Game of Throw-ins Read online

  He goes, ‘That was before I found out what you did.’

  I’m like, ‘What did I do?’

  ‘You tried to get off with Torah?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t even try to deny it. She told me. She said she was at the bor and you walked up to her and said, “What are you doing wasting your time with someone like Senny?” and then you put your hand on her orse.’

  ‘Yeah, no, that sounds like my MO, but it didn’t happen. Has it crossed your mind that she’s possibly making it up? Girls do that shit constantly to fock with men’s heads.’

  He makes another run for me, except Bucky and Maho have a good, firm hold of him this time.

  ‘You’re a focking wanker,’ Bucky goes. ‘You’d do that to a teammate?’

  I’ve done a hell of a lot worse than that. Ask Christian there. I rode his mother.

  I don’t mention that, though. I don’t get the chance, because Dudser lets a roar out of him.

  He’s like, ‘Alright, you!’ meaning me. ‘Ballybrack Shopping Centre and back! Do it now!’

  I look at Senny and I go, ‘Dude, I’m sorry. I was shitfaced. And if it’s any consolation, she was probably flirting with me.’

  He goes, ‘Do you know something? You were actually becoming a bit of a hero to me.’

  I’m there, ‘I’d like to think I still am.’

  ‘You’re not! You’re nothing to me!’

  I step outside with his words just echoing in my ears.

  It’s pissing rain. I’m just about to stort running when I hear Christian call my name. He’s followed me out of the clubhouse.

  He goes, ‘What was that?’

  I’m there, ‘Yeah, no, me up to my old tricks obviously. I’m a complete filth-bag. I’ll probably never change.’

  ‘It’s just you seemed pretty surprised – when he told you what happened?’

  ‘Like I said, I was hammered that night.’

  ‘No, you weren’t. You only had eight or nine pints. Why can’t you remember what happened, Ross?’

  I suddenly turn my back on him and I go to stort running, except he grabs the back of my Leinster training top, pulls me back and spins me around.

  He’s like, ‘You collapsed on the way here tonight. Your legs went.’

  I’m there, ‘You don’t know what the fock you’re talking about, Christian.’

  ‘It was that clash of heads against Dungannon. Jesus Christ, Ross, you’ve got concussion.’

  My burger arrives not on a plate, or even on a table-tennis bat with the rubber pulled off it – it’s on a roof slate, with a side of rocket with Parmesan shavings.

  ‘Long time since I’ve seen one of those,’ the old man goes, as if reading my mind. His steak sandwich, by the way, is served on a bathroom tile with a side of melon-studded couscous. ‘And to think they said this country was finished.’

  It’s nice to see The Merrion Inn open again.

  Kennet looks at me, a smile playing on his lips, which means a joke is coming. Eventually.

  ‘B … B … B … Boy the way,’ he goes, ‘I like your h … h … h … h … heercut, Rosser. When are you g … going back to gerrit f … f … f … f … fiddished?’

  And I go, ‘Yeah, no, it’s called f … f … f … f … fashion, Kennet. You wouldn’t know the first focking thing about it.’

  He’s having the Umbrian fish soup, by the way, which is served in a stainless-steel bedpan with a side of olive and Manchego bread.

  ‘So,’ the old man goes, ‘I expect you’re wondering why I’ve asked you here today. Well, I’ve been speaking with our friend – the famous Scum – about arranging this, inverted commas, sit-down. And, as I told Ronan this morning, Scum seems rather amenable to the idea, as I suspected he would be.’

  ‘So where is it actually happening?’

  ‘Well, naturally enough, I put forward the Members’ Club in the RDS, but the chap vetoed the idea out of hand. Too far out of his comfort zone, I expect. He suggested The Fu King Chinky – it’s apparently above The Tipsy Wagon in the town of Coo Lock.’

  Kennet goes, ‘I think he was saying he’d m … meet you in the fooking chinky, Cheerlie, rather than The F … F … F … Fu King Chinky. I think that place is called Mister Wu’s.’

  ‘But it’s still focking Coolock,’ I go. ‘Why can’t we meet somewhere neutral? Does Westmoreland Street have a Nando’s?’

  The old man goes, ‘I’ve been in business for more than forty years, Ross. Where you take your meeting is irrelevant. It’s how you prepare for it that matters.’

  ‘Eeder way,’ Kennet goes, ‘Ine gonna b … b … b … be theer, Cheerlie.’

  ‘No, you’re not.’

  ‘Ch … Ch … Cheerlie, Ine not letting you go in theer on your owen.’

  ‘I shan’t be on my own. I shall have Ronan with me – and Kicker, of course.’

  I’m like, ‘Me? Why the fock do I have to be there?’

  ‘Scum said it was a precondition. He’s absolutely adamant that you be there.’

  Kennet goes, ‘Ch … Ch … Ch …’

  The old man’s like, ‘Kennet, we’ve talked about this. The terms of your – what’s this you call it? – temper doddy release are that you refrain from associating with, quote-unquote, known criminals. I think our good friends, the Garda Síochána, would be only too happy to return you to Mountjoy Prison.’

  ‘I don’t gib a b … b … b … boddicks, Cheerlie. Ine not letting you go in theer wirrout me. Enta stordee.’

  The old man looks up and suddenly spots some tosser he used to play golf with in Elm Pork. He tips over there, going, ‘I don’t believe it!’

  I turn to Kennet and I go, ‘Why are you so keen to put yourself in the firing line?’

  He’s there, ‘Your oul fedda’s been v … v … veddy good to me since I gorr ourra p … p … p … p … priddon. He’s arthur gibbon me a job, muddy in me pocket, respect.’

  ‘You don’t have respect. I know I’m biased, but you genuinely don’t?’

  ‘Look, I wontherstand why you hate me, R … Rosser. I ditn’t threet young Ronan veddy weddle at the st … st … s t … st … steert.’

  ‘No, you didn’t. You had him removing clamps from cors for a focking pittance – slave labour. But what I’ll never forgive you for is that black eye you gave him.’

  ‘Alls I can say is soddy.’

  ‘I’m not interested in your apologies.’

  ‘He’s arthur been a garreat fedda to Shadden. And he’s a garreat fadder to Rihatta-Barrogan, so he is.’

  ‘Ronan’s great, full-stop.’

  ‘And that’s why I w … w … wanth to be involvt in this sss … sss … sss … ssit-down. I wanna meck it up torrum. I owe him big-toyum …’

  He continues yabbering away, except I’m suddenly no longer even listening to him. Instead, I’m suddenly staring at the old man’s Irish Times, which he’s left on the seat beside me, open and folded over on the rugby page. It’s actually the headline that first grabs my attention? I reach for the paper in slow motion, almost not wanting to read the story, but at the same time knowing that I have to?

  It’s a story by Gerry Thornley. He gets all the focking good ones, typically.

  And this one is an actual belter.

  It’s like, ‘The IRFU has promised to investigate claims that an All Ireland League player killed a dolphin while on a morale-building team holiday in Bundoran …’

  I’m lying on the sofa with my head hopping again and an ice pack on my forehead. At the same time, I’m texting Senny going: ‘Dude wotever i said/did to your girlf it was no reason for u to report me to the irfu for killing that dolphin.’

  He’s straight back with: ‘I didnt report u for killing anythng – get ur facts right.’

  I’m there: ‘Then how does GT have the exclusiv in today’s times?’

  He’s like: ‘May b cos the photos hav been up on instagrm for d lst fking week.’

  Shit.

  See, that�
��s the problem with hanging out with young people these days, with their Facebook and their Snapchat and their whatever-the-fock else, everyone’s a potential paparazzo. And when you’ve got as much to hide as I generally do, that’s a massive focking problem.

  I text him back, going: ‘Dude we ned to posbly clear the air b4 sats match.’

  He’s straight back with: ‘Eat fking shit.’ And then – this is the real killer – about two minutes later: ‘Btw you look like a sad bastrd with that haircut.’

  I feel low enough to tie the laces of my Dubes without even bending down.

  That’s when the living-room door suddenly opens and in steps Christian. Sorcha must have let him in, even though I told her that I didn’t want to see anyone.

  I’m there, ‘Dude, this is not a good time.’

  He’s like, ‘Sorcha said you’ve got a migraine.’

  ‘I’d describe it as a headache more than a migraine.’

  ‘You’ve got the curtains drawn and you’re holding an ice pack to your head and Sorcha said you were vomiting an hour ago.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, that girl can’t hold her piss.’

  ‘Dude, you need to say something.’

  ‘To Sorcha?’

  ‘To the club. There’s, like, protocols when it comes to this kind of shit.’

  ‘Yeah, no, that’s what I’m afraid of. If I go telling them that I’m, like, falling down in the street and forgetting conversations that I supposedly had, they’re not going to let me play against Greystones.’

  ‘But you shouldn’t play against Greystones – you’ve got concussion.’

  ‘We don’t know for a fact that I do.’

  ‘Ross, do you want to be around to teach Johnny, Brian and Leo the correct way to throw a ball?’

  ‘Stop!’

  ‘It’s a genuine question. Do you want to be around to watch them play Junior Cup? Senior Cup? Ireland Schools? Ireland under-twenty?’

  ‘Dude, don’t say it!’

  ‘You could be watching them from the focking wheelchair section!’

  I let a sudden roar out of me. I’m there, ‘I said focking stop!’

  Except he shouts even louder? ‘No, I won’t stop! This is focking serious, Ross! We’re only finding out about the long-term effects of concussion.’

  I’m there, ‘Well, if we’re still only finding out about it, maybe we shouldn’t rush to judgment.’

  ‘Ross, you saved my life. I’m not exaggerating when I say that. If you hadn’t got a hold of me, I’d have been dead within the year. And now I’m going to return the favour.’

  ‘By doing what?’

  ‘By telling Byrom Jones that you’re suffering from concussion.’

  He turns to leave. I’m there, ‘Dude, no.’

  He’s like, ‘Ross, you’re risking everything. There’s ex-players walking around out there who don’t even know their own names. It’s called brain damage, Ross – let’s not even sugar-coat it.’

  ‘Wait,’ I go. ‘Dude, please, just wait. Close the door there and hear me out – that’s all I’m asking, that you hear me out.’

  He does what I ask him – reluctantly, though.

  I’m there, ‘You know, I didn’t realize until three or four months ago that I’ve been walking around all these years with a humungous hole in my chest.’

  He goes, ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I’m saying that’s what it felt like – like I’ve had a hole in the middle of my chest all these years. And do you know what shape that hole was?’

  ‘No, I don’t know what shape the hole was.’

  ‘It was the shape of rugby.’

  ‘Okay, what does that even mean?’

  ‘Do you know what it’s like to be shit at everything, Christian?’

  ‘You’re not shit at everything.’

  ‘I’m shit at everything. There’s no point in pretending otherwise. My daughter was more advanced than me by the time she was five. I’ve no exams, no qualifications. I’m a shit husband, a shit son – you know, there are days when I wonder am I even a good father?’

  I can feel my eyes filling up with tears, then suddenly they’re spilling down my face.

  I’m there, ‘It caught up on me, Christian.’

  He goes, ‘What did? Ross, why are you crying?’

  ‘The focking realization. That I could have really been someone and instead I pissed it all up against the wall. It’s a lonely focking feeling, Christian, to be staring down the barrel of middle age, knowing that there was only one thing you were ever any good at – and you failed at even that.’

  ‘There were factors.’

  ‘There weren’t factors, Christian. I like to say there were factors so I don’t have to take responsibility for throwing it all away. Dude, I know people look at me and they look at Drico and they say, if you’d looked at those two players in their Senior Cup years, there’s only one of them you could picture going on to win Grand Slams and Heineken Cups and captaining the Lions – and that was me. But there was one basic difference between me and him. He was a winner.’

  ‘You’re a winner.’

  ‘I’m a loser.’

  ‘This is definitely some kind of midlife thing – I mean, the hair, the T-shirt …’

  ‘I threw it away, Christian. All that opportunity. Jesus, all that talent. But can I tell you something else? In the last few weeks, I feel like I got some of it back. Can you understand that? That hole I was telling you about – it doesn’t feel as big now.’

  Christian turns his head. I realize that even he’s crying now?

  ‘Dude,’ I go, ‘I didn’t end up in the cor pork of Seapoint Rugby Club by accident. I mean, I don’t make a habit of driving through – let’s call a spade a spade – Ballybrack.’

  ‘Stop. I know what you’re going to say and don’t say it.’

  ‘He led me there, Christian. Father Fehily led me there.’

  ‘Dude, you could end up doing yourself a serious injury. A lasting one.’

  ‘He won’t let that happen. I know that for a fact. He said that to me in the hospital. He said when he died, I’d have an open channel to the man Himself. And you better believe he’s talking to Him about me, Christian. Oh, he’ll be in His ear: “Ross this” and “Ross that”. Can you hear him?’

  Christian wipes away tears with his open palm and at the same time he nods.

  I’m there, ‘He won’t let anything bad happen to me, Dude. See, he’s directing this whole focking show. Because he doesn’t want me to grow old wondering. Yes, I threw it all away, Christian. But this is my chance to get it back again. This is my last shot. The dream kick and the jackpot focking question, all rolled into one. I’ve got eighty minutes to keep Seapoint in Division 2B of the All Ireland League. Now, you can walk out of here and go and tell Byrom the truth. But I’m begging you, Christian – please, please, please, don’t take this opportunity away from me.’

  ‘Fock,’ he goes, mad at himself, because he knows that if this was any other sport, he’d do the right thing without any hesitation.

  But this isn’t any other sport.

  He sits down on the orm of the sofa, totally defeated. And I know in that moment that he’s not going to say shit.

  Suddenly, Sorcha knocks and puts her head around the living-room door. She’s like, ‘Ross …’

  I’m there, ‘Seriously, Sorcha, you can’t hold your piss.’

  She steps into the room and that’s when I notice that she’s crying as well. At first, I’m wondering was she outside the door, listening to my little speech. But then she tells me, through her tears, that my old dear just rang to say that Ari is dead.

  10

  Indicktus

  The old dear has a face like a –

  Do you know what? I’m not going to say it. It’s not a day for that kind of thing. The woman is grieving. Her face is focking horrendous. Let’s just leave it at that.

  Ari, it turns out, had a hort attack while he was on – if you can
believe this – the treadmill in the old dear’s basement. She told him about this examination he had to go for and he got it into his head that it was some kind of physical. He decided he needed to get himself fit.

  She found him on the floor of the basement, in his tracksuit, with the treadmill setting switched to max. The dude was already room temp.

  I’m sitting there, blinded with another migraine, wondering how am I going to go and play a rugby match after a morning like this?

  Foxrock Church is practically empty. On one side, it’s just me and the old dear, who’s dressed from head to toe in black, then Sorcha and Honor, the old man and Helen, then a few of the old dear’s friends from The Gables, the writing world, the golf club and her various campaigns to stop certain things coming to Foxrock. On the other side, it’s just Tiffany Blue, muttering to herself madly – presumably drunk or high – and shooting the old dear filthy looks.

  She looks very well.

  Sorcha does the reading in her best Mount Anville Debating Society voice. ‘A reading from the Prophet Isaiah,’ she goes. ‘On this mountain, the Lord of hosts will prepare for all peoples a banquet of rich food. On this mountain, he will remove the mourning veil covering all peoples, and the shroud enwrapping all nations, he will destroy death forever …’

  The old dear reaches for my hand and takes it in hers. She squeezes it tightly, as if she’s trying to get, I don’t know, strength from it? I look at her sideways and our eyes meet. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her look so sad and for once it doesn’t seem like a performance?

  She goes, ‘I don’t know if I’ll ever get over this, Ross.’

  I’m there, ‘You will get over it, because you’ve got good people around you, including me.’

  ‘She wouldn’t let me cremate him.’

  She’s, like, whispering, by the way.

  I’m there, ‘Who wouldn’t?’

  She rolls her eyes sideways to indicate Tiffany Blue. She’s apparently taking his body back to the States after this, then she’s going to bury him next to her mother – in other words Ari’s daughter – and his first wife – in other words, Tiffany Blue’s grandmother?

  She goes, ‘His wish was to be cremated and his ashes scattered here.’