Game of Throw-ins

by Ross O'Carroll-Kelly

  Into the borber’s I go.

  When it’s, like, my turn in the chair, I end up having one of my famous rush of blood to the head moments.

  The borber turns around to me and goes, ‘What’ll I do?’

  And I’m just like, ‘Give me an Ian Madigan.’

  I’m doing it – I don’t give a fock?

  Except the dude turns around to me and – word for word – he goes, ‘Who?’

  That’s what he genuinely says.

  I’m there, ‘Er, Ian Madigan?’

  He’s like, ‘Sorry, I’ve never heard of him,’ like he thinks I’m making him up or something?

  I end up just staring him out of it in the mirror. I go, ‘You’re actually saying that to me? After all the things he’s done for Leinster and Ireland?’

  I end up having to whip out my phone and look through Google images for the best photograph I can find of him. I show the borber and he goes, ‘Oh, that’s a nice cut.’

  And I’m there, ‘Yeah, wasted on the likes of you. Who’s Ian Madigan? You’re some focking joker. Can you cut my hair like that or not?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s no problem. I’m just wondering is it a bit –’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, it’s kind of a young person’s style, isn’t it?’

  ‘Jesus Christ, I’m thirty-five. I’m hordly an old-age pensioner.’

  ‘But it’d be more something that a fella in his twenties would have.’

  ‘Ten seconds ago you’d never heard of Ian Madigan and now you’re a focking expert on his hair? Make me look like that or I’ll take my business elsewhere.’

  ‘Okay, if that’s what you want …’

  ‘It is what I want. That’s why I focking asked for it.’

  He thankfully shuts up then and he goes to work. He grabs the razor and shaves the back and sides of my head, then he storts snipping away the top, then he combs it back and to the left, throwing a bit of wax into it to hold it in place.

  I look incredible. That’s my instant reaction when he’s finished.

  I pay the dude, although I don’t tip him. He’ll know who Ian Madigan is in future.

  Back out onto the Main Street I go. And I don’t have to wait long before I get my first compliment. As I’m running past The Country Bake, I hear a woman’s voice go, ‘Ross?’

  I turn around and it ends up being Flidais – as in Caleb’s old dear?

  ‘I thought it was you!’ she goes. ‘Oh my God, you look … different.’

  I’m there, ‘I’m presuming that’s a good thing.’

  I can’t help flirting. It’s just in me?

  She goes, ‘It’s like that rugby guy, isn’t it?’

  I’m there, ‘Ian Madigan? He’s, like, a protégé of mine. I got a text from him two days ago,’ and I whip out my phone to show her. ‘He heard I was back playing rugby and he wanted to say fair focks.’

  She goes, ‘Yeah, you don’t need to show me. I do believe you.’

  ‘Well, I can’t find it now, but it’s in there – I can promise you that. I’ll probably end up saving it. So how the hell are you?’

  ‘I’m fine. You know, I was actually going to ring you.’

  ‘Listen, you don’t have to keep apologizing for your son. It was a bit weird, that’s all. I think it’s fair to say it just weirded us all out. No permanent damage done.’

  God, I focking love her perfectly round, cue-ball head.

  ‘Well, actually, I wanted to talk to you about Honor,’ she goes.

  I’m there, ‘Oh?’ at the same time thinking, Fock – has she worked out what actually happened that day?

  She’s like, ‘Caleb says she’s been kind of, well, bullying him.’

  I’m there, ‘Bullying him? Does that not sound a bit random to you?’

  ‘Random?’

  ‘Think about it.’

  ‘Well, he said Honor got him in some sort of chokehold and forced him to lick the window of your cor.’

  ‘A girl bullying a boy, though? I’m sticking with the word random. When did this supposably happen?’

  ‘After Drama on Wednesday. As you know, their schools are doing this musical together –’

  ‘And I hoped things wouldn’t be awkward between them. But now he’s come up with this bullying story.’

  ‘He said you were in the cor when she made him lick the window.’

  ‘Look, I don’t want to cast whatevers on your son, but he is a proven liar?’

  ‘I know. It’s just that, well, Thea, my daughter, told me that Honor used to bully her in the same way.’

  She’s the one with the underbite and the shoulders like Samson Lee.

  I’m there, ‘Look, I’m the one who usually collects Honor from Drama and I honestly didn’t see her go near Caleb. It sounds to me like he’s making shit up again. You’ve got a tough time ahead of you with that one – wait till puberty arrives!’

  She looks suddenly sad. ‘I’m sorry again,’ she goes, ‘about that whole business. If it’s any consolation, he’s seeing a really good psychiatrist at the moment.’

  I’m there, ‘Yeah, no, that’s a definite consolation alright. Thanks for letting me know.’

  She goes, ‘It’s been difficult for the children, you know, since I split up with their father,’ and she leaves it hanging in the air for a few seconds. ‘It’s been difficult for me, too, being a single mum and everything!’

  I’m thinking, Okay, is she actually going out of her way to remind me that she’s unattached or am I imagining it?

  I’m there, ‘It must be shit for you alright,’ just letting her know that she’s got my attention.

  ‘Anyway,’ she goes, ‘it was lovely to see you again.’

  I’m there, ‘I’ll tell you what I’m going to do, Flidais, because it’s you. I’m going to have a word with Honor. It’s quite possible that she is bullying Caleb and I just haven’t noticed. Some people would say she’s fully entitled to after the way he tried to play her. Look, I’ll say it to her and see if there’s any chance she might pick on someone else.’

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘I’m not guaranteeing it’ll do any good. In fact, it might make things worse for him. But I’ll mention it and see if she could maybe move on to another kid.’

  She goes, ‘Thank you, Ross,’ and she gives me the most incredible smile. I’ve got a horn on me like a gas cylinder. ‘It was lovely to see you again.’

  I’m just about to stort running in the direction of home again when my phone all of a sudden rings. I look at the screen and it ends up being Ronan.

  I’m just like, ‘Ro, how the hell are you?’ hoping that it’s not more bad news.

  He goes, ‘Rosser, you need to come and gerrus. We caddent be hee-or.’

  His voice is all over the place – he sounds like a crazy person.

  I’m there, ‘Come and get you? What are you talking about?’

  He’s like, ‘Just huddy the fook up, Rosser. Buckets is arthur been shot.’

  Ronan calls me a faloot – a bleaten faloot. At the same time, he’s looking over his shoulder through the rear windscreen of the cor every literally, like, ten seconds?

  He goes, ‘Are we being foddowed? Are you shewer we’re not being foddowed?’

  I’m there, ‘Ro, we’re not being followed.’

  We’re on the N11 – me and Ro in the front, Shadden and little Rihanna-Brogan in the back – on our way to The Glenview Hotel in Wicklow, where they’re going to stay until things hopefully cool off.

  ‘What about that silber Nissan Almeerda?’ Ronan goes. ‘It’s been behoyunt us since we turdened on to the M50.’

  I’m there, ‘Ro, you’re being paranoid.’

  ‘Being padanoid, am I? Well, maybe I’ve a reason to be padanoid. You’re arthur making things ten toyums woorse.’

  ‘Yeah, no, I said I was sorry.’

  ‘Buckets of Blood in the hospital, Nudger gone to Spayun and me hiding like a skeered … rat. You’re a bleaten fa
loot, Rosser. What the fook have you done to your heer, by the way?’

  I don’t answer. He’s only lashing out.

  Buckets is fine, by the way. It was only, like, a flesh wound? The bullet missed all the bones and major orteries, which means it was probably only a warning.

  Rihanna-Brogan goes, ‘What about me reci’al? Am I going to, like, miss it?’

  ‘You wha?’ Ronan goes.

  Rihanna-Brogan’s there, ‘Me reci’al. Ine apposed to be singing a song from, like, Farrozen?’

  ‘Ine afrayud you won’t be. Ine gonna have to keep me head dowun for a while now because of your grantfadder there.’

  His tracksuit top is zipped right up and he’s tugging at the neck like it’s choking him.

  Rihanna-Brogan goes, ‘But Ine arthur practising so hord!’

  Ronan just, like, roars at her then. He goes, ‘I said you’re not bleaten doing it. Lerrit go!’

  There’s suddenly, like, silence in the cor. He’s there, ‘Doatunt eeben think abourrit, Rosser.’

  I’m there, ‘What?’

  ‘You were about to sing the next loyun of the song, you fooken faloot.’

  Most people would have done it in the same position.

  I’m there, ‘Yeah, if you remember, Ro, I was the one who said switch it to a Fair City tour – and now I’m the one being blamed.’

  Shadden goes, ‘And there’s no need to bleaten shourrat her, Ro!’

  Seriously, it’s like there’s an actual episode of Love/Hate going on in my cor.

  I’m there, ‘Maybe we should possibly all calm down? It’s not going to help if we all stort losing the rag.’

  Ronan’s like, ‘What the fook are you doing, Rosser?’

  ‘I’m taking the turn.’

  ‘The turden for wha?’

  ‘For The Glenview Hotel.’

  ‘This idn’t the turden.’

  ‘It is the turn. You go off here, then you follow the road back over the dualler and it’s in there on your right. They’ve got a pretty good gym, to be fair. I know the Irish rugby team used to stay here quite a bit.’

  ‘You’re bleaten setting me up.’

  ‘Ro, I’m not setting you up.’

  ‘You’re throiving me into an ambush.’

  ‘Why would I drive you into an ambush? Ro, you need to calm the fock down. Look, see? There’s the hotel over there. I might even come in with you and check out the facilities.’

  ‘No,’ he goes, ‘you’ve dud enough, Rosser,’ and he doesn’t mean that in a good way. ‘Joost throp us off and then fook off.’

  It hurts. It genuinely hurts.

  Up the driveway we go. This is probably Shadden’s first time outside of Dublin. From the look on her face, she doesn’t think much of it.

  ‘How long are we gonna be hee-or?’ she goes.

  Ronan’s there, ‘Long as we have to. Let’s all think of it as a hoddiday.’

  Rihanna-Brogan goes, ‘When are we going home? I miss Finglas.’

  The last person to miss Finglas was Hitler, when he bombed the North Strand by accident.

  ‘Doatunt be like that,’ Ronan goes. ‘Be a nice little barreak for dus all.’

  She’s like, ‘Er, I’ve got, like, skewill?’

  ‘Forget skewill, will you? Tell you wha, foorst thing we do when we check in is we ring up roowim serbice – you can have athin you want!’

  Rihanna-Brogan nods her head sadly.

  ‘Mon,’ Ronan goes, ‘be an adventure for dus.’

  I feel like shit. I caused this. I know it.

  I pull up outside the hotel and everyone gets out of the cor. I look at Shadden, standing there in her tight leather trousers and her high heels and her big, hoopy earrings, then Ronan with his shaved head and his tracksuit top zipped up to his chin, and all I can think about is Nidge and Trish.

  ‘What’s that smell?’ Rihanna-Brogan goes.

  I’m there, ‘Honor always asks the same thing. It’s called Not Dublin.’

  ‘Mon, Rosser,’ Ronan goes, ‘help me with the bleaten bags, will ye?’

  I pop the boot and I help him lift them out – five matching pieces of luggage, all in leopardskin. They’re like the focking Trotters going on holidays.

  I help them carry them to the door of the hotel, then a dude appears with a trolley and goes, ‘Are you checking in, Sir?’

  And I’m there, ‘Yeah, no, my son is,’ and the dude grabs the luggage and storts piling it on the trolley.

  I’m there, ‘Look, I’m sorry again, Ro. You’ve every right to be pissed off with me, even though I was only trying to protect you.’

  Ronan looks at Shadden and Rihanna-Brogan. ‘Yous go on inside,’ he goes. ‘I’ll foddow you in.’

  Which is what they end up doing.

  I’m there, ‘I suppose if there’s an upside to all of this, it’ll give you a bit of time and space to study for the Leaving. Every cloud – blah, blah, blah.’

  He goes, ‘You’re arthur putting eer loyuvs at risk, Rosser. Moyun, me thaughter’s and me peertner’s. Stay the fook away from us altogetter.’

  Sorcha screams when she sees me. She’s goes, ‘Oh my God, what have you done?’

  I’m there, ‘It’s only a haircut, Sorcha. Ian Madigan has the exact same haircut and everyone thinks it’s cool.’

  ‘Ian Madigan is twenty-four, Ross.’

  ‘He’s actually twenty-six. His birthday was the day Ireland won the Six Nations.’

  ‘My point is, he’s young.’

  ‘And what am I?’

  ‘You’re too old to have a haircut like that.’

  ‘Well, I genuinely disagree. And little Leo does, as well.’

  He’s, like, mesmerized by it. He keeps touching it to see if it’s real.

  I’m there, ‘Hey, I’ve got an idea.’

  She goes, ‘No, Ross.’

  ‘You don’t even know what I was going to say.’

  ‘You were going to say, let’s get Ian Madigan haircuts for all the boys.’

  ‘I think they’d look very smort with them.’

  Leo suddenly grabs a handful of my hair and goes, ‘Focking bollocks!’

  It’s another new word.

  I’m like, ‘Aaahhh!’

  Sorcha goes, ‘Ross, don’t react.’

  ‘I’m kind of reacting to him pulling my hair rather than the swearing, Sorcha.’

  ‘Yes, but he doesn’t know that.’

  He twists it in his little hand. Fock, it’s like he’s trying to pull it out at the root.

  ‘Don’t respond,’ Sorcha goes. ‘That’s it, Ross. Just ignore him. Now, give him to me.’

  She loosens his grip on my hair and lifts him out of my orms.

  ‘Shitting focking bollocks!’ he goes. ‘Shitting bollocksing fock!’

  Sorcha puts him in his high chair next to the others. It’s feeding time at the zoo.

  ‘By the way,’ she goes, ‘there’s still no word from Sotheby’s. They were supposed to send a valuation by courier this week.’

  Shit.

  I’m there, ‘Maybe it was all the spelling mistakes, like Honor said. Maybe they just focked them in the bin. Either way, I think it’s time we forgot they ever existed.’

  She’s like, ‘I’m not going to forget they ever existed. That money is going to hopefully pay for more than one hundred Mount Anville students to go to Botswana to have their awareness raised of the challenges that African people face there on a daily basis. I think I’ll ring them now.’

  Quick as a flash, I go, ‘Oh, hang on, I’ve just remembered something. They rang.’

  She’s like, ‘Rang? When did they ring?’

  ‘Yesterday. Yeah, no, you were out at the time. They rang and they said they needed a few more weeks to make up their minds if they’re worth anything.’

  ‘Weeks?’

  ‘They said weeks, but I think they meant months.’

  ‘Months?’

  ‘We just have to accept it, Babes. They said that that’s how
long these things take.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  I’ve backed away from her and am moving towards the stairs as quickly as I can without looking suspicious.

  I’m there, ‘We’re playing Dungannon tomorrow afternoon, Babes. If we win, we stay in Division 2B of the All Ireland League.’

  She goes, ‘But where are you going now?’

  ‘I’m going to lie down with my eyes closed and go through my visualization exercises.’

  ‘What, and leave me to look after our children?’

  I always say that women will understand men the day that women understand rugby. And that day will be probably never.

  There’s, like, silence in the dressing room. Byrom is being all Mister Bright Side, but no one else is having any of it?

  ‘Trust moy,’ he’s trying to go, ‘a draw is not a baahd rissolt. You’ll all foyl differentloy abaaht thus tomorroy.’

  I’ve got my head down. I’m just, like, staring at the floor, waiting for the room to stop spinning.

  ‘Focking Dungannon!’ Bucky goes, then he kicks his locker once, twice, then three times, in the hope that it’ll make him feel better.

  Except it doesn’t?

  Maho’s there, ‘Bucky has a point. They came here with fock-all to play for. I mean, they’re going to finish mid-table no matter what happens. We’re the team who had something at stake and we end up throwing away, what, a seventeen-point lead in the last twenty minutes?’

  Dordo goes, ‘We don’t deserve to stay up on the basis of that second-half performance, we don’t deserve it.’

  There’s, like, something wrong with my vision. As in, I can’t properly focus? I close one eye, then I open it again and I close the other. The problem is the left one. Everything is, like, blurry through it. I give my head a shake.

  Senny goes, ‘Are you alright, Rossi?’

  I look up. I’m like, ‘Yeah, no, I’m good,’ even though I can only make out the outline of the dude. ‘Just disappointed. Like everyone else.’

  It happened just before half-time.

  We were coasting. Like the goys said, Dungannon weren’t that up for it – win, lose or draw, it was all the same to them. They were mostly ripping the piss out of my haircut and planning their night out in Dublin.