Game of Throw-ins Read online

  The old man sort of, like, chuckles to himself. ‘And to think,’ he goes, ‘we all worried about the future that we were bequeathing to young Ronan’s generation. After the whole economic meltdown business, I mean. I’m looking at him there and I’m thinking, Well, we needn’t have worried at all. Never underestimate a man’s ability to turn a bad hand into a better one.’

  I’m there, ‘Is there a lesson in there for me or something?’

  ‘There’s a bloody well miracle going on around you, Ross. Ireland is on the up and up again. Who would have thought that even possible a few years ago? We were an economic basket-case. Now look at us! The skyline is full of cranes again. They’re saying that within the next twenty years, houses in Dublin could be worth what people are actually paying for them!

  ‘That hasn’t happened by accident, Ross. And it had nothing to do with our so-called political leaders – your friend Lucinda, and the rest of them. No, it’s happened because of the unique spirit of the Irish people – evidenced by your son, there. You see, we’re a bloody hardheaded race of people, the Irish. We don’t know when we’re beaten. And that’s one thing you were famous for, Ross, when you played rugby and Denis instilled it in you. You never, ever gave in.’

  Byrom actually laughs when he sees me sitting there, changing into my training gear.

  He goes, ‘Oy dudn’t thunk yoy’d come beck,’ and then, before I get a chance to say a word, he goes, ‘Oy’m glad yoy dud, Moyt.’

  There’s not too many in the dressing room who feel the same way – that’s judging from the looks I’m getting? I can see the likes of Senny and Maho and even little Dordo staring at me in just, like, shock. They genuinely can’t believe I’d show my face around here again after what happened at the weekend.

  I tie the laces of my famous Christophe Lamaison’s and I think of something else Father Fehily used to say: ‘Cowards never start. The weak never finish. Winners never quit.’

  There’s still no sign of Bucky, I notice. I wonder is he even coming tonight.

  I do some stretches while they all continue to just stare at me.

  I look at Senny and I try to reach out to him – what’s the phrase, expand the olive branch?

  ‘I thought you kicked very well against Bective,’ I go. ‘It was one of the upsides for us – especially the conversion. It was a pretty tough angle.’

  He looks at me like I’ve just offered to braid his hair. He goes, ‘Do you honestly think I need compliments from you?’

  I found out, by the way, through Googling him, that Senny won a Leinster Schools Senior Cup runners-up medal with Clongowes last year. Of course now he thinks he knows it all.

  A runners-up medal. I can’t stress that enough.

  I’m there, ‘I’m actually saying fair focks to you, Senny.’

  He goes, ‘And I’m saying that means nothing to me. You can’t even think without moving your lips – and, what, you’re going to tell me how to play number ten?’

  That’s when Bucky arrives. He sees me standing there and he laughs – except not in a good way. He shakes his head.

  Byrom goes, ‘You’re loyte. Hurry up and choynge.’

  Then out into the February wind and rain we go.

  I end up putting in an unbelievable shift, determined not to let them break my spirit. I throw myself at the scrum machine like a bull at a gate and I manage to correctly guess most of the lineout calls and my throws end up being pretty much perfect.

  There ends up being a moment just before the Captain’s Run when Bucky tries to give me a shoulder nudge, except I actually anticipate it? I just horden my shoulder and he ends up coming off worse. It’s like he’s walked into a wall.

  I’m happy with my evening’s work, as is Byrom, who puts his orm around my shoulder as I’m leaving the pitch and goes, ‘What yoy just dud took character. Good on yoy, Moyte.’

  It’s just what I need to hear. But when we get back to the dressing room, it ends up all kicking off again.

  I’m actually throwing on my civvies when I notice that Bucky is holding several sheets of paper in his hand. I have no idea what the fock they are, but from the way he’s looking at me, I suspect that I’m about to find out.

  ‘Coach,’ he goes, ‘can I talk to you about something?’

  Byrom’s like, ‘What’s on your moynd, Bucky?’

  ‘It’s actually something I found on the Internet. Something I think should be of interest to everyone in this dressing room.’

  ‘So what us ut? Put us aaht of our musery.’

  ‘Well, the headline is Former Schools Cup Hero Guilty of Doping.’

  Fock.

  I shake my head and I pull a face to suggest that this is as much a mystery to me as it is to everyone else in the room. I could always claim it’s a different Ross O’Carroll-Kelly.

  The dude then storts reading out the piece.

  He’s there, ‘South Dublin school Castlerock College are to be stripped of the Leinster Schools Senior Cup title they won in 1999 after an admission by their former captain that the school had a doping programme. Ross O’Carroll-Kelly, who was once tipped as a future Ireland number ten, recently admitted in an interview that he had used performance-enhancing drugs extensively in the lead-up to the school’s only schools cup triumph on St Patrick’s Day 1999. Newbridge College, who finished as runners-up, will now be awarded the title.’

  There’s a lot of, like, headshaking and all the rest of it.

  I’m getting ready to get my excuses in. It’s a pretty common name, nothing was actually proven – blah, blah blah. But that’s when Byrom goes, ‘Oy knoy all abaht ut. Oy can use the Internut as will, you knoy?’

  Bucky’s like, ‘So you know he’s a drug cheat and you’re still happy to have him in the team?’

  I still haven’t said a word, bear in mind.

  Byrom goes, ‘Ut was a long toym agoy. He was just a kud.’

  Bucky looks at me then. He’s like, ‘Do you have anything to say? I mean, are you on drugs now?’

  I’m there, ‘No, I’m not on drugs now.’

  He goes, ‘And we’re supposed to just believe that, are we?’

  I’m like, ‘Hey, it was a few methamphetamine injections and then something unpronounceable that they use on racehorses. I’ve never made any secret of what I did – well, not once my solicitor advised me to change my plea from not guilty to guilty.’

  ‘So you’re a cheat – you’re admitting that?’

  ‘I suppose you could make the argument that what I did was cheating. But I would have still been great – with or without drugs.’

  It’s actually Senny who throws in his Fiddy Cent’s worth then.

  ‘We’re bottom of the table,’ he goes, ‘and we’re facing relegation to Division 2C. But I’d rather go down fighting honestly than stay up doing it some other way. At least I can put my hand on my hort and say that I’ve deserved everything I’ve achieved in the game.’

  There’s, like, applause from the rest of the team.

  ‘Which is what exactly?’ I hear myself go.

  He’s like, ‘What did you just say?’

  ‘I’m asking you what exactly you think you’ve achieved in the game. You’re the kicker on a team that hasn’t won a match all season. Apparently, you nearly made the Leinster Academy last year, just like you nearly made the first team in Lansdowne. Oh, and you’ve got a Leinster Schools Senior Cup medal – a focking runners-up medal!’

  Everyone goes, ‘Whooooaaahhh!’ because I’m dissing not only him but two or three others in this dressing room who were on the same Clongowes team.

  I’m there, ‘For all your talent, you’re the ultimate nearly man, aren’t you?’

  He tries to go, ‘There’s a lot of current Irish internationals who don’t have a Leinster Schools Senior Cup medal of any colour,’ which is a weak comeback, it has to be said.

  I’m there, ‘I won a runners-up medal myself back in 1998 – the year before I won the real thing. Do you want to know
what I did with it?’

  He goes, ‘You better not say what I think you’re about to say.’

  ‘I used it to pick the mud off my boots, then I focked it in the Dodder. I just figured it was the best place for it. What with it being a medal for focking losers.’

  He stares at me for a good ten seconds, seething.

  I’m there, ‘If you had any self-respect, you’d do exactly the same thing with yours.’

  He suddenly makes a run at me, except three or four of the goys grab him and hold him back. They’re going, ‘He’s not worth it, Senny. He’s a fat focker and he’s finished.’

  I grab my gear bag and I go, ‘Thanks for the session, goys,’ just letting them know that I’m mentally strong enough to take whatever gets thrown at me from here on in. ‘I’ll see you on Thursday night.’

  I head out to the cor. Byrom follows me outside. He’s like, ‘Russ?’ and I turn around. He goes, ‘Well done, Moyt.’

  I’m there, ‘I’m not sure it was. I think I’ve just succeeded in pissing them off even more.’

  ‘Ut’s what Sinnoy noyds to hear. Yes, he’s got begs of potintial, but you’re toytally royt – he’s achoyved nothing. He has a hibit of bloying ut on the bug occasions. He noyds to hear ut. Look, Oy want to puck yoy for the goym aginst Hoyfoyld.’

  ‘Highfield? When are we talking?’

  ‘A woyk on Saturdoy. Ut’s in Cork.’

  ‘I don’t know, Byrom. Look, I’m really glad I came back tonight – especially after what happened at the weekend. I think I proved one or two doubters wrong. I may have even proved a thing or two to myself. But I can’t see these goys ever accepting me.’

  ‘Trust moy – they wull. Yoy’re gonna wun them oyver.’

  ‘And how am I going to do that?’

  ‘Boy maahstering the daahk aahts.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The daahk aahts.’

  ‘Are you trying to say dork orts?’

  ‘Exictloy. The daahk aahts. Look, Oy knoy that yoy ployed at number tin, but yoy must remimber some of the trucks poyple got up toy in the scrum back in the doy.’

  ‘Yeah, no, I suppose I do.’

  ‘Well, that’s what Oy want from yoy. Thoyse ployers, Russ, they’re all incridibloy strong and fut, but they’re toy facken soft. They ploy boy the royles. Do yoy knoy what Oy moyn?’

  ‘Not really, no.’

  ‘A lot of thoyse referoys we’re coming up aginst in the A.I.L. are boying faahst-tricked by the IRFU. They’re young – unexperienced. Yoy can royly troy it on wuth them. Do you git moy?’

  ‘I think I do now.’

  ‘That’s what Oy want to see from yoy aginst Hoyfoyld nixt woyk. These opposution pecks – they’re kicking the shut aaht of us. We noyd to haahden up. Thut’s what Oy thunk yoy can bring toy the toym.’

  ‘Look, Dude, I’m very flattered that you’d think that about me. But it’s a different game to the one I played.’

  ‘Lit moy aahsk yoy something. Since yoy funushed ploying the goym, did yoy ivver git the sinse thut moyboy yoy dudn’t fulfill your potintial?’

  ‘Every day of my life.’

  ‘That moyboy yoy had unfunushed business? That moyboy yoy stull had something toy offer?’

  ‘Like I said, I feel like that all the time.’

  ‘Well, woyk up, Moyte, because your toym has come. Ut’s here. Ut’s naah.’

  It’s, like, Saturday morning and I arrive home from reading Gerry Thornley’s Ireland v France preview over brunch in Dalkey to find Sorcha standing in the hallway, grinning at me like a focking chimp with lockjaw.

  I go, ‘Is everything alright, Babes?’ because I know from past experience that, when a woman smiles at you, it’s not necessarily an indication of happiness. It often is? But there are no guarantees – that’s the point I’m trying to make.

  A smile from Sorcha could mean a million different things. So the key is to take nothing for granted.

  ‘If this is about the toilet in the en-suite,’ I go, ‘I tried to flush it twice before I went out.’

  She walks over to me, puts her two orms around my neck and kisses me full on the mouth, the way she used to kiss me when we were, like, first going out together? I’ve kissed a lot of girls in my time, but no one does it as well as Sorcha – when she’s on her game.

  Okay, I’m thinking, so it’s definitely not the dancing bear in the upstairs jacks.

  ‘I’m going to repeat the question,’ I go. ‘Is everything okay?’

  She laughs. ‘Everything is fine,’ she goes. ‘I’m just the luckiest girl in the world, that’s all.’

  I’m there, ‘Is this about me being back playing rugby? Because I’m definitely in the team to play Highfield next weekend.’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with rugby. I’m just letting you know that I appreciate what an amazing, amazing husband you are.’

  Oh my God, I think we’re about to have sex.

  ‘Listen,’ she goes.

  I do.

  I’m there, ‘I can’t hear anything.’

  She goes, ‘Exactly. I dropped Honor down to Caleb’s house and my mom and dad have taken the boys to Imaginosity!’

  I stort unbuttoning my shirt before another word is even spoken.

  She grabs me by the hand and we race up the stairs. We kiss on the landing, then I pick her up, carry her into the bedroom and throw her down on the bed.

  We’re all over each other like DNA.

  I reach for the drawer. I’m there, ‘Hang on. I just need to throw on a scrumcap.’

  ‘No, you don’t,’ she goes. ‘Er, you had a vasectomy, remember?’

  And I’m like, ‘Oh, er, yeah, that’s right!’

  My wife thinks I had a vasectomy. It’s well over a year ago now. I possibly should tell her that I didn’t go through with it, except it only seems to occur to me when we’re about to have sex, and it’s the kind of detail that I always feel might possibly spoil the moment?

  So we stort going at each other like crazy people, tearing at each other’s clothes, mouths snapping away, promises and threats exchanged in the heat of the moment. And there I’m going to draw a discreet veil on proceedings out of respect for all the participants involved. Some people like to advertise what goes on in the bedroom. Not me. That’s not how the Rossmeister rolls.

  It’s probably enough just to say that everyone ends up having a fun day at the fair. Especially her. At one point – I think it’s fair to call it the climax of the action for hopefully both porties? – I’m standing in the doorway and Sorcha has her legs wrapped around my waist and she’s bobbing up and down like she’s on a baby door bouncer and she’s bleating madly like a sheep caught in a borbed-wire fence.

  But then, like I said, I’m a gentleman.

  Afterwards, we lie on the bed to try to get our breath back. Sorcha discusses various ways in which we could improve the experience for her next time – our old friend Duration gets its usual mench – while I nod off mid-conversation and sleep for what feels like two hours.

  When I wake again, I remember that I’m supposed to be meeting the goys for one or two lunchtime scoops before we head to the Aviva.

  I throw on my T-shirt and my boxers and I tip downstairs to the kitchen, thinking to myself, Do you know what would make this the perfect day – aport from obviously a win against France? If Sorcha’s old man walked through the front door right now and saw me in my jockeys, with a dirty grin on my face, stinking of sex with his daughter!

  Unfortunately, that doesn’t happen.

  I open the fridge. The first thing I do is pull the leg off the cooked chicken that Sorcha bought for tonight’s dinner. That’s going to be my storter. I horse into it, close the fridge and sit down on one of the high stools.

  And that’s when I suddenly see the flowers on the island in front of me. I recognize them straightaway as roses.

  I count them.

  One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven – and that one there makes
twelve.

  I find the little cord in among them. It’s just like, ‘To Sorcha. With all my love. Happy Valentine’s Day xxx.’

  I put the cord back and I pick the rest of the chicken leg clean. If there’s one lesson I’ve learned today, it’s that you can never underestimate how happy a girl will be to receive a bunch of flowers. They totally focking love them.

  But I can tell you something else – with my hand on my hort. I didn’t actually send these to my wife. As a matter of fact, I didn’t even know it was Valentine’s Day.

  Leo has learned a new word. It’s not ‘train’ or ‘banana’ or even ‘please’ or ‘thank you’.

  It’s ‘bastard’.

  He tries it out for the first time while we’re in the gorden, throwing the ball around. I make the mistake of laughing and of course that really gets him going.

  ‘Bastard!’ he’s going, at the top of his voice now. ‘Bastard! Bastard! Fock! Shit! Bastard!’

  I go, ‘Shush, shush, shush,’ and I throw him the ball. He catches it – he’s already got unbelievable hands – but then Brian absolutely creams him with a tackle. Leo ends up spilling the ball and then him and Brian end up rolling around on the ground, scratching and smacking and trying to bite each other.

  I think to myself, Actually – do you know what? – let them at it. It’ll horden the two of them up.

  Of course, Johnny suddenly bursts into tears watching them go at each other – I’m storting to wonder is he going to be into soccer – and that’s when Sorcha steps out into the gorden and goes, ‘Ross, I can’t believe you have them out in this cold!’

  I’m there, ‘It’s a winter game, Sorcha. It’s best that they get acclimatized to it now.’

  ‘Come on,’ she goes, picking Johnny up, ‘let’s get them indoors.’

  I grab Brian and Leo and bring them inside to the kitchen.

  Sorcha goes, ‘I’ve made some of my Jamie Oliver butternut squash soup – will you ask Honor does she want some?’

  So I tip upstairs to her bedroom. And that’s when, standing outside her door, I end up hearing it. The sound of my daughter sobbing.

  Now, I could count on one hand the number of times I’ve heard Honor cry and still have enough fingers left over to let Dan Biggar know what I think of his focking OCD, pre-kick ritual. The point I’m trying to make is that Honor has never been a crier. Even as a baby, she considered it a sign of weakness. Which is why it upsets me way more than it would if it was, say, Sorcha, who’ll cry at literally anything – Ed Sheeran lyrics, roadkill, anything with Gerard Butler in it.