Game of Throw-ins Read online

  When the dude walks off, I turn around to the old man and I go, ‘Bringing Johnny Sexton home? What the fock was all that about?’

  And he laughs – like someone has just said something hilarious – and goes, ‘I know what it is, Ross! I finally know why people are different towards me!’

  I’m like, ‘Why?’

  He smoothes down his brand-new head of hair with his hands and he goes, ‘They think I’m him, Kicker! They think I’m Denis O’Brien!’

  So it’s, like, seven o’clock on Wednesday evening. I’m sitting in the cor pork of Dundrum Town Centre, checking myself out in the rearview mirror. I rub my hand over my still stubbly face. I have to admit that I’m looking well. I get out of the cor and stort making my way through the cor pork and into the actual shopping centre. That’s when my phone rings. It ends up being Bucky.

  ‘Rossi,’ he goes, ‘where are you?’

  I’m there, ‘Yeah, no, I’ve just porked. I’ll be there in five.’

  He goes, ‘Dude, you have to rip the piss out of Goffo when you get here!’

  Goffo is our number eight. He’s third-year Orts in UCD.

  I’m like, ‘Why, what’s he done?’ already laughing along with him.

  Bucky goes, ‘Yeah, no, it’s more what he’s wearing? The dude’s turned up in – I swear to fock – a Ralph Lauren polo shirt!’

  I hear all this, like, laughter in the background.

  Fock it, I think, because I’m wearing a Ralph Lauren polo shirt as well.

  I make sure to laugh, though. I’m there, ‘No focking way!’

  Okay, what the fock is wrong with a Ralph Lauren polo shirt?

  He goes, ‘Yes focking way! I said to him, “What year do you think this is, Goffo – 2005?” ’

  I’m there, ‘Focking ridiculous. No one wears Ralph anymore. These days it’s all …’

  I’m about to say Abercrombie.

  ‘Hollister!’ he goes. ‘Exactly!’

  I’m there, ‘I’ve a good mind to give him a wedgy when I get there! That’s what would have happened back in the day. One thing would have automatically followed the other.’

  ‘Well, we’re ripping him here in a major way. Do us a favour, Rossi. Pretend we haven’t spoken to each other. Then when you rock up, you just look at him and go, “Ralph Lauren? Jesus, Goffo, I haven’t seen anyone wear that for about ten years!” ’

  ‘I’ll do it. I’m going to definitely do it.’

  ‘It’d be hilarious coming from you.’

  I suddenly remember that there’s, like, a Hollister store on Level 2. Up the escalators I go.

  I’m like, ‘Bucky, I’ve just realized that I’ve forgotten something. I have to go back to the cor.’

  He goes, ‘Cool. But don’t forget to rip him when you get here!’

  I’m there, ‘Oh, I’ll be ripping him alright! Don’t you worry about that!’

  I hang up, then into the store I go. I say store, but the place is more like a nightclub. It’s, like, pitch dork in there, with spotlights dotted around the place, flashing red, white and green, and a dance version of ‘Can You Feel the Love Tonight?’ blaring out at a volume loud enough to make your brain bleed.

  Some teenager with no top on and abs like an upturned egg tray comes dancing over to me, all enthusiasm.

  I’m suddenly feeling my age again.

  He goes, ‘Are you alright for sizes?’

  I hate fockers who ask you that question before you’ve even looked at anything. I generally go, ‘Yeah, I’m looking for a medium, please?’

  And they’re like, ‘A medium? In what, though?’

  And then I go, ‘Yeah, that’s what I’m here to decide. Now fock off and let me have a proper look around.’

  I don’t say that this time, though. Instead, I go, ‘I’m just, er, having a general mooch.’

  He goes, ‘I’m Marcus. Are you looking for anything specific?’

  The dude is still focking dancing, by the way, shaking his hips and doing the whole Saturday Night Fever finger-dance thing.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I go, ‘just some kind of top.’

  He’s like, ‘A T-shirt?’

  ‘Yeah, no, a T-shirt would probably do the trick alright.’

  ‘The T-shirts are over here!’

  He leads the way, dancing with his two hands held above shoulder-height in a sort of, like, raise the roof kind of way? Then he stops. In case I’m in any doubt as to where I should be looking, the dude storts doing this dance where it’s like he’s thumbing a lift – except he’s using his thumb to point over his shoulder at a display of different-coloured T-shirts, all perfectly folded and arranged in neat piles on the table.

  ‘Yeah, no,’ I go, ‘I think I’ve got this now.’

  I pick up a blue polo shirt with the word ‘Hollister’ written across the chest in massive capital letters.

  The dude goes, ‘You like that one? What’s your size?’

  I’m there, ‘Yeah, I think I’m either a medium or a lorge.’

  He looks at my midriff in a Scooby Dubious way, then he goes, ‘Yeah, maybe in Ralph Lauren you are – I’m going to give you this one in XXL.’

  I’m there, ‘XXL? You’ve got to be shitting me.’

  He hands me the T-shirt in XXL. He’s like, ‘Here you go! The fitting rooms are just over there.’

  I tip over, with the T-shirt in my hand, convinced that it’s going to be swimming on me. In I go. I whip off the Ralph and pull the Hollister on over my head.

  Holy fock, it’s a snug fit. I end up having to breathe in and hold it to pull the thing down over my Ned. This is supposedly XXL! I’m thinking, Who focking decides these things? And who the fock would Small fit? People with only hours to live, presumably.

  I step out of the changing room. The track has changed. It’s now a really souped-up cover of ‘Feels Like I’m in Love’. Marcus dances over to me with a look of horror on his face. ‘I think we’re going to need a bigger size,’ he goes.

  I’m there, ‘Dude, I’m not wearing XXXL.’

  ‘It’s just this size is very tight on you.’

  ‘I’m not wearing XXXL, Marcus – end of conversation. This is going to have to focking do.’

  I hand him my balled-up Ralph. I’m there, ‘Stick that in the bin, would you? I’m going to wear this now.’

  He goes, ‘Gladly!’ and he dances over to the cash desk. I follow him, just walking, like a normal person.

  He tells me it’s sixty yoyos and I hand him my plastic. He sticks it in the machine and while I’m waiting for my receipt he storts singing. He’s going, ‘My knees are shaking, Baby – my heart it beats like a drum,’ and then he storts slapping his bare chest, going, ‘Boo-boo! Boo-boo! Boo-boo! Boo-boo! It feels like – it feels like I’m in love.’

  I eventually get out of there, blinking in the suddenly bright light of the shopping centre. I look down. It turns out that my blue T-shirt is actually a green T-shirt.

  I think, Fock it – there’s no way I’m going back in there.

  I head into the cinema. I spot the goys straight away. They’re over at the counter, getting popcorn and drinks and whatever else.

  They’re all delighted to see me. It’s amazing what a pushover try can do for your reputation.

  They’re like, ‘Rossi!’ and it ends up being hugs all round. They’re very huggy, I’ve noticed, young goys today. Back in my day, we could say everything we had to say with a high-five – or, if you were feeling particularly emotional, a chest-bump.

  I just go with it. I think I’m already becoming a big hero to them.

  I can see one or two of them checking out my T-shirt. They’re obviously big label heads. It’s nice that some traditions survive. Or maybe they’re looking at my gut, which the cut of this T-shirt seems to actually emphasize?

  I’m like, ‘Where’s Goffo?’

  Maho goes, ‘He’s in the jacks. Hammer him when he comes back, Rossi. Focking Ralph Lauren!’

  I shake my head and I go, �
��He’s out of order. I stopped wearing Ralph years ago!’

  I order a lorge popcorn and Coke, then I step out of the queue and that’s when I suddenly spot – oh, shit! – JP and Chloe walking in.

  Obviously, I don’t want them seeing me hanging out with a bunch of – let’s be honest here – kids, so I try to hide my face from them, but JP ends up copping me.

  He’s like, ‘Ross! Ross! Ross!’

  I turn around to the goys and I’m like, ‘Hang on a second – this dude over here has just recognized me, probably from my Senior Cup days.’

  I tip over to him. JP goes, ‘What the fock are you wearing?’

  I’m there, ‘It’s just a T-shirt – what’s your focking issue?’

  He’s like, ‘It’s February, Ross. Are you not freezing?’

  ‘Hollister,’ Chloe goes, like it’s a new one on her. ‘It’s very tight on you, isn’t it?’

  I’m there, ‘What are you, a fashion critic now? What movie are you going to see anyway?’

  ‘The Theory of Everything,’ she goes. ‘It’s, like, the Stephen Hawking story? What about you?’

  ‘Taken 3. Liam Neeson.’

  I might as well have said animal porn. She’s like, ‘Oh my God, have they made a third one?’

  ‘It’s supposedly the best of the trilogy,’ I go. ‘That’s what everyone seems to be saying.’

  JP laughs. He’s there, ‘How the fock did you persuade Sorcha to go and see that?’

  ‘Yeah, no,’ I go, ‘I’m not here with Sorcha. I’m here with the, em, goys.’

  ‘Oisinn and Christian?’ he goes, looking over my shoulder. ‘I thought Oisinn was still in Qatar.’

  I’m like, ‘No, not those goys. Okay, look, I might as well tell you, I’m with those goys over there,’ and I flick my thumb in the direction of Ollie, who’s demonstrating on Blissy, in slow motion, another Conor McGregor knockout he saw on YouTube.

  JP goes, ‘Who are you talking about, Ross? All I can see is a bunch of muscly boys in tight T-shirts and hoodies.’

  He stops. He looks at my big Minka Kelly, sticking out of my T-shirt like it’s maternity wear. He has suddenly copped it.

  He laughs. ‘Okay,’ he goes, ‘what the fock are you doing hanging out with them? What are they – twenty, twenty-one?’

  I’m like, ‘They’re my teammates.’

  Behind me, I hear someone – I’m pretty sure it’s Dordo – shout, ‘Wealth gag!’ and that kicks off a round of high-fives.

  I’m raging that I’m missing it.

  JP goes, ‘So you went back after all?’

  I’m there, ‘That’s right. You’re talking to Seapoint Rugby Club’s new hooker.’

  He laughs in my actual face.

  I’m like, ‘Yeah, fock you, JP – thanks for your support. You spent ten years of your life walking around this town with a Leinster Schools Senior Cup medal around your neck because of me – can I just remind you of that fact?’

  He goes, ‘Don’t get sore with me, Ross. It’s just, I don’t know, I’m in shock here. It’s the T-shirt and these kids you’re suddenly going to the cinema with … I’m worried about you.’

  I suddenly hear Bucky shout, ‘Rossi! Rossi!’

  Goffo is obviously back from the jacks.

  Chloe goes, ‘Rossi?’ at the same time putting her hand over her mouth. ‘Oh my God, is that what they call you? Rossi?’

  I’m like, ‘Yeah, no, it’s their equivalent of Rosser. Or Rossmeister.’

  The two of them consider this, for some reason, hilarious?

  I’m there, ‘Look, I knew I was going to have my critics – coming back after however many years out of the game, to try to keep Seapoint in Division 2B. But I didn’t think the doubters would be among my supposed friends.’

  ‘Ross,’ JP tries go, ‘look –’

  And I’m there, ‘No, forget it, Dude. I don’t want to hear your apologies. I’d rather spend my time around people who actually idolize me.’

  ‘I was just going to say,’ he goes, ‘you left the tag on your T-shirt.’

  Oisinn finally rings me back. This is, like, fifteen minutes before kick-off. I go, ‘You’re cutting it focking fine, aren’t you?’

  He’s there, ‘Sorry, Dude. I’ve been in meetings all morning. I genuinely think Doha is going to be the new Dubai.’

  I’m there, ‘Good for focking Doha. Did you get my message?’

  ‘I didn’t listen to it – what’s up?’

  ‘We’re about to play City of Derry in, like, fifteen minutes and I need more of your wisdom slash dirty tricks.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That shit you told me the last day worked a dream.’

  ‘You beat Highfield?’

  ‘We destroyed them. And it was all down to your advice. So I need more.’

  ‘Who did you say you were playing?’

  ‘City of Derry – quick, Oisinn.’

  ‘Okay, well, Ulster packs tend to be pretty formidable.’

  ‘Is that where City of Derry are from? Ulster?’

  There’s, like, five seconds of silence on the other end of the phone. Even after all these years, it still comes as a genuine shock to Oisinn how thick I can be.

  ‘That’s right,’ he goes. ‘Their front row is going to be tight.’

  I’m there, ‘Pure brute force was the expression that was used to describe them.’

  ‘Okay, I’ve got one.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘We used to do this thing with the bind. Who’s your tighthead?’

  ‘A dude called Bucky. He’s the captain of the team.’

  ‘Okay, get this Bucky dude to bind over you instead of you over him.’

  ‘Okay, what does that do?’

  ‘It allows him to press down on their hooker’s neck when the ball is put in and keep him bent double. He won’t be able to move his legs.’

  ‘That’s focking brilliant.’

  I thank him, hang up, then peg it back into the dressing room just as Byrom is finishing his team talk.

  ‘Oy’ve got a lust here of all the toyms in Division Toy C,’ he goes, waving a piece of paper at us. ‘Thoyse are the ployces you’ll boy ploying your rugboy nixt soyson if yoy git rilligoytud … Boyne … Dundawk … Muddletun … Kanturk … Nevun … Sloygoy …’

  ‘They won’t make us go to Sligo,’ Ollie goes. ‘There’s no focking way.’

  ‘Sloygoy is on the lust … Tullamore … Bruff … Rossi, have you ivver ployed in Bruff?’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve played in Bruff,’ I go. ‘We used to say the B was silent.’

  He goes, ‘Lusten to Rossi. He’s boyn there, he’s seen ut, he’s done ut. Oy’m gonna pun thus lust to the wall of thus drissing roym as a permanent remoynder of why yoy’ve got toy stoy in Division Toy Boy. Yoy all remimbaah, Oy hoype, what happened the laahst toym we ployed these goys in Dirroy – thoy moyd shut of us. Lit’s not lit thet happen agin. Lit’s buld on what hippened laahst woyk and moyk ut throy more poynts!’

  Bucky claps his two hands together and goes, ‘Come on, goys, you heard the man! Come on, The Point!’

  We’re all like, ‘Come on, The Point! Come on, The focking Point!’ and then out onto the pitch we go.

  I turn around to Bucky and I tell him the plan. He looks at me – I’m going to take a chance that this is a word – incredulously?

  ‘Is that legal?’ he goes.

  I’m there, ‘Dude, you’re supposedly studying law. Everything’s legal – until the moment you’re caught.’

  He laughs. He loves that quote. It’s one of my old man’s. And speak of the devil.

  ‘Come on, Seapoint!’ I hear him go. ‘Palma non sine pulvere, sapiens qui prospicit and whatever you’re having yourself!’

  Bucky squints his eyes in the old man’s direction. He’s like, ‘Is that Denis O’Brien shouting his mouth off over there?’

  I don’t want to admit that it’s my old man, so I go, ‘Yeah, no, it certainly looks like him.’

  ‘I
didn’t know he was a Point fan.’

  ‘I didn’t either.’

  We kick off. City of Derry end up being every bit as tough as Bucky said they were likely to be. Their forwards are all, like, two or three inches taller than us and at least two stone heavier. Our scrum is no match for theirs in terms of, like, physicality, which we discover in the first five minutes, when they manage to win two against the head.

  I’ve told Bucky to hold off on the illegal-bind thing until I give him the signal. I spend the first ten minutes getting in the referee’s ear, going, ‘Watch the bind, ref. They’re binding illegally.’

  It’s all port of the psychology. He eventually turns around to me and goes, ‘I’m refereeing this game, not you.’

  He’s a bit of a dick. Which suits me.

  So then we end up winning a scrum just inside the City of Derry twenty-two. There’s, like, ten or fifteen minutes gone and they’re, like, 3–0 up. I give Bucky the nod and we do the illegal-bind thing, getting on top of their hooker and forcing our combined weight down on his neck, so that he’s basically staring through his legs, unable to move his feet.

  It puts the brake on their scrum, I discover. And the added beauty of it is that their hooker can’t complain to the referee about it because at that moment his head is almost literally up his own hole.

  We eventually produce the ball for Dordo, who feeds Senny, who beats three players to score under the posts and make the conversion easy for himself. As he’s adding the two, I hear their hooker turn around to the referee and go, ‘Raf – chack ite the baind!’

  Which is Ulster for check out the bind.

  But this is where my earlier work pays off. It was always a tactic of ours back in the day to complain to the referee that the other team was doing something that we were actually doing? Then when the other side complains, the referee thinks, ‘Yeah, no, the two of them are obviously at it,’ and you tend to get away with it.

  What’s the famous phrase? Six of one and half-a-dozen of the other one?

  Anyway, the point I’m trying to make is that it ends up working. The referee tells their hooker the same thing he told me. In fact, he goes, ‘If you want to referee this game, we’ll have to swap jerseys first. Do you want to do that?’

  On the sideline, the old man is going, ‘Observe the sons of Ulster – showing the famous ill-discipline that has long been a blight on the game in the North!’