Game of Throw-ins Read online

  Sorcha is not a happy rabbit – of course, as usual, I end up getting the blame for what happened?

  She goes, ‘Could you not have bitten your tongue – oh my God, Ross – just for, like, one day of the year?’

  And that’s when Erika goes, ‘Er, shouldn’t you two be more worried about Honor?’

  We’re both like, ‘Honor?’ not a clue what she’s even talking about.

  She’s there, ‘Aren’t you even the slightest bit concerned about what she just said? She said she thought she was fat. She said you were trying to make her fatter.’

  Sorcha suddenly sits down.

  ‘Oh my God,’ she goes, ‘you’re right. I mean, here I am, practically having a nervous breakdown trying to give everyone the perfect Christmas – and all the time I’ve been ignoring the fact that my daughter is upset about something.’

  Erika’s there, ‘Okay, I’m going to ask this straight out. Do you think it’s possible that Honor is suffering from an eating disorder?’

  Sorcha goes, ‘An eating disorder?’ shocked at even the idea of it. ‘She’s, like, nine years old!’

  ‘You read magazines, Sorcha. There are children in America as young as five years old with full-blown anorexia. The pressure on girls to look perfect is starting earlier and earlier.’

  ‘Fock,’ I go. ‘I’ve just remembered something.’

  Sorcha’s like, ‘What?’

  ‘Yeah, no, last week, when we went to see K … K … K … Kennet playing Santa Claus, I caught Honor staring at her reflection in the window of the cor. She asked me if I thought she was ugly.’

  ‘Oh! My God!’ Sorcha goes. ‘Ross, what did you say?’

  ‘I said I definitely wouldn’t class her as ugly – especially compared to one or two others in her class. She didn’t seem to accept it though.’

  Sorcha suddenly whips out her phone and storts flicking the screen with her thumb. She’s like, ‘Oh! My God!’

  I’m there, ‘What?’

  ‘I’m just checking her Instagram account. Ross, she hasn’t posted a picture of something she’s eaten for days!’

  Erika goes, ‘Do you want me to talk to her?’

  Sorcha’s like, ‘You?’ obviously a bit put out by the idea that Honor might confide in her aunt ahead of her.

  Erika goes, ‘I promised to bring her to Dundrum on Saturday. I said we’d have a day together before I went away.’

  Erika’s going to Tuscany next week for four months to study – believe it or not – ort history and appreciation. There’s talk of her possibly opening a gallery when she comes home.

  It’s another sign that the economy is possibly back on track.

  Sorcha goes, ‘If it is – oh my God – what you suggested, Erika, I still think this is something she should be able to confide in me, and not – no offence – an outsider?’

  Erika’s there, ‘I’m not in competition with you, Sorcha. I’m just saying she might find it easier to open up to someone outside her immediate family.’

  She possibly has a point. And Honor idolizes Erika.

  ‘Okay,’ Sorcha goes, looking just about as sad as I’ve ever seen her look, ‘please, just see what you can find out. Oh my God, I can’t believe my little girl has a possible eating disorder!’

  I’m there, ‘We don’t know that for definite yet.’

  ‘It’s all beginning to make sense, Ross. Like I said, she’s been quiet and distracted for weeks now. She only picks at her dinner. And, oh my God, I made her Brussels pâté sandwiches for her lunch last week and I found them that night, still in her schoolbag.’

  ‘Like I said,’ Erika goes, ‘I’ll talk to her.’

  Sorcha shakes her head, tears welling in her eyes. ‘I honestly thought that this was going to be our best Christmas ever.’

  ‘Fock you!’ Leo suddenly shouts. ‘And fock your focking Christmas.’

  And somehow – despite being still a baby – he manages to totally nail the atmosphere of the day.

  It’s, like, eleven o’clock on Stephen Zuzz morning and I’m in bed, checking the old Twitter feed on my iPhone, when one particular Tweet catches my eye.

  It’s from, like, Seapoint Rugby Club and it’s like: ‘Players wanted. All levels. Trials on Saturday, 3 January 2015.’

  Suddenly, it has me dreaming all sorts of crazy comeback dreams. I’m thinking, Hey, thirty-four going on thirty-five isn’t old! I could still do a job in – where do their firsts play? – Division 2B of the All Ireland League?

  It’s just as I’m thinking this that my phone suddenly rings. It’s, like, an overseas number, one I don’t recognize, but of course I make the mistake of answering it. There’s, like, a familiar voice on the other end – a woman’s voice.

  Shit-faced.

  She’s like, ‘Ross!’

  I’m there, ‘What the fock do you want, you focking molehog?’

  She goes, ‘Hello? Hello? I think we must have a crossed line! Ross, it’s your mother!’

  ‘Yeah,’ I go, ‘I’m well aware of that fact. The line is as clear as a bell. What the fock do you want?’

  ‘I’m ringing from California! I’m ringing from Malibu, California!’

  ‘What do you want me to say? Congratulations on still being able to dial after your traditional Christmas bottle-and-a-half of gin and a fistful of diazepam?’

  ‘Ross, I’m ringing with news!’

  ‘You could at least say Merry Christmas – you know, like a normal parent?’

  ‘Brace yourself! I’m getting married!’

  Everything goes suddenly silent. I realize that this might be because I’m expected to say something, except I can’t – as in, I can’t form any actual words? I have no idea how much time goes by.

  She goes, ‘Ross, say something.’

  What I want to say is that I can’t believe she found a man either desperate or mentally unstable enough to want to spend the rest of his natural life with her. But for once in my life I’m not quick enough.

  She goes, ‘You’re pleased for me, aren’t you? Oh, I knew you would be. I said it to Ari. That’s the name of my fianthé.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I go, ‘I’m pretty sure that’s not how you pronounce it.’

  ‘He’s not my usual type. He’s not classically handsome like so many of my men. He’s a financier and he just happens to be worth two billion dollars.’

  ‘Two billion? Did you just say he was worth two billion?’

  ‘It’s something of that order. Not that I’m interested in his money. Oh, you’ll really enjoy him, Ross. We’re very much in love.’

  ‘Ari what?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I’m saying Ari what? As in, what’s his second name?’

  ‘It’s Brostein. Or Berkovitz.’

  ‘You don’t even know his name?’

  ‘It begins with a B. It’s irrelevant. We love each other, Ross, and he’s going to be my husband.’

  ‘Spare me. Where did you even meet him?’

  ‘If you must know, his granddaughter was in rehab with me.’

  ‘What, was she a focking coke-head as well?’

  ‘I’m not going to listen to you being nasty to me, Ross. We’re getting married in Dublin in the spring – and I have a special favour to ask of you. I want you to give me away.’

  ‘I’d be happy to. I’d give you to focking ISIS if I thought they’d take you. Are you not even going to say Merry Christmas to me?’

  ‘Ari is Jewish, Ross. We don’t celebrate … Samuels!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve just remembered. His name is Samuels!’

  ‘I’m thinking of going back playing rugby.’

  That’s what I tell my old man and Ronan. We’re in my cor – I’m driving a 142D, black BMW Five Serious these days – on the way to Ticknock to give Ro his Christmas present.

  I’m there, ‘I was thinking of going back playing the game of rugby.’

  The game of rugby – I love the way that sounds.


  The old man just goes, ‘That’s wonderful! Did your mother reach you, by the way?’

  I’m there, ‘Why are we suddenly talking about her?’

  ‘It’s just she has some rather exciting news!’

  ‘Yeah, I know her news – she got me, okay?’

  ‘She’s getting married! Isn’t that terrific, Ronan?’

  ‘Ah, feer fooks!’ Ronan pipes up from the back seat of the cor.

  I’m there, ‘I can’t believe someone actually wants to marry her – and that’s no offence – the focking mange-ridden bull-seal.’

  The old man goes, ‘Well, I think it’s rather wonderful. She deserves some happiness, your mother. This chap – he’s called Ari, by all accounts – popped the question on Christmas Eve, on the balcony of this mansion of his – overlooking the Pacific, if you don’t mind!’

  I pull up at a red light. I go, ‘Sorry to cut you off – actually, I’m not sorry – how the fock is that bigger than my news?’

  He’s there, ‘Your news?’

  ‘Er, I just announced – exclusively, by the way? – that I was thinking of going back playing rugby and I might as well have said the cor needed oil.’

  ‘The car does need oil, Ross. I noticed the little light went on just after we collected Ronan.’

  ‘Can we stick to the subject of me for, like, ten seconds? When I said I’m thinking of going back playing rugby, I was talking about playing rugby for possibly Seapoint. They’re looking for players.’

  Oh, that gets his attention.

  He goes, ‘Seapoint?’

  I’m there, ‘Yes, Seapoint.’

  ‘Seapoint, in –?’

  ‘Ballybrack, yeah.’

  That’s when he says the most unbelievable thing. He goes, ‘I didn’t know they had a seniors team.’

  I’m like, ‘A seniors team? What the fock are you talking about? I’m thirty-four.’

  ‘You’ll be thirty-five in a week or two.’

  ‘Yeah, and that’s not even old. Do you know what? Forget about it. I’m sorry I even told you.’

  We drive on in silence. After a while, Ronan goes, ‘Where in the nayum of Jaysus are we?’

  The old man laughs. He’s like, ‘We’re nearly there, Ronan.’

  ‘What’s this present you’re arthur getting me, but?’

  ‘Patience, little chap. It’s just up here on the left, Kicker.’

  I pull up on the road next to a plot of waste ground, which is about, like, an acre in size. Back in the day, the old man owned this and another 234 acres just like it, which is now practically all houses and aportments – except that some orchitect made a balls of it when he was drawing up the plans and the old man ended up with this one acre left over.

  ‘Merry Christmas!’ me and the old man both go at the exact same time.

  Ronan looks at us, his face screwed up like he thinks we’re both pissed. The old man actually is pissed. We’re heading to the races after this.

  Ronan’s there, ‘What are yiz on about?’

  ‘This is your Christmas present,’ the old man goes.

  We all get out of the cor. Ronan pushes open the heavy iron gate and the three of us step onto the site. And that’s when he sees it, off to his right. It’s a mobile home. It’s not an ordinary mobile home either. It’s the exact same one as Fran has in Love/Hate.

  Ronan – I swear to God – can’t even speak.

  The old man goes, ‘You happy, little chap?’

  He’s like, ‘I … I just … I just …’

  I’m there, ‘Come on, Ro – that’s not all.’

  I hand him a set of keys. He opens the door and we step inside. We’ve had the whole interior properly furnished. There’s, like, a bed, a sofa, a TV and a table and chairs – again, all the exact same as Fran’s.

  We’ve even got him his own little stash of poitín – although it’s only 12% proof, what with him being still only seventeen.

  Ronan is, like, totally blown away. ‘I caddent believe it,’ he goes, wiping away genuine tears. ‘Me foorst base of operashiddens.’

  The old man goes, ‘The start of your empire, Ronan.’

  I’m there, ‘Yeah, no, I was thinking more in terms of a place where you could study for the Leaving Cert? Peace and quiet, blah, blah, blah.’

  ‘I fooken love it, Rosser.’

  ‘We were going to get you two or three pit bull terriers, but they do say don’t buy a dog for Christmas. We’ll get them for you next week.’

  ‘Look out the window,’ the old man goes.

  Ronan does as he’s told.

  The old man’s there, ‘Do you see that JCB digger over there?’

  Ro’s like, ‘Yeah, what abourrit, Grandda?’

  ‘Well, that’s yours as well.’

  He throws his orms around his granddad. He’s really crying now. Just like the old man’s crying. I’m even crying.

  Wait till he finds out about the video message from Peter Coonan – that’ll finish him off altogether.

  He goes, ‘Thanks, Rosser! Thanks, Grandda!’

  The old man goes, ‘You’re welcome, little chap. Now, Ross and I are going to the races with Hennessy. What do you say we leave you here for a few hours to get properly acquainted with the place, then we’ll pick you up on the way home?’

  ‘Gayum ball, Grandda – gayum ball.’

  Me and the old man get into the cor and I point it in the direction of Leopardstown. I totally blank him the entire way there, still pissed off with him for what he said earlier. We’re actually just pulling into the cor pork of the racecourse when I finally turn around to him and go, ‘Do you seriously not think I could do a job for someone in the All Ireland League?’

  He goes, ‘I didn’t mean any offence. Like I’ve always said, Ross, you’ve got a rugby brain.’

  ‘That better be a compliment.’

  ‘Oh, it’s very much a compliment.’

  ‘But you don’t think I could come back and play at the age of still technically thirty-four?’

  ‘Well, it’s just that rugby is very different to the way it was when you last played.’

  ‘That was only, like, fifteen years ago.’

  ‘Fifteen years is a long time. The game has moved on. When you played, it was a contact sport. Now, it’s a collision sport.’

  ‘Do you want to know what I’m bench-pressing these days? It’d make you sick.’

  ‘Then you hear about all these – let’s be careful here – alleged concussions, not to mention broken necks. You’ve got children, Ross. Five of them.’

  ‘I know how many children I have.’

  That’s a lie, of course – it could be any focking number.

  I’m there, ‘Maybe it’s my children I’m thinking about. The boys are talking now. Maybe I don’t want them one day asking me, “Why did you never actually make it in the game, Dad?” or “Why did you just walk away – despite your obvious talent?” ’

  ‘I’m just wondering where this is all coming from? Is it something to do with Brother What’s-it mistaking you for the great Brian O’Driscoll?’

  ‘Maybe. It’s made me think about the player I could and should have been.’

  ‘There were factors in your case, Ross.’

  ‘I know there were factors. There were focking loads of them. But it’s just, you know, in a week or two I’m going to be another Six Nations older – and what have I actually done?’

  ‘Look, let’s go inside. We’ll have a few drinks with our learned friend and we’ll see if we can’t cheer ourselves up by picking out a winner or two.’

  Sorcha has been pacing the floor for the last two hours. ‘Where are they?’ she keeps going. ‘What time is it now, Ross?’

  I’m there, ‘It’s five minutes after the last time you asked me.’

  She goes, ‘So why aren’t they home yet?’

  She’s talking about Erika and Honor. She’s been going out of her mind since they left for Dundrum.

  ‘Look,’ I go, �
�you know what those two are like when they stort shopping. And that place was designed so you never know whether it’s day or night.’

  She’s there, ‘They left here at ten o’clock this morning, Ross. It’s now eight o’clock at night.’

  ‘Which goes to prove my point.’

  ‘I’ve tried their phones at least ten times and neither of them is answering.’

  ‘Look, chillax, Babes. They’ve probably gone for something to eat.’

  ‘Yeah, Honor doesn’t eat, remember?’

  ‘Well, hopefully Erika’s getting to the bottom of that – over a humungous Eddie Rockets with a bit of luck. Cheese and bacon fries, the works! Do you want to check her Instagram again?’

  ‘I still hate the idea that there are things Honor can talk to Erika about which she can’t discuss with me. I gave birth to her, Ross!’

  ‘I was there.’

  ‘That makes me her mother.’

  ‘I know how it works.’

  ‘I’m not jealous. I’m just saying this isn’t how I wanted our relationship to be.’

  All of a sudden there’s the sound of a key in the front door, then Erika’s voice goes, ‘Hi! We’re back!’

  Sorcha runs out into the hall and throws her orms around Honor like the girl has just been pulled from in front of a runaway Luas. She’s there, ‘Thank God you’re home!’

  Honor is, like, laden down with bags from Horvey Nichs, BT2, House of Fraser, blah, blah, blah. She looks at me and goes, ‘Has your wife been drinking?’

  Sorcha’s there, ‘No, I haven’t been drinking. I just missed you, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, you’re being a knob,’ she goes, separating herself from her. ‘Auntie Erika, thank you for my lovely presents!’

  Erika goes, ‘You’re welcome, my darling!’ then off Honor goes, up the stairs.

  Erika’s there, ‘Okay, I’d better go. Mum and Dad have been minding Amelie all day.’

  Sorcha goes, ‘Oh, no you don’t – you need to tell me first!’

  ‘Tell you what?’

  ‘Erika, don’t leave me in suspense. Did Honor tell you anything about what’s been bothering her?’

  ‘Yes, she did.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And it’s nothing for you to worry about.’

  ‘I’m her mother, Erika. I think I’ll be the judge as to whether I should worry or not.’