Game of Throw-ins Read online

  ‘Hey,’ I go, laying it on good and thick. ‘How the hell are you?’

  Kasey goes, ‘Oh, hi,’ a little bit giddy. ‘I’m fine. Thank you.’

  ‘So what’s your name?’

  ‘I’m Hannah and this is Ava.’

  Yeah, I don’t remember asking about the other one. I don’t say that, even though I’m tempted.

  ‘Hannah’s one of my favourite names,’ I go.

  She’s like, ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Oh, it’s right up there on the list – believe me!’

  ‘That’s, er, great news.’

  Shit, I’m losing her, so I decide to hit her with something cheesy – girls love a cheesy line, no matter how much they pretend they don’t.

  ‘So,’ I go, ‘where have you been all my life?’

  And Kasey bursts out laughing and she goes, ‘I wouldn’t say I was born for most of it!’

  That even puts a smile on the ugly mate’s face. I pay the borman, pick up the two pints and head back over to Senny.

  I’m in town, buying a new gumshield, when Oisinn decides to finally return my call. I’m actually stepping out of Elvery’s on Stephen’s Green when my phone all of a sudden rings.

  He’s there, ‘Ross, were you looking for me?’

  I’m like, ‘Yeah, two focking hours ago. What’s that noise in the background?’

  ‘It’s the call to prayer.’

  ‘Whoa, heavy! How are things going out there?’

  ‘Great. I just had a very productive meeting with an Irish goy. He was in property. Lost nearly everything he had – and I’m talking five or six hundred million yoyos – in the crash. Two years ago, he storted buying up non-performing loan portfolios. Now he’s worth five or six hundred million again.’

  ‘God, it’d bring tears to your eyes, wouldn’t it, a story like that? There’s definitely a movie in it.’

  ‘Hey, I got a text from JP. He said he saw you in the cinema with a bunch of muscly boys who were calling you Rossi.’

  ‘That focker would want to remember the rugby player that I helped him become, instead of ripping the piss out of someone who’s proving that he still has a lot to contribute to the game at the age of thirty-five.’

  ‘He was only having a laugh … Rossi!’

  ‘Yeah, whatever.’

  ‘Hey, did you hear his old man is reopening Hook, Lyon and Sinker?’

  ‘I heard a rumour.’

  ‘It’s true. Property prices in Dublin are up 15%.’

  ‘There’s so many signs that the whole recession thing was just a blip. Anyway, look, we’re playing Barnhall tomorrow night.’

  He laughs. He’s like, ‘Seriously?’

  I’m there, ‘Dude, everything you’ve told me so far has been spot-on. We beat City of Derry out the gate. We destroyed their front row.’

  ‘Barnhall,’ he goes, obviously thinking deeply.

  I’m there, ‘I’m pretty sure it’s Trevor Brennan’s old club.’

  ‘Oh, it’s Trevor Brennan’s old club alright. They’re a very hord team to beat.’

  ‘I don’t know if that’s true. They’re only three places ahead of us and we’re bottom of the focking table.’

  ‘Okay, have you ever heard of pulling forward?’

  ‘Dude, all this shit is new to me. What’s pulling forward?’

  ‘Okay, here’s how it works. You bind, then you come together with the opposition pack.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Then just before the ball is put in –’

  ‘Our put-in or theirs?’

  ‘Either, doesn’t matter – you pull the opposition pack towards you.’

  ‘What does that do?’

  ‘It makes the referee think that they’re driving before the ball is played.’

  I laugh.

  I’m there, ‘I focking love it!’

  ‘It’s a guaranteed penalty,’ he goes.

  ‘I’m smelling what you’re stepping in and I’m enjoying that smell.’

  ‘Again, don’t tear the orse out of it. You’ll get away with it twice, maybe three times in a match before the referee realizes he’s being had. But it could be worth nine points to you. Anyway, Rossi, I’ve got to go.’

  ‘Yeah, no, thanks, Dude.’

  He hangs up.

  I head back to the Stephen’s Green Shopping Centre, where I porked the cor. I notice I have a text message from Sorcha. Apparently, Caleb is coming over on Saturday. Happy focking days. I’ve got Sorcha to agree to the idea of laying a trap for him, while noting for the record her concerns about – and I’m actually quoting her here – the possible infringement of his civil liberties.

  You couldn’t make my wife up.

  As I’m walking into the shopping centre, I end up running straight into Lauren. Like Sorcha said, she’s home from France for the week.

  I’m like, ‘Hey, Lauren, how the hell are you?’

  She just goes, ‘Hi, Ross,’ no joy at all in the girl. She actually stiffens when I try to give her a hug.

  She’s pushing little Oliver in his stroller and beside her is little Ross Junior, who I can’t help but notice is wearing an Elsa from Frozen costume – a focking dress, in other words?

  He’s all, ‘Hi, Roth!’

  And I’m like, ‘Yeah, no, hey, Ross.’

  What is he now, six?

  ‘Roth,’ he goes, ‘I’ve been shopping with my mom! She bought thoo thopth in thitrus colourth and a pair of palatho panth. She lookth tho cute in them.’

  Here’s another kid who needs to learn about boundaries.

  I go, ‘Does she?’ trying to sound like I give a shit, because Lauren thinks children are like porking tickets – they have to be validated. ‘I’d love to see her in those pants.’

  He’s like, ‘She lookth tho cute in them!’

  See, people are encouraged these days to say every little thing that’s on their minds. You hear it constantly, don’t you? People going, ‘I think it’s time we started talking about this thing’ or, ‘I think it’s all time we had a national conversation about that thing.’

  I think it’s time we all shut the fock up about a lot of things. But that’s just me calling it.

  I turn to Lauren and I go, ‘So have you any plans to move back to Ireland?’ just making conversation with the girl. ‘Oisinn’s just been telling me about this dude who was doing shit and now he’s doing well again. It’s all definitely coming back again. I heard you had a sandwich on a table-tennis bat?’

  She doesn’t even acknowledge my point. She just goes, ‘What’s going on with Christian?’ and she says it in, like, an accusing way?

  I’m there, ‘Christian? I don’t know, I haven’t seen a lot of him lately. Mainly because I’m back playing rugby.’

  Shit like that never impressed Lauren like it did other girls. She actually turns on me.

  ‘I saw him today,’ she goes, ‘and I barely even recognized him. He was drunk out of his head. At lunchtime.’

  Ireland is becoming like America. You have three or four beers for breakfast and suddenly everyone’s telling you that you’ve got a problem.

  I’m there, ‘He’s definitely hitting it hord – I’ll give him that.’

  She goes, ‘I asked you a question, Ross – what the hell is going on?’

  I’m like, ‘Hey, why are you asking me?’ suddenly feeling like I’m on the back foot here. ‘He’s your husband, Lauren.’

  ‘We’re separated. But you’re still his best friend – or so you’ve always claimed.’

  ‘That claim still stands.’

  ‘Oh, does it?’

  ‘We played rugby together. There’s a bond.’

  ‘But you’re still happy to stand by and watch while he drinks himself to death, are you?’

  ‘That’s a bit dramatic, Lauren. I know bigger dipsos than Christian – way worse, in fact.’

  ‘You’re no friend, Ross. You’re no friend at all.’

  It’s that comment that tips me over the edge. />
  ‘Whoa,’ I go, ‘it’s hordly my fault, Lauren,’ and I’m actually shouting at her – this is just outside Benetton, bear in mind, in front of a crowd. ‘The dude is drinking because you walked out on him. You took his kids and you focked off to France. And now you’re having a go at me, why? Because you feel guilty?’

  She has no answer to that. She just goes, ‘I need to get away from you, because if I don’t, I will actually hurt you.’

  I’m there, ‘Hey, it sounds to me like I’ve touched a nerve!’

  ‘Come on,’ she goes to little Ross Junior, ‘let’s go to the Disney Store,’ and she storts pushing the stroller. She walks a few feet, then she turns back and goes, ‘You have a bond, huh? I wish Christian had never played rugby.’

  I’m there, ‘You’re upset, Lauren. You’re lashing out.’

  ‘Because then he never would have met you. That stupid game brought him nothing, just a bunch of friends who held him back and dragged him down, then abandoned him when he needed them most.’

  The Barnhall hooker is a monster and we’re talking pretty much literally? Imagine a Portaloo with a headband and you’ll get the general idea. I’m not actually exaggerating here. If you crashed in the Andes with this dude, you and the crew could be corving steaks off him for a month before the focker even noticed.

  He is the biggest thing I have ever seen on a rugby field and they call him The Grip.

  He’s apparently a coalman around these ports – meaning Leixlip, of all places – and that I can well believe, because he’s throwing us around the place like we’re sacks of Black Diamond Premium Polish, we’re talking backs and forwards. It’s all the same to him.

  The old man is on the sideline, shouting, ‘The key is to stop number two!’ stating the focking obvious. ‘Stop number two and you stop Barnhall!’

  Which of course is like trying to hold back the dawn.

  Ten minutes into the second half, the dude scores his third try of the afternoon. I’m clinging onto his left leg as he crosses the line – being literally carried along – and he acts like I’m only a mild irritation to him, like a pebble in his shoe or something.

  He grounds the ball, then sort of, like, ruffles my hair, like I’m a little kid.

  At this stage, Barnhall should be out of sight. And they would be, except for two things. Firstly, their kicker couldn’t hit a urinal wall with a stream of piss after a feed of pints. He’s kicked, like, two conversions but missed four penalties. It turns out he’s actually a Gaelic footballer – thick as a plate of frozen shite – and he’s standing in for their regular ten, who’s doing exams.

  Secondly, the trick Oisinn taught me about pulling their scrum forward before the ball is put in has gifted us four penalties, all of which Senny has managed to stick between the posts.

  ‘They’re chorging,’ I make sure to tell the referee very early on. He’s only in, like, his late twenties – promoted too early and way out of his depth. ‘They’re notorious for it as well. They’ve been doing it all season.’

  This doesn’t go down well with the Barnhall players. Their number eight actually gives me a shove in the chest at one point and goes, ‘You cheating fucker!’

  The Barnhall captain ends up having to drag the dude away from me, going, ‘Don’t let him get inside your head. Don’t give him the pleasure.’

  I look at the referee and I go, ‘This is what they do. They try to intimidate everyone. It’s just that they’ve never come up against a referee who was strong enough to stop them.’

  This, of course, appeals to the focking dope’s ego and he storts giving us shots at goal that we have no actual right to – two in the first half, then two in the second, which explains why it’s only, like, 19–12, and we’re still within a score of levelling the match with fifteen minutes to go.

  We’re focked, though. Let’s just say there are a lot of broken bodies on the battlefield. I think I’ve put in more tackles tonight than I did in my entire Senior Cup career. It’s like the Battle of the Blackwater out there.

  We’re getting the shit kicked out of us in the physical stakes, but I’m clapping my hands together and telling the goys, ‘Come on, The Point! We can get something out of this!’

  I think Bucky is the first to actually believe it – and that’s because he sees that I believe it? He knows I’ve probably been in this position before.

  While Rob Fortune, our inside centre, is being treated for a dead leg, I’m walking around the goys as they’re taking a breather and I’m giving them one of Father Fehily’s old lines. ‘When opportunity knocks,’ I’m telling them, ‘you better make sure you recognize it – because sometimes it comes dressed as hord work.’

  They’re all blown away by that quote.

  Bucky’s suddenly going, ‘Rossi’s right. We’re only a converted try behind. There’s a point in this for us! We need to keep putting the tackles in and make sure we don’t lose our discipline!’

  Five minutes from the end, Barnhall are putting pressure on us again, trying to close the game out, when the ball unexpectedly squirts sideways out of a ruck and Johnny Bliss – the famous Blissy – just swings his foot at it. It travels, like, thirty metres towards their try line and suddenly Senny is involved in a foot race with the Barnhall full-back to be the first to reach it. Senny is a flier. He ends up burning the dude for pace, bends down and scoops up the ball with one hand without even slowing up.

  We’re all screaming at him, going, ‘Go on, Senny! Go on!’

  He heads for the line and puts the ball down under the posts to make the conversion a piece of piss.

  We end up going totally ballistic.

  The Barnhall players are all just looking at each other, wondering how the fock we’re suddenly level here.

  We end up getting a bit complacent as the game moves into injury time. They have possession and we, for some reason, go to sleep. We miss a couple of tackles and suddenly The Grip gets a hold of the rugby ball, tucks it into one of the folds in his belly and storts heading for our line like a runaway something or other.

  Goffo, Maho and Dilly all try to put in tackles, except he swats them away with, like, total contempt. He actually laughs, because he knows there’s suddenly no one standing between him and the winning try.

  One or two of the Barnhall players are already celebrating. But, as he thunders towards the line and a certain try, the Rossmeister suddenly appears out of nowhere.

  I’m, like, twenty feet behind him. Then it’s, like, ten feet. Then it’s, like, six feet. I realize there’s no point launching myself at him, because he’ll end up just carrying me over the line with him, wearing me like a focking hula-hoop.

  So I throw myself down on the ground, then I reach out my right hand and, with the tips of my fingers, I give his ankle just the tiniest of little taps.

  He goes down like an overturned lorry – and like an overturned lorry, he ends up shedding his load. The ball spills and Maho is the first to reach it.

  Of course, the question on his mind is obviously, do we kick for touch and take the draw or do we play on and see can we get the win?

  Senny, Blissy and Mark Dwyer, our right wing, are all screaming for the ball, but Bucky goes, ‘Kick it out, Maho!’ deciding to settle for the point.

  He kicks it into touch and the referee blows up.

  The Barnhall players are sick. They were better than us, so it’s very much a point won for us. But instead of celebrating, there ends up being a massive row between our backs and our forwards over the decision to settle for a draw. Goys like Gilly, Dilly, Bucky, Maho and Andy Walpole have been taking punishment all night and they’re happy to be leaving Barnhall with something other than heavy bruising and tinnitus. But Senny, Blissy and especially Dordo, our scrum-half, think we should have just gone for it. I kind of agree with them – being a back at hort – except I stay out of it while they’re debating the issue at the top of their voices, with a bit of pushing and shoving thrown in.

  I look over at the o
ld man. He’s rubbing his hand through his hair, going, ‘Lost for superlatives, Ross! One is simply lost for superlatives to describe it!’

  Byrom Jones actually claps me off the field. ‘Thut’s one of the moyst incridible tickles Oy’ve ivver soyn,’ he goes.

  I shrug, all modesty, and I give him another one of Father Fehily’s lines: ‘No tree is too tall for a short dog to piss on it.’

  He laughs. He loves it.

  ‘Rossoy,’ he goes, ‘have a look beyond yoy?’

  I look back over my shoulder. Senny and Bucky are having a serious borney. Senny is stabbing his finger into Bucky’s chest to give, like, extra emphasis to the point he’s making.

  I’m there, ‘Shit, that’s not good.’

  Byrom goes, ‘Are yoy kidding moy? Sux woyks agoy, they dudn’t get thut upsit abaaht loysing. They’ve just toyken a point from a mitch thoy had noy businuss tayking a point from and they’re upsit that ut wasn’t all throy. Have yoy inny oydea what a turnaraahnd that us?’

  ‘Yeah, no,’ I go, ‘I suppose they showed a lot of desire out there.’

  ‘Yoy’ve got them beloyving, Rossoy.’

  ‘Do you think?’

  ‘Moyte, you’ve got moy beloyving. Which Oy dudn’t before. What you sid to them abaaht opportunitoy knocking and ut coming drissed as haahd work. Oy was watching them aahfter yoy sid ut. Oy could soy them groy in stature. You’re a facking loyder, Rossoy. A born loyder.’

  ‘That’s, er, good to hear.’

  ‘Will I till yoy the even bitter noys?’

  ‘Yeah, no, go ahead.’

  ‘Bictive lost to Groystoynes tonoyt. Which moyns, for the first toym thus soyson, we’re off the bottom of the toyble.’

  I call Honor outside to the gorden, giving it, ‘Honnnorrr!!! Honnnorrr!!! Honnorrr!!!’ at the top of my voice.

  Sixty seconds later, she steps outside wearing a look of confusion mixed with suspicion.

  She goes, ‘Okay, what the fock’s wrong?’

  And I’m there, ‘Yeah, no, nothing’s wrong. I just wanted to show you – look how many daffodils there are in the gorden. Loads, huh?’

  I can see her little nose twitching, wondering have I been drinking.

  I’m there, ‘I’m totally sober, Honor. I’m just saying, it’s very colourful, isn’t it?’