Game of Throw-ins

by Ross O'Carroll-Kelly

Erika goes, ‘I’m sworn to secrecy – and, look, we’ve got an early flight tomorrow morning. I really do have to go.’

  She turns and storts heading for the front door again. Sorcha chases after her, grabs her by the shoulders and spins her around. ‘Erika,’ she goes, ‘don’t you dare do this to me – you’re a mother yourself. If Honor has an eating disorder, I’m entitled to know.’

  Erika throws her eyes skyward.

  ‘Yes,’ she goes, ‘Honor has an eating disorder.’

  Sorcha turns to me, her mouth slung open like a yawning hippo.

  ‘Well,’ Erika goes, ‘it’s a kind of eating disorder. It’s a boy.’

  Sorcha’s there, ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I’m saying that’s why she’s been acting all quiet and why she’s off her food. She likes a boy.’

  ‘What boy?’

  ‘Just a boy.’

  I’m there, ‘Do we know what school he goes to?’ because I know it’s probably what Sorcha’s thinking as well.

  Erika goes, ‘Look, I promised Honor that I wouldn’t tell you anything and I’m not going to break that promise.’

  I’m there, ‘Erika, as her parents, we’re entitled to know what school he goes to. Like Sorcha said, you have a daughter yourself.’

  ‘Okay,’ she goes, ‘he’s in St Michael’s – the primary school.’

  I breathe a sudden sigh of relief. ‘Well, that’s something,’ I go. ‘At least it’s not Willow Pork. Let’s count our blessings. So what else do we know about him? Does he come from a good family?’

  Yeah, like I’m in any position to judge.

  ‘I gave Honor my word,’ she goes. ‘I can’t tell you any more than that. But you have nothing to worry about.’

  Sorcha’s there, ‘It’s probably just a crush,’ still trying to put a brave face on things. ‘I’d like to think that if she really liked this boy, she would have confided in me first.’

  ‘It’s definitely not a crush,’ Erika goes. ‘Trust me, Sorcha. Honor is in love.’

  Chloe’s old pair have been robbed. They’re apparently pretty shaken up about it as well.

  I’m there, ‘See, that’s the price you pay for living in – where are they again, Shankill?’

  It’s, like, New Year’s Eve and the yacht club is packed for Oisinn’s Dischorge from Bankruptcy porty.

  ‘It’s technically more Killiney than Shankill,’ Chloe goes, ‘and anyway, it wasn’t even that kind of robbed. They had one of those phone calls – you know, someone rings you from a call centre in, I don’t know, Bangalore and they go, “We have detected a virus on your computer – can you switch it on, please?” ’

  ‘I’ve never heard of that.’

  JP’s there, ‘Yeah, they tell you to log on to some website that allows them to take control of your computer remotely, then they steal all your credit cord and, like, bank account details. They robbed seven grand – wasn’t it, Chloe?’

  She’s there, ‘It’s not so much the money they’re worried about. They just feel so stupid.’

  I’m there, ‘Well, I would love to go over to – where did you say this was happening? Booba Looba?’

  ‘Bangalore,’ JP goes. ‘Well, somewhere in India.’

  ‘I would love to go over there and deck whoever did it. Look, I know my old man was as focking crooked as a Welsh put-in, but at least planning corruption and tax evasion are, like, victimless crimes? As in, there were no real losers?’

  I look over at Oisinn. He’s throwing the old Veuve Clicquot into him and some old dude who I’m pretty sure I recognize from the banking inquiry has his orm around his shoulder.

  ‘A new stort!’ the dude goes – and he says it as a kind of toast?

  We all raise our glasses and say the exact same thing. ‘A new stort!’

  ‘My old man thinks the next boom is going to be even bigger than the last one,’ JP goes. ‘Stands to reason, I suppose. People don’t ever want to feel that poor again.’

  Sorcha arrives back from the jacks. She looks tremendous, by the way. Like I said, she’s very nearly got her old figure back and I can see her gobstoppers down the front of her dress.

  She goes, ‘Hi, Chloe! Hi, JP! Happy New Year!’ and it’s air-kisses and all the rest of it. ‘How’s little Isa? Oh my God, he must be talking now!’

  ‘One or two words,’ Chloe goes. ‘He’s still only fourteen months old, bear in mind. He can say Dadda and sometimes he says Ma. We’d obviously prefer if it was Mom, although we took him to see a Children’s Cognitive Behavioural Therapist and she said it was, like, way too early to stort worrying. And how are yours – how are the boys?’

  ‘Getting big!’ Sorcha goes. ‘Big and bold!’

  Chloe’s there, ‘And what about Honor?’ and she sort of, like, pulls a face as she says it, like she’s bracing herself for the news that she tried to kill us both in our sleep or that she burned down a care home.

  ‘Oh, it seems Honor is in love,’ Sorcha goes.

  Chloe and JP are both like, ‘Love?’ like they can’t believe she’s even capable of that emotion.

  In fairness, I’m struggling to get my head around it myself.

  Chloe’s there, ‘Oh my God, so who is she in love with?’

  Sorcha goes, ‘We don’t actually know his name yet? I’m sure she’ll tell us in her own time. It’s important to give her space. We don’t want to be those kind of parents who have to know every little thing that’s going on in their children’s lives.’

  I’m there, ‘The important thing is that he doesn’t go to Willow Pork. Everything after that is a bonus.’

  I knock back a mouthful of the old Miracle of Zoeterwoude, then someone shouts, ‘It’s coming up on ten seconds to midnight!’ and everyone storts going, ‘Ten! Nine! Eight! Seven!’

  I shout, ‘You the man, Oisinn!’

  ‘Five! Four! Three! Two!’

  Instead of going, ‘Happy New Year!’ everyone just goes, ‘Happy Dischorge from Bankruptcy!’

  I turn around to Sorcha and I kiss her. And I very nearly do the same to Oisinn when he tips over to us.

  I’m there, ‘I’m so happy for you, Dude,’ because I’m thinking about that day, five or six years ago, when the two of us stood and watched as a crew of repo men stripped everything out of his old gaff. His home sauna. His Honma golf clubs. His grid composition by John Kingerlee. Everything he had in the world seized then sold off to pay his creditors.

  And now he’s back.

  ‘Thanks for coming,’ he goes. ‘Are you going to stick around? We’re all going outside in a bit and I’m going to burn my Order of Adjudication and Warrant of Seizure.’

  I’m like, ‘I’m not missing that.’

  Sorcha and Chloe stort talking about, I don’t know, girlie stuff, so me, Oisinn and JP end up taking a couple of steps to the side.

  ‘So what happens now?’ JP goes. ‘Any plans?’

  Oisinn’s there, ‘One or two ideas, let’s just say, percolating.’

  I laugh. I’ve decided that Oisinn’s going to be the inspiration for my own comeback.

  I’m there, ‘Speaking of people who everyone considered finished …’

  They’re both like, ‘Yeah?’

  ‘ … okay, I’m going to come straight out with it. I’ve been thinking of going back to rugby.’

  JP’s like, ‘Whoa! That’s fantastic!’

  And Oisinn goes, ‘About focking time as well!’

  I’m there, ‘See? I knew you two would have faith in me.’

  ‘Hey,’ JP goes, ‘you’ve still got a lot to contribute.’

  I’m there, ‘Keep talking to me like this, Dude.’

  ‘Here,’ JP goes, ‘did you hear Accenture are looking for a coach for their women’s tag rugby team?’

  I’m there, ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I don’t know if there’s any shekels in it. But there’s a lot of good-looking birds go in and out of there.’

  Oisinn goes, ‘They’re based in Grand Canal Square, aren’t they?
’

  I end up suddenly losing it with them. ‘I’m not talking about coaching focking women!’ I go.

  Oisinn’s like, ‘What are you talking about then?’

  ‘I’m talking about playing the actual game. Tag rugby? I should focking deck you – the pair of you.’

  JP’s like, ‘Playing it?’

  ‘Yes, playing it. Why is that so unbelievable?’

  ‘Playing it for who, though?’

  ‘I was thinking in terms of Seapoint.’

  ‘Seapoint?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘In Ballybrack?’

  ‘Let’s be honest.’

  ‘But they’re in the All Ireland League,’ Oisinn goes.

  ‘I know they’re in the All Ireland League.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Ross, it’s just, I don’t know, the game has moved on quite a bit since we played it.’

  ‘You don’t think I can do it either. Do you know what? I’m going to do it. I’m going to come back just to prove you two and my old man wrong.’

  All of a sudden, we hear raised voices. There’s, like, a row going on up at the bor. It turns out that one of the staff has told Christian that he’s had enough to drink, while Christian is disagreeing with that analysis at the top of his voice.

  He’s like, ‘Do you know how many focking … focking years I’ve been coming here … on and off … I pay your focking wages!’

  Sorcha goes, ‘Ross, do something!’

  So I go over and I grab him. I’m like, ‘Come on, Christian, you’re hammered. Maybe you should go home. Or on into town.’

  ‘Your focking hands off me!’ he shouts at me. ‘Get your focking hands off me!’

  It breaks my hort to see him like this, but Christian has been on a downward spiral for a while now. Look, everyone knows that him and Lauren had problems – we’re talking financial, we’re talking relationship, we’re talking everything. His comic book store on Chatham Street went down the shitter along with the last of their savings and their rows were famous. For about a year, they were on and off like a fat dude’s fridge light, then about four months ago, Lauren took the kids – we’re talking Ross Junior and Oliver – and just focked off to France to live. Hennessy – as in, her old man – has a brother who supposedly owns a vineyord just outside Bourg-en-Gironde.

  JP goes, ‘We’ll drop him home. We told the babysitter we’d let her go shortly after midnight. We can swing past Carrickmines, Chloe, can’t we?’

  I feel a bit bad. If I was being hord on myself, I’d nearly say I played a port in Christian and Lauren breaking up. I try not to think about it, though.

  I’m there, ‘JP, get him home safely, will you?’

  Christian goes, ‘Fock you – ruined my focking … my focking … whole … life.’

  Then off they thankfully head.

  A few minutes later, the word goes around that Oisinn is about to burn the paperwork confirming his bankruptcy outside on the terrace. Me and Sorcha shuffle outside along with everyone else.

  Oisinn is holding up a red fire bucket and there’s a definite sense of excitement in the air. He puts it down on a table, then he produces the documents from his inside pocket and he stuffs them into the bucket. Someone hands him a vinegar bottle filled with presumably petrol and Oisinn tips it in. He lights a match, takes a step backwards, then throws it into the bucket.

  The pages go up in a blaze and there’s, like, a spontaneous cheer, followed by a round of applause.

  There’s a definite sense that Ireland is going back to where it was in 2004 slash 2005 – and I don’t think anyone would describe that as a bad thing.

  ‘So,’ Sorcha goes, as we’re walking back to the cor, ‘any resolutions for 2015?’

  I decide not to tell her about the Seapoint trial this weekend. I don’t want to give anyone else the chance to remind me how old I am.

  So I just go, ‘This is going to be my year, Sorcha. The year I prove the doubters wrong once and for all.’

  Seapoint Rugby Club isn’t actually in Seapoint? Like JP said, it’s in, let’s be honest, Ballybrack – which is why I end up locking the cor about eight times after I throw it in the cor pork.

  I don’t actually have any gear with me? That’s how I’ve decided to play this thing. I just figure they’ll know who I am and they’ll know what I can do. The Rossmeister doesn’t do auditions.

  Bottom of Division 2B, they should be honoured that I’d even consider playing for them?

  Like I said, I pork the cor, then I stort walking across Kilbogget Pork to get to the actual rugby pitch. It’s, like, pissing with rain and there’s a wind blowing across the field from the direction of Cabinteely that would exfoliate an elephant.

  Even from a distance, I can see that there’s, like, a trials match underway. It’s blue bibs – who I’m presuming are the first team – against orange bibs – who I’m presuming are the trialists – and there’s a lot of heavy hits going in. Goys are obviously going all out to prove themselves. A lot of hord tackles. Some that I can nearly feel, even from, like, fifty or sixty yords away.

  Not that I’d be in any way intimidated. Back in the day, I was famous for dishing it out. There’s one or two, let’s just say, well-known Irish internationals who are going to have arthritis in their old age as a result of being tackled by me. They’ll remember my name every time they bend down to tie their shoes.

  It’s the name of the game.

  I actually get butterflies in my stomach as I get closer to the pitch. The grunts. The roars. The crack of, like, bone on bone. The steam rising from the scrum. The smell of wintergreen and wet jerseys. I’ve missed it.

  They’re young. That’s one thing I notice as I get closer. They’re a lot younger than I expected them to be – we’re talking, like, early to mid-twenties, most of them.

  But then, physically, I’ve nothing to worry about, because I’ve obviously stayed in shape since I finished playing. And I’ve also got something that probably none of them have got, and that’s a Leinster Schools Senior Cup medal – even though it was technically taken off me for doping.

  Fock, they’re very young actually? One or two of them aren’t much older than Ronan. But then I quickly remind myself that there’s no substitute for experience. They’ll know that that’s one of the things I’ll definitely bring to the set-up.

  Someone suddenly puts the ball into touch on my side of the pitch. It bounces two or three times and ends up landing right in my path. The players all stort shouting at me. They’re all like, ‘Hey, Dude, can you kick the ball back?’ and I end up having a little chuckle to myself, because they obviously haven’t recognized me yet?

  I’m thinking, Yeah, no, the joke is about to be on them.

  With the toe of my right Dube, I flick the ball up into my hand, we’re talking proper Cian Healy-style. Then I pick out a player, who’s standing, like, eighty yords away, and I go, ‘Okay, people, watch and learn! Into the hands of the full-back in blue!’

  With the ball in my hands, I take a short run-up, then I pull back the trigger of my right foot. As I’m doing that, I release the ball and then –

  Oh, holy fock.

  My standing foot suddenly slips on the wet grass and I go flying in the air – we’re talking orse over proverbial tit – then I land, with the most almighty crack, on the flat of my back.

  There’s, like, a moment of silence, which I take for concern, before everyone decides that it’s actually too hilarious not to laugh? So there I am, lying on my back, staring up at the black sky, with the rain falling down on me, listening to everyone laughing, high-fiving each other and saying that they wished they’d filmed it because it would have got, like, five million hits on YouTube.

  Some dude trots over. With one hand, he picks up the ball. With the other, he pulls me up into a standing position.

  He goes, ‘Are you okay, Mister?’ not even recognizing me.

  In fact, no one seems to recognize me.

  I’m there, ‘Yeah, no, I’m
just a bit winded, that’s all. I’d be used to a better surface.’

  And he goes, ‘You’d want to take it easy, Mister. A man of your age could do himself a serious injury.’

  2

  A Problem with the Windows

  ‘Oh! My God!’ Sorcha goes. ‘What happened to your trousers?’

  I’m like, ‘What are you talking about?’

  She’s emptying the laundry basket while I’m, like, bathing the boys. I turn around and she’s got my chinos in her hand.

  ‘Your trousers,’ she goes. ‘They’re covered in mud. Ross, what happened?’

  I go, ‘I don’t know. I must have slipped.’

  She’s there, ‘It looks like you were rolling around on the … Oh my God, Ross, were you with another woman?’

  ‘No, I wasn’t with another woman. Yeah, thanks for your trust, Sorcha.’

  ‘So where did all this mud come from?’

  ‘Look, if you must know, I was playing rugby.’

  ‘Rugby? Ross, you’re thirty-five.’

  ‘I’m not thirty-five – I’m actually thirty-four.’

  ‘You’re thirty-five on Tuesday.’

  ‘Do you know how old Mauro Bergamasco is?’

  ‘I don’t even know who Mauro Bergamasco is.’

  ‘That says more about you than it does about me, Sorcha. Says more about you than me.’

  She shakes her head, like this is all way beyond her understanding. She’s there, ‘Okay, assuming you’re telling me the truth, who were you even playing rugby with?’

  ‘Seapoint.’

  ‘Seapoint?’

  ‘I went for a trial yesterday – for the first team.’

  ‘A trial? Oh my God, Ross, is this some kind of midlife thing?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’m saying it sounds like a midlife thing.’

  ‘Well, you’ll be happy to hear that I didn’t get it. In fact, I made a complete focking orse of myself. Can you believe that not one single person there even knew who I was?’

  ‘Ross, you’d really want to stort acting your age.’

  ‘I’m going to throw you another name. Victor Matfield. Thirty-seven years of age. But you’ve probably never heard of him either.’

  ‘Shit,’ Leo goes – he’s obviously learned a new word. ‘Fock your focking shit.’