Game of Throw-ins

by Ross O'Carroll-Kelly

  I watch Honor put her hand over her mouth. So much for not embarrassing her.

  I’m there, ‘She obviously got the wrong end of the stick, Babes. It might have been the language barrier.’

  ‘I did not get the wrong end of the stick,’ the niece goes. ‘You asked me to talk filthy to you and you asked me what I was wearing. And now I would like an apology.’

  The uncle goes, ‘You asked her to describe her underwear?’

  I’m there, ‘Look, I’m just making the point that I wouldn’t describe what I said as sexually suggestive as such?’

  The woman then goes, ‘You said I sounded like I had a pretty mouth and you said, “Say something filthy. Tell me you’re horny and then build it up from there.”’

  ‘Yeah,’ I go, ‘it’s going to sound bad if you’re going to quote everything I said back word for word.’

  The one good thing to come out of this is that it’s shut Caleb up. He’s watching this scene unfold in just, like, shock. I’m thinking, Welcome to the O’Carroll-Kelly house – like I said, take us as you find us.

  But it’s Honor’s disappointed face that kills me. I can’t bear to even look at it. So I decide to just come clean?

  ‘Okay,’ I go, ‘if you must know, I was just, like, screwing with your head because I thought you were trying to fleece us.’

  ‘Fleece you?’ the Indian dude goes. ‘Your wife asked us to remove a virus from her laptop.’

  ‘Yeah, well, when you said you were ringing about the computer, I just presumed you were the same crowd that scammed Chloe’s old pair.’

  ‘What crowd?’

  ‘Long story. Someone rang them and said, “Blah, blah, blah,” and they somehow got into their computer and stole all their credit cord details. No offence, they were from out your way.’

  ‘Sandyford?’

  ‘No, not Sandyford. I’m going to just say it – India.’

  ‘Okay, so everybody from India is a thief to you, yes?’

  ‘Hey, I’m not pointing fingers.’

  ‘A country of one point two billion people and we are all the same to you?’

  ‘All I’m saying is that I jumped to the most obvious conclusion. And I thought I’d have a bit of fun with you – see where it led.’

  Sorcha decides to land me even further in it then. She goes, ‘I hope you know, Ross, that what you’ve just said is actually racist.’

  I’m there, ‘Everything is sort of racist these days, isn’t it? I don’t know if anyone else here finds that. It’s like, if you don’t get the regular updates, you find yourself suddenly saying something that used to be okay but is now a total no-no. It’s something for us all to think about, I suppose.’

  ‘Of all of the things you’ve ever done, Ross …’

  ‘Ah, come on, Sorcha, this is way down the list.’

  ‘It’s, like, oh my God, what is wrong with you?’

  ‘Hey, I said I was awesome. I never said I was perfect.’

  It’s a cracking line, one I’ve been saving up for a while. But it’s the wrong line for this particular moment.

  ‘Ross, I want you to leave,’ she goes.

  I’m there, ‘Leave? Where am I going, Babes?’

  ‘Anywhere. As long as it’s out of my sight.’

  I look around the room at all the faces. Sorcha is looking at me in anger, the Indians in disgust, Honor in utter humiliation and Caleb in complete contempt.

  On my way out the door, I turn around to him and go, ‘You’d better treat my daughter well, Player.’

  He won’t, of course. As soon as he finds out how handsome he is – if he doesn’t know already – he’ll drop her like a hot roasting dish.

  He’s like, ‘Whatever!’

  Sorcha just roars at me. She’s there, ‘Get out!’

  The girl needs time to cool off, calm down, whatever you want to call it, so I decide to just drive around for a couple of hours.

  My first instinct is obviously to turn left and drive up the Vico Road towards Dalkey, but I end up turning right, which is Ballybrack direction – why, I don’t know? In fact, I can’t explain anything that happens in the next however many minutes. I don’t remember deciding to do what I’m about to do. It just sort of, like, happens, as if my actions are being controlled by someone else.

  Fifteen minutes later, I’m back on Churchview Road again, two wheels porked on the footpath this time, staring through the railings at two sets of players walking off the field. There’s obviously just been a match. I recognize the blue, black and green of Seapoint. From the faces on the players, it’s pretty clear they lost.

  I shake my head and I go, ‘What am I doing here? I can’t do this, Father Fehily. I know you always had unbelievable faith in me, but it’s a fact – the game has moved on. It’s a lot tougher than you possibly remember it in terms of, like, physicality. I think I’ll hit Ed’s, grab a burger and hopefully Sorcha will have calmed down by the time I get home.’

  Oh, fock it.

  I’ve suddenly opened the door and I’ve got out of the cor. Before I know what I’m doing, I’m walking across the cor pork towards the clubhouse.

  Some dude, who I take to be the coach of the team, sees me walking towards him. He’s like, ‘Are you alroyt, Moyte?’ and I instantly pick up on the fact that he’s a Kiwi.

  He’s, like, fat – I’m guessing mid-fifties.

  ‘I want to play rugby,’ I go. ‘I want to play rugby for The Point.’

  He’s like, ‘Unfortunateloy, we doyn’t have a soyniors toym thus year. We’ve got a thirds toym – the Thirstoy Thirds. They troyn on Froydoys – that’s uf enough of them shoy ap.’

  I’m there, ‘I’m not talking about playing with a team of drinkers. I’m talking about playing for this team here.’

  He sort of, like, laughs. He can’t actually help himself? He goes, ‘Yoy can’t just take up rugboy and expict toy …’

  ‘I’m not just taking it up. I’ve played the game.’

  ‘Whin?’ he goes and I notice him not-too-subtly check out my waist. ‘Whin did yoy ploy?’

  ‘It was back in 1999.’

  ‘The ninetoys?’ he goes. ‘Jees, Moyte, that was a long toym agoy.’

  I’m there, ‘I know it was a long time ago.’

  ‘What posution dud yoy ploy?’

  ‘Number ten. I captained Castlerock College the year they won the Leinster Schools Senior Cup.’

  At this stage, the Seapoint players are storting to walk past us into the dressing room. Some of them are staring at me and it’s pretty obvious that my face is storting to look vaguely familiar to one or two of them.

  ‘Here,’ one of them goes, ‘it’s that the dude who slipped on his focking orse a couple of weeks ago.’

  All the other players laugh.

  The coach looks over his shoulder and goes, ‘Yeah, you’re very voycal for a toym that’s just lost at hoyme to Greystoynes by fortoy points.’

  The dude remembers his manners and walks on.

  I’m there, ‘You’re bottom of Division 2B.’

  The coach is like, ‘Soy?’

  ‘So you need to do something. Otherwise, you’re going down. All I’m looking for is a chance to prove to myself how good I could have been.’

  ‘Unfortunatloy, Moyte, we doyn’t ictually noyd a number tin.’

  ‘Who’s your ten?’

  ‘Senan Torsney.’

  ‘Never heard of him.’

  ‘It was that goy who was just maathing off.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘He just mussed aaht on the Leinster Acadamoy laahst year. He’s hoyping to make ut thus year. He’s only eightoyn. He was on the binch for Lansdaahn. Came to us because he noyds first team rugboy.’

  ‘I’d still fancy my chances of dislodging him. That’s the kind of competitor you’re dealing with.’

  He laughs. I can tell he likes me. ‘Oy think Senny’ll ploy for Oyerland one doy. You’re looking at another Sixton in the moyking.’

  I’m
like, ‘Fair enough. Just forget it, then.’

  I’m just about to walk away when he goes, ‘Oy doyn’t noyd a tin, but Oy noyd someone whoy can doy a job for moy in the front roy.’

  I’m like, ‘The front row?’

  He looks at my midriff again. I don’t know why he’s so obsessed with it. I would have said I was in pretty good shape.

  ‘Our hookah,’ he goes, ‘Robbie Rowell – he broyk his toy aaht there todoy.’

  ‘He broke his what?’

  ‘His toy. His bug toy. Oy noyd to foynd a reploycement.’

  ‘And you think I’m it?’

  ‘Oy’ve noy idea whither you’re ut. I’ve niver seen yoy ploy. Oy’m offering you a troy-aaht.’

  ‘I don’t actually have my gear with me. I was just driving around. My wife focked me out of the house.’

  ‘We’re troyning on Tuesday noyt. Eight o’clock. All Oy’m saying is Oy’ll toyk a look at yoy.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘What’s your noym, boy the woy?’

  ‘It’s Ross. It’s Ross O’Carroll-Kelly.’

  ‘Will, it’s noyce to moyt yoy, Russ Akerell-Killoy. I’m Byrom Jones, the hid coych. I’ll see yoy Tuesday noyt.’

  And, just like that, I’m suddenly a rugby player again.

  3

  Once You Go Brack …

  It’s all spread out on the bed in front of me. Everything I need for tonight. We’re talking training jersey, smock top, trackie bottoms. We’re talking shorts, gum shield, jock strap. We’re talking …

  Boots!

  Shit, I nearly forgot my boots. Imagine that. The Rossmeister’s first night training with The Point and he turns up without his boots.

  I grab the chair from Sorcha’s vanity table, then I take it into the walk-in wardrobe and I stand on it to reach the box on the top shelf. I put it on the bed, open the lid and pull back the paper. There they suddenly are – my old Adidas Christophe Lamaison Pro Fly Eight-Studs.

  The smell of leather and old mud brings a lot of memories flooding back.

  I take them out of the box and I flip them over. There’s actually a few clumps of grass still stuck to the studs and I’m suddenly wondering where they’re from? Could be Belfield. Could be Castle Avenue. Could be Anglesea Road. Then – being deep – I’m suddenly thinking, What kind of hopes and dreams did I have when this mud first attached itself to the soles of these boots?

  My eyes stort to fill up.

  Maybe Sorcha’s right. Maybe I am having some kind of, I don’t know, mid-life thing?

  I take the boots into the en-suite and I pick off the mud and flush it down the jacks. Then I grab Sorcha’s black boot polish and a brush and I go at them for, like, fifteen minutes, until I can actually see my big ugly mug in them.

  You could nearly mistake them for a brand-new pair of boots – except for the fact that Christophe Lamaison hasn’t touched a focking rugby ball for more than a decade.

  Well, that’s something we definitely do have in common.

  I sit down on the bed and I slip my feet into the things, first the left, then the right, just like the old days. I tie the laces, tight, and I stand up.

  My chest feels suddenly heavy and I realize that my breathing is, like, short? I’m thinking, Am I actually going to do this? Can I actually do it?

  And my immediate answer is No. I don’t know how to play hooker. All I really know about forward play is what I’ve learned from, like, watching matches.

  But then I remember something that Father Fehily said to me back in 1999, when these boots were brand new and I was about to stort a rugby scholarship in UCD. ‘Don’t ever doubt yourself,’ he went. ‘There’s plenty of people who’ll do that job for you.’

  I look in the mirror and I end up giving myself an unbelievable talking to. I’m there, ‘I can do this thing!’ and then I shout it: ‘I CAN DO THIS THING!’

  Ten seconds later, still buzzing on my words, I tip downstairs to show Sorcha. I’m kind of still in the doghouse for talking filth to that, again, Indian bird from the Computer Laboratory in Sandyford. But I think seeing me in my boots might bring back one or two happy memories for the girl.

  I find her in the living room with Honor and – for fock’s sake – Caleb, for the second time in, like, a week. He spends more time in this house these days than I even do? The little focking Bieber head on him.

  The three of them are sitting on the sofa, watching something with Rachel McAdams in it.

  I’m there, ‘What’s this?’

  Caleb mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like, ‘Jesus Christ, this idiot again.’

  Sorcha goes, ‘We’re watching Midnight in Paris. Oh my God, Ross, it’s a gorgeous, gorgeous movie.’

  I pick up on the vibe that Honor’s not happy with Sorcha for being a gooseberry, because she goes, ‘Mom, should the boys not be in bed? It’s, like, half-six.’

  Sorcha’s like, ‘Oh my God, I’m sorry. I just got so caught up in the movie. I’ll go now and leave you two alone.’

  But Caleb’s there, ‘No, don’t. Please, Sorcha, stay – watch the end of it with us!’ laying on the chorm.

  ‘Okay,’ she goes. ‘There’s not long left and – oh my God – I so love the ending!’

  Brian comes chorging at me, head down, like I showed him, and I scoop him up in my orms. Johnny is sitting on Sorcha’s lap, just staring at Leo, who is standing, like, six inches in front of the TV shouting, ‘Fock this shit!’ at Owen Wilson.

  I’m there, ‘I think I preferred Rachel McAdams in Wedding Crashers. Even though I’ve never seen this. Are you enjoying it, Honor?’

  She’s there, ‘Yeah,’ except she says it in a really, like, defensive way? ‘It’s really interesting – all about the different, like, writers from history.’

  I laugh. The poor girl. I can see how much effort she’s putting in. I’m there, ‘Sorry, you’ve already lost me, Honor.’

  Caleb pauses the movie – he’s in chorge of the actual remote, yeah, in my focking house! – and he goes, ‘Have you got anything to say that’s actually worth hearing, because we’re missing important parts of this.’

  I don’t get a chance to respond to that because Sorcha suddenly goes, ‘Oh my God, Ross, what have you got on your feet?’

  I laugh.

  I’m there, ‘I knew you’d eventually recognize the sound – my old rugby boots. I’ve got training tonight.’

  ‘Training?’

  ‘Yeah, no, it looks like I’m going to be playing for Seapoint after all.’

  ‘Are you joking?’

  ‘Rugby is the one subject I never joke about. You of all people should know that. Yeah, no, I’ve got training at seven. I’m going to meet my teammates properly for the first time.’

  Sorcha – if you can believe this – goes, ‘Ross, I don’t want you wearing those boots in the house. It’ll mork the wooden floor,’ but I just, like, ignore this attempt to ruin my buzz.

  ‘Rubby!’ Brian shouts. ‘Rubby!’

  I’m there, ‘That’s right, Brian. Your dad’s going off to play rugby – and one day, hopefully soon, you’re going to see him line out for the famous Seapoint.’

  Sorcha goes, ‘Are you going out like that?’

  I’m there, ‘I’m hordly going to drive in my rugby boots, Sorcha. Yeah, no, I was going to change into my Dubes.’

  ‘What I means is, are you not going to wear your coat?’

  ‘Coat?’

  ‘The coat I bought you for your birthday.’

  I can’t bring myself to tell her the truth – that it’s an old dude’s coat? And I’m not ready to wear it yet.

  ‘Er, no,’ I go, ‘I thought I’d carry on wearing my sailing jacket and keep the Cole Haan for, like, special occasions.’

  My focking seventieth birthday, for instance.

  Caleb looks at me and goes, ‘Okay, can we go back to watching this now?’

  I’m there, ‘Hey, I didn’t ask you to pause it, Bieber.’


  I put Brian back down on the ground.

  Caleb presses Play and they all go back to watching their movie.

  I’m there, ‘Okay, everyone, wish me luck.’

  No one says shit.

  Sorcha goes, ‘I could watch this movie, like, fifty times and never get bored with it. So many amazing, amazing lines in it.’

  Caleb’s there, ‘I loved that word you used earlier to describe it, Sorcha. Gorgeous.’

  And I end up just, like, chuckling to myself. Because I’ve suddenly copped something that Sorcha hasn’t. And Honor hasn’t either – yet. It’s pretty obvious to me that the boy my daughter is supposedly in love with is head over heels in love with my wife.

  The other players are checking me out in a big-time way. We’re in the dressing room in – again, I’m saying it – Ballybrack and I can feel them all just, like, staring at me. It’s like your first day at school. Or your first day in a new job, for people who have to work for a living.

  They’re all even younger than I thought they’d be – we’re talking, like, late teens and early twenties.

  I’m seriously feeling my age here.

  The famous Byrom Jones goes, ‘Alroyt iverybodoy, lusten up. I want to introjoyce yoy to someone whoyse goying to boy troyning with us tonoyt. I want yoy all to give a vurry spicial Seapoint willcome to this goy here.’

  Someone goes, ‘Who the fock is he?’ just sending me a message that reputations count for very little out here.

  ‘His noym,’ Byrom goes, ‘is Russ Akerell-Killoy. Naah I’ve talked to one or toy poyple in the goym and lit me till yoy this goy was a vurry bug doyl indoyd back in the ninetoys.’

  ‘Yeah, so were his boots,’ someone goes – he’s a big dude, we’re talking twenty-two, maybe twenty-three years old. I’m guessing he’s either a loosehead or a tighthead prop? Everyone laughs. ‘Sorry, Dude, but what the fock are you wearing on your feet?’

  I look him straight in the eye. I go, ‘They’re Adidas Christophe Lamaison Pro Fly Eight-Studs,’ and I say it in a real fock-you kind of way.

  He’s there, ‘Christophe Lamaison? Who the fock is Christophe Lamaison?’

  The worst thing is that he seems to mean it? I just look at him as if to say, You obviously know fock-all about history if you can ask a question like that.