’

  As he takes the Sallynoggin roundabout at, like, seventy Ks an hour, something suddenly occurs to me. ‘Hang on,’ I go, ‘you don’t even have a driving licence!’

  He’s there, ‘Let me know if you see the Filth, then. If Ine gonna outrun a squad car, Ine gonna need a good head steeert.’

  I’m, like, telling the boys a bedtime story. Johnny Sexton and the Miracle of Cordiff – again!

  They’re loving it as well.

  ‘Ross,’ Sorcha goes, ‘could you not just tell them a regular night-night story like a normal parent?’

  I’m there, ‘They seem to love the rugby ones, Sorcha.’

  ‘Fock Northampton!’ Leo goes.

  I’m there, ‘Fock Northampton is right, Leo! Fock Northampton is right!’

  Sorcha goes, ‘Oh, by the way, Caleb’s here!’

  I’m like, ‘Er – and this affects me how?’

  ‘I’m going to show him my letters from Madiba.’

  ‘I’m sorry but I’m struggling to give a fock right now – please try again later.’

  She laughs.

  ‘Men like you always end up being protective fathers,’ she goes.

  I’m there, ‘What do you mean by men like me?’

  ‘It’s not a criticism, Ross. I think it’s actually sweet.’

  ‘Well, if you must know, I’m not actually being protective. I just happen to think that Honor is borking up the wrong tree.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Sometimes, my wife is the most intelligent person I’ve ever met. Other times, she’s as focking thick as gutter mud.

  I’m there, ‘Are you genuinely that slow on the uptake? Caleb has a thing for you.’

  She’s like, ‘For me?’

  ‘Yes, you.’

  ‘What do you mean by a thing?’

  ‘A crush – whatever you want to call it.’

  ‘Oh, Ross, don’t be silly!’

  ‘I’m not being silly.’

  She’s there, ‘That’s ridiculous!’ although she ends up actually blushing?

  ‘The way he acts around you,’ I go. ‘Then cracking on to be interested in those stupid letters. Trust me, Sorcha, one player recognizes another. And this kid is a definite player – he’s years ahead of his time, in fact.’

  She’s there, ‘You’re being silly, Ross. He’s just a lovely little boy with nice manners, that’s all.’

  She heads downstairs, clutching the letters.

  I finish the story with the happy-ever-after ending of Johnny Sexton converting Nathan Hines’s sixty-fourth-minute try. Then they all settle down to sleep. I might give them Johnny Sexton Tames the Tigers tomorrow night.

  I tip down the stairs.

  They’re sitting in the living room. Honor and Caleb are both on the sofa and Sorcha is sitting next to them, on the orm. The letters are spread out on the coffee table and Caleb is throwing his eyes over them, going, ‘You are so lucky to have these!’

  I cop the smell straightaway. I actually laugh? I’m there, ‘Are you wearing aftershave, Player?’

  He gives me a look that you’d possibly describe as withering?

  I’m there, ‘It wouldn’t happen to be Spicebomb by Viktor & Rolf, would it? Which just so happens to be my wife’s favourite. I’m wondering did you hear her mention it or something?’

  He goes, ‘Yeah, we’re kind of busy here?’

  I’m like, ‘Yeah, no, I can see that. You’re some operator, I have to give it to you. Cracking on to be interested in those stupid letters.’

  ‘It’s for a project, if you must know.’

  ‘About heroes. So I heard. And you couldn’t have picked a rugby player, like presumably everyone else in your class? For instance, Keith Gleeson went to Michael’s – although you’ve probably nev
er even heard of him.’

  ‘I hate rugby. I told you.’

  ‘I know the dude personally and I can tell you it would kill him to hear you say that.’

  Honor looks at me and goes, ‘Rugby is only a stupid game,’ and I’m giving it to you word for word. ‘Madiba fought for, like, human rights – didn’t he, Mom?’

  Sorcha goes, ‘Yes, he did, Honor.’

  I’m there, ‘Human rights are for, like, poor people – not the likes of us. As my old man says, you never hear rich people banging on about their human rights.’

  Caleb goes, ‘That’s such an ignorant thing to say. Human rights are the only thing that separates us from the animals.’

  Sorcha’s there, ‘I’ve been a member of Amnesty International since I was about your age, Caleb. Actually, Honor’s a member, too – aren’t you, Honor?’

  Honor goes, ‘Yeah, my mom renews my membership every year for my birthday.’

  I’m there, ‘And Honor always goes, “What a waste of focking money – do you have any actual presents for me?” ’

  God, I’m storting to miss that girl.

  ‘Anyway,’ I go, ‘I can’t stand around talking about focking Mafusa all night – I’ve got shit to do,’ and I tip down to the kitchen to grab a Nespresso and my Tactics Book and do some work on the lineout calls for the match against Bective tomorrow. And when I say ‘do some work on the lineout calls’, I mean try to work out what the fock Bucky was talking about last night.

  So I’m sitting there, five minutes later, scribbling away in my book, trying to remember what the whole point of the colour and the animal was, when all of a sudden I look up and notice Caleb standing there, staring at me.

  I actually laugh when I see him?

  I go, ‘That’s some focking effort you’re putting in, Bieber. Although I think you should tell Honor the truth. I don’t like the way you’re stringing her along.’

  He goes, ‘Those letters are fake.’

  He says it just like that – out of the blue.

  I’m there, ‘What are you talking about?’, trying to not look guilty?

  ‘Nelson Mandela didn’t write those letters,’ he goes. ‘That’s not his handwriting – I’ve seen his handwriting – and also the word peace is spelled P, I, E, C, E.’