Game of Throw-ins Read online

  I’m there, ‘Okay – and how would you have spelled it?’

  He laughs. He goes, ‘You wrote those letters, didn’t you?’

  I’m like, ‘You’re full of shit,’ because it was actually Oisinn.

  He goes, ‘You definitely wrote them. All that stuff about, “This Ross chap you told me about sounds like a genuinely good guy with a big future ahead of him in the game of rugby.”’

  ‘He loved the sport,’ I go. ‘There’s a famous photograph of him with Francois Pienaar.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’m not going to tell her.’

  ‘I wasn’t worried. I’m not worried.’

  ‘I’m not going to tell her because I don’t want to hurt her.’

  ‘She wouldn’t believe you anyway. She’d think you were full of shit – just like I do.’

  He ends up saying the most unbelievable thing to me then. He goes, ‘I don’t like the way you treat Sorcha.’

  I’m like, ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Yes, it is. You don’t respect her and you don’t love her the way she deserves to be loved. You’re not even interested in any of the things that she’s interested in.’

  ‘That’s because a lot of them are boring.’

  ‘You’re not worthy of her.’

  Seriously, he’s got more front than Brittas Bay.

  I’m there, ‘Not worthy of her? You don’t know shit! You’re nine.’

  ‘I’m ten. And one day, I’ll be eighteen. And by then, Sorcha will have got sense and she’ll have divorced you.’

  Okay, this is one creepy focking kid.

  I’m there, ‘You seem to have it all worked out, Bieber.’

  And he goes, ‘When that day comes, I think it’s only fair to warn you, I’m going to marry her.’

  Byrom reminds us of the job we’re facing.

  ‘Bictuv or noybodoy’s fools,’ he goes, ‘and we’d be croyzoy to under-istimoyte them. But at the staaht of the soyson, Oy’ve got to till yoy, this is one of the mitches Oy maahked daahn as a hoym wun. We’re bitter thin Bictuv – Oy royly doy beloyve that, despoyte our posution in the toyble. We’ve got eight goyms lift. We’re gonna noyd at loyst foyve wuns to have inny realustic hoype of remoyning in Divusion Toy Boy. Lit’s git the first of thoyse wuns todoy!’

  He claps his two hands together and everyone just, like, cheers. At the top of their voices, everyone suddenly storts shouting, ‘Come on, The Point! Let’s do this!’

  We’re each handed a jersey. I lay mine flat on my lap and I look at it. It’s not the red and black of Castlerock College. It’s the black, blue and green of Seapoint Rugby Club. It feels weird – of course it does – but I look at the crest and I think about that Mortello Tower, wherever the fock it even is, and I’m suddenly filled with pride.

  ‘’Mon, The Point!’ the shouts go up again.

  I stand up and I pull the jersey over my head, then down over my belly. Then I go to pop the collar and I realize that it doesn’t have one. It’s yet another way in which the game has changed.

  The players stort to file out of the dressing room and onto the field. I’ve got, like, serious focking butterflies. But then nerves are good. It’s all about channelling that energy in a positive way.

  Eat nerves, shit results is just another way of saying that.

  On the way out of the dressing room, I sidle up to Bucky and I go, ‘Can I just run through the lineout codes with you again?’

  He’s like, ‘I focking told you the lineout codes.’

  ‘Yeah, no, I wouldn’t mind doing just a quick recap.’

  ‘What, have you got Alzheimer’s or something?’

  ‘No, I don’t have Alzheimer’s. I just wouldn’t mind you telling me again so it’s, like, fresh in my head. There was something about a colour and an animal and a country.’

  He goes, ‘For fock’s sake,’ like it’s a massive, I don’t know, imposition. ‘The colour and the animal are irrelevant.’

  ‘You were the one who mentioned them.’

  ‘Because they’re a focking decoy. If I mention a colour or an animal, just focking ignore it, okay? The only relevant pieces of the code are the country and the number.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘So if I say Denmark Giraffe Four …’

  ‘The first thing I do is drop the Giraffe – the Giraffe is gone.’

  ‘Yes, the Giraffe is gone. It’s the fourth last letter of the word Denmark. Which is M. Which means we’re expecting the ball to be thrown to the middle.’

  ‘Yeah, no, that’s, em, pretty straightforward alright.’

  ‘Just make sure you get it right. And make sure you put your focking weight in at scrum time. We’re not here to indulge your focking midlife crisis.’

  Anyway, the game storts and we end up scoring a try after, like, two minutes. Davy Dardis, our scrum-half – the smallest man on the field – gets over the line and Senny adds the points.

  But I’m getting a serious sledging in the scrum. The Bective hooker is going, ‘Jesus, the last time I saw a body like that, ten Japanese fishermen were chasing it in a trawler!’

  Either side of me, Bucky and Maho actually laugh – my own focking teammates. And I end up doing something that I’ve never done before on a rugby pitch – I fall to pieces. I end up giving away two stupid penalties, one after the other, and the Bective number ten kicks his team back to within a point of us with only, like, ten minutes gone.

  I’ve cost us six points. I’m having a mare. I don’t mind admitting that.

  Bucky keeps looking over at Byrom on the bench, asking him to do something – presumably he means take me off. He goes, ‘We’re playing with a focking seven-man pack.’

  Byrom does nothing, though. At least he’s determined to give me a proper chance to prove myself.

  Bucky just keeps bollocking me out of it. He goes, ‘You’re in the wrong focking place every focking time!’

  I’m there, ‘I’m doing my best, Dude.’

  And he’s like, ‘Your best is going to get us relegated. If Byrom’s not going to do anything about this, I focking will!’

  The match is, like, twenty minutes old when we win our first lineout. The players line up as I grab the ball in my two hands, pull it back over my head and wait for the call.

  Bucky goes, ‘Azerbaijan Six Deep Maroon.’

  It’s, like, what the fock? Which one of those words is a country? It’s got to be Abrakebab, doesn’t it? So how many letters back – did he say six? Jesus, how do you even spell it?

  I end up thinking about it for too long. Bucky and the others are screaming at me. They’re going, ‘Throw the ball! Throw the focking ball!’

  I end up panicking and I just fock the thing into the air. Bective win the lineout, then five phases later, they score a try, which ends up getting converted, to put them, like, six points ahead.

  There’s no doubt who my teammates blame.

  The next time there’s a break in play, Bucky gives me a shove in the chest. He’s like, ‘I told you the focking code.’

  I’m there, ‘Abrakebab? Are you taking the focking piss?’

  ‘I said Azerbaijan. It’s a focking country.’

  ‘That’s a debate for another day. You couldn’t have thought of an easier one to spell, no?’

  ‘It was B for Back. It couldn’t have been anything else. There’s no F or M in it.’

  ‘And how the fock was I supposed to know that? I didn’t even know it existed until five seconds ago.’

  We end up having to be separated by Maho and the rest of the pack.

  From the sideline, Byrom shouts, ‘Goys, yoy’re suppoysed to boy on the soym soyd.’

  The Bective goys are loving it, of course.

  We end up conceding a second try – this one, not my fault? – but then we somehow manage to break downfield. Maho drags one of their players into touch while in possession and we suddenly have another lineout ten yords from the Bective try line.

  I pick up the ball again and wait for Bucky�
��s call.

  He goes, ‘Federated States of Micronesia Amazonian manatee twenty-seven.’

  You’re taking! The focking! Piss!

  Which he is. It’s a sad state of affairs when your team captain is prepared to basically throw the match just to prove a point about one of his teammates.

  He shouts it again. He’s like, ‘Federated States of Micronesia Amazonian manatee twenty-seven. Hurry up this time, for fock’s sake!’

  I think to myself, okay, the manatee thing must be the animal. So the country must be the first thing he said. Microfantasia. There’s definitely no B in there, because there’s no, like, buh sound? There’s definitely an F and it sounds very much to me like there might be an M. So it’s one or the other – we’re talking 50–50.

  In the end, they get fed up waiting. The referee warns me about time-wasting and they all stort shouting, ‘It’s the front! Throw it to the focking front!’

  Which I do – and Bective end up stealing it again.

  It gets quite heated when we go in at half-time. We’re, like, 26–7 down and I’m already out on my feet. I’m tired and beaten up and I feel like I’ve just played two matches back-to-back.

  Bucky’s going, ‘Isn’t this what I predicted? Isn’t this what I said would happen?’

  Byrom ends up actually defending me. He goes, ‘You’re suppoysed to boy toym moytes. You’re bloody well not behoving loyk ut.’

  Our inside centre – I don’t even know his name – goes, ‘He’s out of his depth,’ and of course I can’t offer anything in my own defence, except threats to deck various people in the dressing room.

  We go back out for the second half. The Bective goys have obviously picked up on the fact that we’re a divided team.

  They’re, like, focusing on me, going, ‘Where’s your focking Zimmer frame, old man?’ and laughing.

  None of them seem to know who I am or what I achieved in the game. I might as well have never played it before.

  Five, maybe ten minutes into the second half, we win another lineout, this time inside our own half. I’m determined to figure out the lineout call, even though Bucky is obviously deliberately trying to fock me over. I decide to try to, like, think faster.

  He goes, ‘Goitered gazelle Bosnia and Herzegovina twenty!’

  I’m thinking, Bosnia, Bosnia, Bosnia – okay, that’s got to be B for Back. Which means the ball has to go to the back!

  I launch it into the air. It ends up being a beautiful throw as well. But Bective end up stealing it and they score another try from it and it’s basically game over.

  Our two second rows – I don’t even know their names – end up seriously losing it with me.

  I’m there, ‘It’s not my fault they guessed right.’

  One of them goes, ‘They didn’t guess. You announced it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You said the word back.’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  Bucky goes, ‘You focking did. Unbelievable. Not only can you not focking scrummage, you can’t figure out lineout codes without moving your lips.’

  Shit.

  All in all, I would definitely have to be considered one of Ireland’s thickest people.

  We end losing by something ridiculous. I’m pretty sure it’s 45–7, but the only people who are still counting at the end are the referee and whoever’s covering the match for the papers.

  And then, as we’re walking off the pitch, Bucky gives me a seriously hord shove in the back and goes, ‘Congratulations. You’ve just played your first and last game for Seapoint.’

  4

  The Daahk Aahts

  ‘So,’ the old man goes, ‘what do you make of Lucinda Creighton’s latest move?’

  I’m like, ‘Who?’ and I genuinely mean it.

  ‘Oh, there’s talk of a new political party!’ he tries to go. ‘About to launch any day. I said to Hennessy, “Ross will have a line on this. And it’ll be something suitably acerbic – better put the old hard hat on, old scout!” ’

  I’m there, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about and neither do I give a fock?’

  He suddenly bursts out laughing. ‘Oh, I can’t wait to report back to your godfather! Acerbic is the word alright! I just hope I can remember it word for word.’

  ‘I said I don’t know what you’re talking about and neither do I give a fock?’

  ‘That was it! Oh, it’d take a brave man to steer you onto the subject of politics, Kicker! Although brave or foolhardy, I’m not sure which! I think I would have been on safer ground bringing up Ireland’s Six Nations victory over Italy yesterday!’

  This conversation, by the way, is taking place upstairs on Ronan’s brand-new, second-hand, double-decker bus. We’re hurtling along the south Dublin quays in the general direction of Heuston Station, the two of us freezing our nuts off. It’s the first day of the Love/Hate Tour of Dublin and from where I’m sitting, Ronan is totally nailing it.

  ‘Cubben up on the left,’ he’s going, into his little headset microphone, ‘is the pub where Real IRA gang boss Git was moordered by Tommy arthur Git raped he’s boord, Shivodden, in the foorst episode of Seerdies Tree.’

  Fifty heads instantly turn. Everyone has their camera phones out and they’re pointing them at the building.

  ‘The moorder of Git, arthur a thrink and thrugs binge on Patty’s Day, kicked off the toorf war that was to clayum meddy, meddy lives before the seerdies ended.’

  He’s really hamming up the Dublin accent. Give the punters what they want. I suppose that’s what you have to do in this day and age. I turn to the old man. I’m like, ‘Are you catching any of this?’

  ‘The occasional word,’ he goes. ‘Murder seems to be a recurring theme. I’ve picked up on that much. You must be so proud of him, Kicker. He’s a go-getter – not unlike you, of course.’

  I’m like, ‘Me? I’m not a go-getter. I’ve done fock-all with my life.’

  He goes, ‘I think you’re being rather hard on yourself there, Ross,’ and then there’s a moment of silence when he tries to come up with something worth mentioning. In the end, he just changes the subject. He goes, ‘By the way, isn’t it wonderful to see your mother so happy with this new chap of hers?’

  I actually laugh.

  I’m there, ‘Er, why wouldn’t she be happy? She’s about to marry a billionaire who happens to be gaga.’

  He goes, ‘I’m not sure I’d use the word gaga, Ross.’

  ‘Er, were you in the restaurant? You saw and heard what happened.’

  ‘Your mother seems to think it was an issue with his medication – shouldn’t have been drinking with it, by all accounts.’

  ‘And you buy that, do you?’

  ‘Ross, you’re not suggesting that your mother is taking advantage of this chap, are you?’

  ‘Seriously – how could you be married to that woman for thirty-whatever years and not know the first thing about her?’

  Buckets of Blood, I’m relieved to say, is driving the bus. I know for a fact that the old man has promised to pay his wages for twelve months until the business is properly up and running.

  He can be alright, my old man, when he’s not being a knob.

  ‘Next,’ Ronan goes, ‘we’re gonna see the newsachunt shop where Dadden’s brother, Robbie, got shot in the foorst episode of Seerdies One. Robbie was just arthur being released from Cloverhill Prison and Tommy was apposed to pick him up, except he was late, because he was arthur been giving Dadden and Robbie’s sister, Meerdy, the royud …’

  Buckets swings the bus right and over, I don’t know, whichever Liffey bridge it actually is. I’ve already got pretty much hypothermia. Fock knows how cold it’s going to be on this side of the city. The old man hands me his hip flask. A whack of XO is just what I need.

  He goes, ‘Do you mind my saying, Ross, you don’t seem your usual jovial self today?’

  I end up just blurting it out. ‘You might as well know,’ I go. ‘I went back playing rugby in the end. Fo
r Seapoint.’

  He’s there, ‘You should have told me! I wouldn’t have missed that for the world!’

  ‘Well, you’ll be happy to hear you were right. I made a complete focking tit of myself against Bective.’

  ‘Look, Ross, I probably could have been a little more supportive when you mentioned that you were considering making a comeback.’

  ‘Are you listening to me? I’m saying you were right. Rugby has moved on. It’s a young man’s game now.’

  ‘You’ll be wonderful, Ross, once you adjust to the pace of it.’

  ‘I won’t, because I’m not going back. I’ve been a lot of things in my life. But one thing I’ve never been is a laughing stock. That’s what I was against Bective.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s not true, Kicker.’

  ‘You weren’t there. I was playing hooker.’

  ‘Hooker? Good Lord!’

  ‘I couldn’t work out the lineout calls without moving my lips and giving the game away. We ended up taking a serious tonking and it was all down to me and my stupid brain.’

  ‘What, so you’re just going to give up?’

  ‘That’s the plan, yeah. I must have been mad to think I could still hack it in Division 2B of the All Ireland League.’

  ‘Oh, so you’re a quitter now, are you? That’s interesting.’

  ‘I’m not a quitter. I just couldn’t show my face in, let’s be honest, Ballybrack again.’

  ‘All I’m saying is that, well, it’s not what Denis Fehily taught you. If at first you don’t succeed, you’re running about average. That was one of his, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Stop.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re pushing all kinds of buttons there and you know it.’

  ‘All I was trying to say was –’

  I end up shouting at him then. I’m like, ‘You’re pushing all kinds of buttons – end of story!’

  We sit there in silence then, listening to Ronan’s running commentary. He’s holding up a T-shirt for everyone on the bus to see.

  ‘These are avaidable in tree sizes for €15.99,’ he goes. ‘Each T-shoort caddies a lifelike depiction of John Boy’s famous Last Supper mewerdle from Seerdies Two, featurding Bob Merely, Michael Cottons, Boppy Saddens and Tupac Shikewer …’