Game of Throw-ins

by Ross O'Carroll-Kelly

  I’m there, ‘Your secret’s safe with me. There’s a very good chance I’m going to drown tomorrow anyway.’

  ‘Doyn’t yoy fuckun deer draahn,’ he goes. ‘Not untul the soyson’s oyver.’

  Off he goes. I feel honestly amazing about myself. I order another pint of the old Tolerance Water for the road.

  The bor woman pours it for me. She smiles at me. She’s about fifty-odd. Yeah, no, I’m thinking, that’s about your level now, Ross.

  I’m just sinking the first mouthful when my phone all of a sudden rings. It ends up being Ronan.

  His opening line throws me. He goes, ‘You fooken spanner, Rosser.’

  I’m not expecting it, especially after all the compliments I’ve just been getting.

  I’m like, ‘What’s wrong, Ro?’

  He goes, ‘Did you meerch into The Tipsy Wagon last night and give Scum a baiting?’

  ‘It was more of a decking than a baiting. I would have said I decked him.’

  ‘What the fook are you playing at?’

  ‘Someone had to do something, Ro. It was getting out of hand.’

  ‘We calt a fooken throoce, Rosser.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘About two bleaten hours before you walked in there and battored him.’

  ‘Again, it was a decking. And if you called a truce, why did he fock a brick through Rihanna-Brogan’s bedroom window?’

  ‘That was joost kids, Rosser, fooken about.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Now he thinks we’re at war again – you fooken dope.’

  ‘I’ll talk to him and explain the situation.’

  ‘Stay ourrof it, Rosser. You’ve dud enough dabbage.’

  Shit, I’m thinking, those are big focking waves. I’m standing at the edge of the water and I am totally bricking it.

  The goys aren’t helping. They’ve all been in the water and they’re all, like, fist-pumping and chest-bumping each other and I’m standing there in my wetsuit, trying to look invisible.

  ‘Rossi,’ Dordo goes when he spots me hanging out on, like, the periphery of the group? ‘You haven’t been in yet!’

  I’m there, ‘Yes, I have. You must have missed me. I was, like, standing up on, like, a surfing board, literally on top of one of those big waves out there.’

  He laughs. ‘What are you talking about?’ he goes. ‘Your suit’s as dry as a bone.’

  Senny and Blissy, who are easily the best surfers in the group, are slapping me on the back, going, ‘Come on, Rossi. They’re only little baby waves compared to what you’re used to – the man who’s surfed Jeffrey’s Bay.’

  I may have implied, with drink on me last night, that I was a slightly more experienced surfer than I actually am?

  I’m there, ‘Yeah, no, do you know what it is, though? I’ve got this famous rotator cuff injury that I think I may have aggravated against Rainey Old Boys. I don’t want to make it any worse – especially with the match against Dungannon next weekend.’

  That doesn’t convince anyone. They’re all like, ‘Come on, Rossi! Show us how it’s done!’

  Me and my big focking mouth.

  I’m literally shaking now. It’s not from the cold. It’s from actual fear. That’s how terrified I am of water.

  I’m there, ‘Maybe I’ll ring Byrom and see how he feels about me possibly risking an injury. My phone is back in the B&B.’

  Except suddenly everyone is going, ‘Rossi! Rossi! Rossi! Rossi!’

  The last thing I want is for these goys to suddenly lose faith in me. And of course I can’t pull out without looking like a complete focking tool. Senny hands me his surfboard and goes, ‘Show us how they do it in Waikiki!’

  Yeah, I may have also mentioned that I spent a summer surfing in Hawaii.

  So what else can I do except walk into the sea with the board under my orm. I go out to my waist. I could try to stand up on the thing here, except the waves are way, way out and I don’t think I’d get away with it. So I have no choice but to lie face-down on the board, like I’ve seen the others do, then stort paddling out to sea with my hands, towards the big waves and my almost certain death.

  I’m so scared, I’m literally farting dents in my wetsuit.

  The goys are all on the shore, shouting, ‘Stort! Stort!’ and I’m thinking, ‘I have focking storted!’ I must be, like, halfway out to sea at this stage.

  Fock. The waves stort to become a bit choppier. I’m being tossed about a little bit now, although I think, if I’m tipped off the board, I can at least cling to it, because it definitely seems to float.

  ‘Stort! Stort!’

  Oh, fock off, I’m thinking. I’ll stort when I’m ready to stort?

  I keep paddling. I must be, like, half a kilometre off the coast at this stage and I am seriously kacking it. In my mind, I’m going, ‘Please, Father Fehily, in a way, you got me into this entire mess – now you can get me the fock out of it.’

  I look back over my shoulder at the goys and I notice they’re all jumping up and down, screaming at the top of their voices, ‘Stort! Stort!’

  I notice that I’m not quite as far out to sea as I thought I was – we’re talking possibly a hundred feet. I’m thinking, Will you shut the fock up with that thing. And that’s when I realize that they’re not shouting ‘Stort!’ at all. They’re shouting …

  Shork?

  You’ve got to be shitting me. There’s no way there’s shorks in these …

  And it’s when I turn my head around again that I notice a triangular-shaped fin in the water, literally ten feet in front of me.

  I swear to fock, I think I’m about to have a genuine hort attack. I suddenly can’t catch my breath and my mouth is dry and I’m shaking so much that I manage to somehow tip the board over, so that I fall off it into the water and the board cracks me on the side of the head.

  I go under, my mouth and nostrils filling up with water. Everything turns black for a few seconds, but somehow I manage to find my way to the surface again.

  I’m suddenly, like, flapping around in a blind panic, with no idea where the shork actually went. I can’t see it. I think it must be below, under the water, then something suddenly brushes off my foot and I manage to turn my body around in the water and that’s when the fin reappears on the surface, again about ten feet away from me.

  I’m suddenly screaming like a focking mad person.

  The fin moves closer and closer. But then, instinctively, I lift the board and I swing it in the direction of the shork. There’s, like, a dull thud as the side of it crashes down on his head and then I hear this horrible, like, gurgling noise and I don’t wait around to see what happens next.

  I stort thrashing and kicking in the water and about twenty seconds later I realize that something incredible is happening.

  I’m actually swimming!

  It turns out that being chased by a focking shork was the only incentive I ever needed.

  I travel through the water like a speedboat and I certainly don’t look over my shoulder. Up ahead, I can see the goys all running into the water, going, ‘That’s it, Rossi! Keep going, Rossi! Don’t look back! That’s it, keep going!’

  I literally thrash the water into a salty foam. Then Maho and Gilly are suddenly in front of me and they grab me by the orms and literally just pull me out of the water.

  Thirty seconds later, I’m lying on the sand, trying to get my breath back, staring out to sea at this monster of the deep, bobbing up and down on its side, blood spilling out of it, staining the sea red.

  There’s, like, silence among the goys. Eventually, Gilly goes, ‘Rossi, you killed a shork!’, like I’m somehow a hero. ‘You killed! A focking! Shork!’

  All the goys stort cheering and high-fiving each other, and even though I wouldn’t usually be into killing animals just for the crack of it, I’m buzzing off the feeling of having just killed essentially Jaws. And I didn’t need a harpoon gun. I didn’t even need a boat.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ Maho goes. I can
hear the excitement in his voice. ‘As in, did it bite you?’

  I’m there, ‘It didn’t get the chance. Yeah, no, I saw those big jaws – teeth like razor blades – about to close on my orm and I acted. I was like, “It’s either me or you. And guess what? It’s not going to be me! Eat my board, motherfocker!” ’

  He laughs. He goes, ‘You killed! A focking! Shork!’

  I’m there, ‘Hey, I’d do it again under the same circs,’ becoming suddenly giddy at the thought of what this is going to do for my rep in the game. There’ll be a few nervous front rows out there if this story gets out. I’d say even Cian Healy will be watching his tone around me in The Black Door after this.

  ‘Nerves of steel,’ Gilly goes, shaking his head. ‘Nerves of literally steel.’

  I’m like, ‘Hey, to be honest, it was mostly just instinct. I noticed he was sizing up my throwing orm! I said, “Sorry, that limb is the property of Seapoint Rugby Club! And we’ve still got two matches left!” ’

  They all laugh.

  And of course the other upside of this is that I don’t have to go back in the water. How is surfing on top of a wave ever going to top that? How is anything going to top that? Killing a shork with a surfboard is the equivalent of throttling a tiger with your bare hands. It’s a major, major deal.

  And that’s when I get a sudden idea.

  ‘I want a trophy!’ I go. ‘I want its head! For my wall! No, no, for the front grille of the cor!’

  The goys all laugh, suddenly discovering what a huge asset I am, not only in terms of what I contribute on the field but also in terms of what I bring to the porty off it?

  ‘You cut that thing open and it’s going to focking stink,’ Maho goes.

  I’m just like, ‘I don’t give a fock! Bring me its head!’

  ‘He deserves it,’ Dordo goes and he grabs his camping knife out of his backpack, steps into the water and storts wading out towards the thing. ‘I’ll get you the head, Rossi!’

  There’s, like, cheers from all the goys and it’s incredible. It’s like there’s suddenly no age difference between us at all. It’s like we’re all suddenly in our early twenties?

  Gilly goes, ‘Dude, do you know what we should do? Nail it to the door of the Dungannon dressing room next weekend. Just to let them know that this is how we roll.’

  ‘We’re definitely doing that!’ I go. ‘We are one hundred percent definitely doing that!’

  I look up to see how Dordo is getting on with the job of, I don’t know, decapitating the thing? I notice that he’s not doing anything. He’s just, like, frozen to the spot, up to his waist in water, the big knife in his hand, looking back up the beach at me.

  He’s like, ‘Focking hell,’ as if he’s seen a ghost or something?

  I’m there, ‘What’s wrong, Dude?’

  ‘It’s not a shork,’ he goes. ‘Jesus Christ, Rossi, you just killed a focking dolphin!’

  9

  Head Games

  It’s, like, four o’clock on a Wednesday afternoon and I’m sitting in the cor pork of Mount Anville, waiting to collect Honor from drama. Her class are putting on a joint production of The Boy Friend with either St Andrew’s or St Michael’s and I’ve honestly never seen her so excited about a rehearsal.

  While I’m sitting there, my phone all of a sudden rings. It’s my old dear. I answer it. Don’t ask me why. Maybe I’m feeling charitable towards her. Maybe it’s because I saw a whole new side to her last week, the way she was with Ari. Maybe I’ve finally realized that there is something inside her other than Hendrick’s and seal fat.

  I’m like, ‘What do you want?’

  She goes, ‘Oh, hello, Ross. I’m just phoning to let you know that she got her way in the end.’

  The school doors open and the kids all stort spilling out.

  I’m like, ‘Who got their own way? What are you shitting on about?’

  She goes, ‘Ari’s granddaughter. As you know, she was threatening all sorts – injunctions and all the rest of it. I spoke to Hennessy and he said, “Do you have anything to hide?” and I said, “Nothing, Hennessy! Absolutely nothing!” I told him that Ari enjoys a drink and that – as you’ve witnessed, Ross – we’ve been struggling to find a medication that suits him and that’s all there is to it. Hennessy said, “Then give her what she wants. Don’t let her go down the injunction road because it looks like you’ve got something to hide. Book him into the Mater Private. Do it now.” ’

  I hear a bang. Something has hit the window on the front passenger side. I look up. It turns out that it was some kid’s head. Honor’s banging it off the side of the cor.

  I sound the horn. Honor looks at me – with the kid still in a headlock – and she goes, ‘What?’ with a look of total disgust on her face.

  And I give her a look that says, I’ve just had those windows cleaned.

  The old dear goes, ‘Who’s that?’

  I’m there, ‘Yeah, no, it’s just Honor bullying some kid. So when’s the appointment?’

  ‘It’s in two weeks’ time.’

  ‘And are you not worried?’

  ‘What is there to worry about?’

  ‘Er, that the doctor will come down on Tiffany Blue’s side and say that Ari is batshit crazy?’

  ‘There is nothing wrong with Ari, Ross. And if I have to get medical evidence to prove that, then I will.’

  ‘Yeah, no, whatever. Look, before you go …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I just wanted to say, you know, thanks.’

  ‘What are you thanking me for?’

  ‘You know what for. You covered for me when Tiffany Blue tried to tell Sorcha that, you know, I rode her?’

  It’s funny, it feels awkward talking to my old dear like this.

  She goes, ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

  I’m there, ‘Yeah, no, I know you don’t. But at the same time, thanks.’

  She hangs up. I give Honor another hoot of the horn, because I’m bored shitless just sitting here. And that’s when I find myself suddenly laughing out loud. Because I recognize the kid she has in a chokehold. Focking hilarious …

  It turns out to be Caleb.

  ‘Lick the window!’ she’s going. ‘Focking lick it, Caleb! Otherwise, I’m never letting you go!’

  I roll it down an inch or two and I go, ‘There’s no real need, Honor. I had it washed this morning. I got the Tri-Foam Polish and everything. Hi, Caleb.’

  She tightens her grip on him and goes, ‘Lick it!’

  And that’s what Caleb ends up having to do. Hell hath no fury – it’s that expression again. I see his little tongue poking out of his mouth and he storts licking the glass clean. After maybe a minute of this, Honor releases her grip on him and gets into the cor.

  ‘You’re a bitch!’ Caleb goes, at the same time rubbing his neck – oh, he’s a brave man now! ‘You’re a fat, ugly bitch as well.’

  She opens the window all the way. ‘I’ll remember that next week,’ she goes. ‘I’m going to make you do the front windscreen then.’

  I give him a wink – as if to say, You play my daughter, that’s what you get – then I point the cor in the direction of home.

  ‘So,’ I go, ‘you seem to be slowly getting over Caleb.’

  Honor’s there, ‘Oh my God, you should have seen the way the girls were around him! As soon as he got the port of Tony Brockhurst – oh my God – every girl wanted to be Polly Browne. They were all like, “Me! Me! Me! Me!” Er, pathetic, much? Of course, the hilarious thing is, he’s in love with Miss Lodge, the pianist.’

  Of course he is – he’s what psychiatrists call the wrong kind of horny.

  ‘Well,’ I go, ‘you’ve just made a show of him in front of absolutely everyone. Being bullied by a girl! It’s hilarious.’

  She’s there, ‘It serves him right. He thinks he’s hot shit.’

  ‘I’m defending you, Honor. I much prefer this version of you than the other one. The Life of Pi. I barely recognized
you. So did you get a port in the musical yourself?’

  ‘I’m playing Miss Dubonnet.’

  The bet-down headmistress. I make no comment either way. Honor sticks her nose in her phone and homeward we go.

  It’s just as we’re coming up to the gaff that I suddenly notice a yellow DHL van pulling up on the road outside. The delivery dude is just about to press the gate buzzer when I shout out the window, ‘I’ll take that!’

  I hop out of the cor.

  Honor’s so, like, engrossed in her phone that she doesn’t seem to even notice.

  The dude hands me this little machine – I don’t know, it’s like a credit cord machine? It has a little pen attached to it and he tells me to sign the screen, which is what I end up doing, then he hands me a big, brown envelope and I straightaway notice the name Sotheby’s on the front.

  I wait until the dude drives off, then I turn my back on Honor so she can’t see what I’m doing if she happens to look up. I open the envelope. Inside are all of Sorcha’s letters from Nelson Mandela, along with a covering note. I end up just skim-reading it, picking out random phrases – ‘regretfully returning your items’ and ‘unable to authenticate them as genuine’.

  It’s the final line that ends up being the real killer. It’s like, ‘Find enclosed the report of our handwriting expert, who has concluded that the letters were not written by Nelson Mandela, but are in fact forgeries, and amateurish ones at that. Kind regards,’ and blahdy-blahdy blah-blah.

  I take the pages – the covering note, the report of the handwriting expert, even the letters themselves – and I stuff them into my pocket.

  ‘Oh! My God!’ Honor suddenly goes.

  I end up nearly shitting myself. I spin around and I go, ‘Honor, I don’t know what you think you saw …’

  But she’s still just staring at her phone. She goes, ‘There’s this, like, catwalk model on YouTube who turns over on her high-heel shoe and her ankle snaps like a cracker. Hill! Air!’

  So it’s, like, Friday afternoon, the day before we play Dungannon. I’m going for a run through Dalkey village when I decide – real spur of the moment job – to get my hair cut. It’s something I used to do before big matches back in the day – call it superstition – we’re talking blade three or four at the back and sides, then short on top.