Game of Throw-ins Read online

  Sorcha goes, ‘Well, as long as you don’t think it’s a problem, Flidais, I’m happy to just ignore it and let it hopefully run its course.’

  It’s at that exact point that the little focking weirdo shows his face in the kitchen. He goes, ‘Mum, can I sleep here tonight?’

  Flidais goes, ‘What? No, of course you can’t sleep here!’

  ‘Honor said I could.’

  ‘Well, maybe it’s not Honor’s place to tell you that.’

  ‘If I ask Sorcha and Sorcha says yes, then can I sleep here?’

  The little blond head on him – he really is full of himself.

  ‘Caleb,’ Flidais goes, ‘how many times have I had the conversation with you about what is and isn’t appropriate behaviour?’

  Caleb’s there, ‘Is it because he doesn’t want me to stay?’

  He, by the way, is me. He flicks his thumb in my general postcode.

  ‘I’ll answer that,’ I go. ‘I definitely don’t want you staying here. I’m with your French teacher on this one – Miss Bleu Bleu Bleu – I find the whole thing a bit creepy.’

  Sorcha’s like, ‘Ross!’

  I’m there, ‘I call as I see, Sorcha. I call as I see.’

  I walk out of the kitchen and I tip up to the living room, where Honor is sitting with the movie paused.

  ‘What’s it like?’ I go. ‘Is it a steaming pile of shit like you said before?’

  She’s like, ‘No – it’s actually a really good movie if you give it a chance.’

  ‘I remember, just before you walked out of the cinema, you were cheering for the tiger to eat the kid. It was very funny.’

  In her eyes, I’m sure I can see a faint flicker of the old Honor.

  I’m there, ‘You shouted, “Eat the focking kid, already – he’s been pissing me off since the opening credits!” It was one of my favourite of all your quotes. Do you know who else loved that quote?’

  She goes, ‘Who?’

  ‘Your Auntie Erika.’

  ‘Did she?’

  ‘And she’s a real bitch. The genuine orticle. She laughed for a good ten minutes when Sorcha told her.’

  After a few seconds, she goes, ‘Well, that was before. It’s actually a good movie. Can Caleb sleep here tonight?’

  I’m like, ‘No, he can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Honor, look, he’s told you he’s not interested. Not in that way.’

  ‘I know he doesn’t want to go out with me, but we can still be friends.’

  ‘Men and women can’t be friends, Honor. It’s never worked and it never will.’

  ‘Well, I’ve decided that I’d rather have him in my life as a friend than not have him in my life at all.’

  It kills me to hear my daughter talking like that. She’s going to get dicked around her entire life if that’s what she genuinely believes.

  ‘Honor,’ I go, ‘take it from me, this thing isn’t going anywhere. He has a thing for older women because there’s something wrong with him. Right now it happens to be your mother. As soon as it wears off, you’re not going to have him in your life either way.’

  ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘I’m saying this out of concern for you. Get out now, Honor, before you get hurt.’

  But Honor gives it the full theatrics. She bursts into tears and runs out of the room, going, ‘I can’t get out! I can’t get out! I’m too in love with him!’

  The Highfield players are singing whatever that focking song is called – ‘The Banks of My Own Lovely Lee’. This is before they even go out on the pitch. One thing is for sure – their mothers didn’t raise many singers.

  ‘Lusten to thet,’ Byrom goes. ‘Thut’s called pession. They want to wun. If woy doyn’t at loyst mitch thet pession, woy moyt as will goy hoyme naah. They sing thut song to troy to intumidoyt us. Are woy gonna boy intumidoyted?’

  We’re all like, ‘No!’

  ‘Oy sid, are woy gonna boy intumidoyted?’

  We’re all there, ‘NO!’ except even louder this time?

  He goes, ‘Thet’s good to hear. Because a lot of toyms come here and they’re boyten before thoy oyven stip ontoy the foyld of ploy. That’s whoy they’re singing in there – abaaht thet fuckun river. Ut’s their woy of litting yoy goys knoy thut they’re unoytud – they have a collivtuv identitoy. They’re from Cork – and thut moyns something to them.’

  ‘Fock Cork!’ Maho shouts. ‘Fock them and their English Morket and their Jazz Festival and their ridiculous up-and-downy way of talking.’

  From the reaction, it’s obvious he speaks for everyone here.

  Dordo goes, ‘Yeah, if they want to talk like that, why don’t they just go and live in focking Wales.’

  There’s no doubt we’re pumped for this one.

  ‘Alroyt,’ Bucky goes, ‘lit moy soy some of thet attitoyde aaht on the putch.’

  As we’re leaving the dressing room, he pulls Bucky to one side and I hear him go, ‘Oy hoype your luttle strop is oyver, Moyte, because you pull inny of thut shut you dud the laahst doy with the loyn-ahht calls, Oy’m toyking yoy off – captain or not. Do yoy understaahnd moy?’

  I don’t actually hear Bucky’s answer because I’m already walking out onto the pitch.

  Highfield make us wait before they come out. It’s all port of their game plan, I’m sure. Then out they trot. Again, they’re young – they’re basically kids to me, we’re talking twenty-two, maybe twenty-three years old.

  They don’t think much of us, judging from the way they’re looking at us.

  I hear their loosehead turn to their tighthead and go, ‘Aren’t they a fine clutch! Oh, tis mighty fun we’ll have this day, swatting them away like harvest midges dying for the want of a bite!’

  Or maybe that’s just what I hear when people from the country talk.

  I’m looking for their hooker and then I suddenly cop him with the number two on his back. He’s a big focker – we’re talking fifteen, maybe sixteen stone of pure muscle. He’s got, like, a proper gym body, which he’s obviously proud of, judging from the way he carries himself. But he’s younger than the others – we’re talking nineteen or twenty at the most, with a handsome, tanned face.

  He catches my eye and goes, ‘God welcome you! If a finger was in your eye, you wouldn’t see it for the thrubble that’s coming your road this day! You may ask the Lord Himself for His Mercy, for tis known He prefers prayers to tears!’

  The other Highfield players seem to find this hilarious.

  I rub my hand over my stubbly face, then we suddenly kick off.

  From what I can gather from the shouts of his teammates, his name seems to be Con. And it doesn’t take long before I come literally face to face with him when we’re awarded a scrum right on their twenty-two-metre line with only, like, three or four minutes gone.

  We bind, Bucky to my right, Maho to my left, then we engage. Badoom! Two tonnes of bone and muscle colliding. As I’m coming in, I give this Con focker a good rub with my stubble, right on his focking cheekbone. I hear him go, ‘The devil mend you!’ but it only increases his determination to hook the ball, which he does and they end up winning the scrum.

  But a couple of minutes later, there ends up being another one – this time, it’s their put-in? I do the same shit. I hit him on the exact same spot with my chin – an even horder rub this time?

  He goes, ‘The crow’s curse on you!’ and I end up shunting him back a good ten metres, showing unbelievable strength, before their scrum just collapses like a detonated building and we’re awarded a penalty right in front of the chopsticks.

  As I’m climbing to my feet again, Con gives me a shove in the chest. ‘Upon my word, you’re a polished trickster!’ he goes. ‘And you laughing from the teeth out!’

  One of his teammates ends up having to drag him away, going, ‘Fret not, you’ll have your own back, for it is true for you as it’s true for me – there’s no cure for misfortune than to kill it with patience!’

  Bu
cky slaps me on the back and goes, ‘Well done, Rossi!’ Not Ross, or Rosser, or even the Rossmeister General. He calls me Rossi. It’s a new one. But then this is a new me, so I don’t bother correcting him. I just go, ‘Thanks, Dude,’ then I pick up the ball, throw it to Senny and I go, ‘Now you do your thing.’

  Which he does. He slots it over to put us 3–0 up.

  The Highfield players stort complaining to the referee. Their captain goes, ‘You haven’t the eyes to see a bull nor a thimbleful of sense, for tis obvious their hooker is the very devil for causing thrubble – and him still waiting for you to give him a bar of your tongue!’

  But the referee looks a good five years younger than I am. I look at him and I’m there, ‘There’s fock-all in the rules about having to have a shave before a match. It’s like Nigel Owens always says – it’s not soccer.’

  The referee seems to accept this explanation and he tells the Highfield players that I haven’t broken any laws.

  It storts to rain, then – as in, like, really pissing down? The pitch quickly turns wet and slippery. It’s already obvious that this isn’t going to be a day for free-flowing rugby with lots of pretty tries. It’s one of those days when you could nearly tell players eleven-to-fifteen to get back on the bus now. They have no business being here. Today is going to be all about the forwards.

  Still buzzing on my early success in the scrum, I end up throwing myself into tackles. I’m sore all over from about the tenth minute. After a short while, I stort to become aware of a familiar voice calling from the sideline, going, ‘That’s it, Seapoint! It’s a day for the proverbial boot, bite and bollock!’

  I actually laugh. He came all the way down to Cork to see me play. He’s un-focking-believable. I know I give him a hord time, but he’s always there to support me, no matter what I’m doing.

  ‘Who’s that annoying focker?’ Maho goes as we’re binding for another scrum.

  I’m there, ‘I don’t know. I’ve never seen him before in my life.’

  Bucky goes, ‘Must be one of the alickadoos. His voice is focking irritating, isn’t it?’

  It’s instantly one of my favourite all-time quotes.

  The two scrums engage again. I give Con another good rub of my chin and this time I end up drawing actual blood. I can feel, like, wet on my face as we shove their scrum back five metres, then ten metres, before they go down again.

  The referee blows the whistle. Another penalty. Maho and Bucky both slap me on the upper orm. They’re like, ‘Well done, Rossi! Well done!’

  Con jumps to his feet, blood pouring down his face, the skin around his cheekbone all torn, and he storts pointing at me in, like, a threatening way. He goes, ‘Bad cess to you! May your crop be tall and your meitheal small and may there never be enough of your people to make a half-set!’

  The referee tells him to calm down.

  Con goes, ‘He’s putting the roguery across on us all. Haven’t you eyes in your head to see he had the face torn off me with his beard?’

  I just happen to go, ‘Yeah, no, I’m surprised you don’t like it – your focking girlfriend loves it when I do it to her.’

  It’s just a throwaway line, roysh – the kind of shit you throw at each other the entire time on the rugby field – but the dude reacts like I’ve said something way worse than I actually have.

  He grabs a fistful of my shirt and there ends up being a shoving match involving all fifteen players from each side.

  When the referee finally restores order, Senny kicks us into a six-point lead.

  I can tell that I’m slowly gaining the trust and the respect of my teammates, because when we win our first lineout midway through the half, Bucky makes the code easy for me to crack by using a short country name and an animal that I’ve actually heard of.

  He goes, ‘Cuba two dog.’

  I cover my mouth with the ball while I reason it out. I go, ‘Okay, so you drop the dog. Then it’s, like, two, which means it’s the second-last letter of the country name, which is Cuba, which I’m guessing is spelt Q, U, B, A, which means the letter is B, which means the ball has to go to the … hang on … back of the lineout.’

  I throw the ball and it finds its torget. Maho catches it and we get a rolling maul going. Teamwork makes the dream work – that’s another one of Father Fehily’s phrases.

  It’s a seriously shit game of rugby, from a spectator’s point of view. But we make it to half-time six points to the good.

  I hear the old man shouting, ‘A masterclass in scrummaging from the Seapoint number two!’ like he thinks the whole world is his audience. ‘Why isn’t anyone from the IRFU here to see this? Fifteen years on, I’m forced to ask the question yet again!’

  I look over and I spot him, standing next to K … K … K … K … Kennet, who obviously drove him down here. I give him a nod to say hello and he goes, ‘Whither, Joe Schmidt – eh, Ross? You’ve already given him much to ponder here this afternoon!’

  We get back to the dressing room. The forwards look like they’ve played eighty minutes instead of forty, while most of the backs have barely got a lick of mud on them. Another forty minutes like that and they won’t even need to wash their gear.

  Bucky holds his hand out to me. He’s like, ‘Mark Buck.’

  He’s actually introducing himself.

  I shake his hand. I’m like, ‘It’s good to meet you, Dude.’

  He storts pointing out goys to me – mainly the forwards. ‘Barry O’Mahony, loosehead. Behind you, in the second row, that’s Gilly over there – Graham Gilligan – and that’s Dilly – Rob Dillon – with the big focking ears.’

  I’m just, like, nodding at these goys and they’re all, like, nodding at me.

  ‘Back row,’ Bucky goes, ‘blindside flanker, Eddie Wynne. Openside flanker, Andy Walpole. Number eight is Goffo – Stephen Godfrey. Scrum-half – Davy Dardis. Outhalf – Senan Torsney. You can meet the rest of the goys some other day.’

  Like I said, they might as well throw their civvies back on.

  Byrom tells us to keep the intensity going in the second half, because Highfield will come back at us – we can count on that much.

  Then he has a private word with me as I’m about to walk back out onto the pitch. He goes, ‘Whativah ut us you’re doying aaht there, koyp ut up.’

  Bucky claps his hands together and goes, ‘Come on, The Point!’ and everyone’s, like, kicking the walls and clenching their fists, actually storting to believe that we could get our first win of the season here today.

  As both teams are walking out onto the field again, I tip over to the Highfield captain – who’s their number ten – and I go, ‘Dude, I’m sorry it all kicked off earlier. That was down to me. I was bang out of order.’

  He’s actually surprised that I’m apologizing to him, though shocked is possibly more the word? He goes, ‘Bad scran to you, you blackguard!’

  I’m there, ‘Yeah, no, I genuinely mean it. Look, one thing you’re guaranteed when you come to Munster is a tough, tough match. But Munster players are famous for another thing – and that’s playing by the rules.’

  It’s utter horseshit, of course, but he seems to be buying it. Munster people love being told they’re great.

  I’m there, ‘Sledging has no port to play in the modern game. The words just came out of my mouth and, you know, I wasn’t expecting that reaction.’

  ‘Lookit,’ he goes, ‘give a sharp ear to me now. Poor Con is senseless after a woman he lost and neither God nor Mary nor St Patrick can ease his suffering!’

  I’m there, ‘A woman? Is that why he reacted the way he did when I mentioned his girlfriend?’

  ‘Indeed and indeed! And a finer-looking woman never stood in shoe leather – and she with skin as white as a swan! But, my sorrow, didn’t she leave him for his brother and it’s keening for her his heart is still! The cries out of him could be heard equally well in Kilcrohane as in Youghal!’

  His brother? Jesus. I’m tempted to say, That’s Cork for you. />
  Instead, I go, ‘God, that’s genuinely shit for him. Anyway, I’ll definitely watch what I say in the second half. At the end of the day, it’s only a nothing match, isn’t it? You’re mid-table and we’re heading for relegation either way. It’s not like there’s anything at stake.’

  The game restorts and Highfield do come back at us. For the first, like, fifteen minutes of the half, they end up throwing everything at us. There’s some unbelievable hits going in. They stort gaining territory, hord yord by hord yord. Eventually, they make it to within five metres of our line.

  Their number eight gets the ball in his hands and drives for the line, but I tackle him hord and he manages to spill it and Maho kicks it downfield and suddenly the siege is lifted. We all go haring after it and we spend the next five minutes pushing Highfield further and further back.

  One of their players knocks the ball on and we suddenly have a scrum just inside their twenty-two. As the two front rows are doing the whole binding thing, I look at poor Con’s face. One side of it is like a focking pizza – all red and raw.

  ‘Engage!’ the referee shouts.

  We do.

  As I’m coming at him, I give his face another quick sanding.

  ‘Aaarrrggghhh!’ he goes. ‘My sharp grief!’

  Then, as Dordo puts the ball in, I whisper in Con’s ear, ‘Yeah, no, I’d say that’s the same noise your girlfriend makes when your brother’s riding her!’

  Suddenly, it’s like pushing a revolving door – as in, there’s no real resistance coming back. We gain about five yords – me, with the ball under my feet – until Con eventually gets over the shock and storts pushing back.

  He storts trying to hook the ball. He almost manages it as well. He puts his foot on it. Then, again into his ear, I go, ‘I’d say he’s stuffing her right now! Saturday afternoon? Nothing focking surer! I’d say the headboard is knocking lumps of plaster off the wall!’

  He’s gone. We know it and they know it. It’s suddenly eight of us pushing seven of them. We’re pushing them further and further back. Dordo is standing at the back of the scrum, going, ‘Give it, give it, give it!’, looking for the ball so that he, or one of the backs, can finish the move.