Game of Throw-ins

by Ross O'Carroll-Kelly

  I’m like, ‘Where? Foxrock?’

  ‘Just in Ireland. He fell in love with the country.’

  ‘He obviously didn’t see enough of it. It’s a complete shithole in places.’

  ‘Well, that was his wish. He said that way he’d always be near me. He said I’d hear his voice every time the wind blew down Torquay Road.’

  She sort of, like, laughs to herself – I suppose the word would be fondly?

  ‘Silly Ari,’ she goes. ‘Silly heart.’

  Sorcha’s like, ‘This is the word of the Lord.’

  And we’re all there, ‘Thanks be to God.’

  I’m there, ‘So why don’t you tell Tiffany Blue that she’s not taking him?’

  She goes, ‘I’m tired, Ross. I’m tired of the fighting. She already thinks I’m a gold-digger. I don’t want to be called a body-snatcher as well. I need peace and quiet now. To come to terms with my grief.’

  ‘Well, like I said, you’ve got good people around you. I mean, I’ll call in all the time.’

  ‘Will you, Ross?’

  ‘Well, not all the time. That was just an expression. I’ll call in, though.’

  ‘And bring those lovely babies – em …’

  ‘Rock, paper, scissors.’

  ‘Yes, I want to get to know them better. I’m their grandmother after all.’

  She doesn’t ask me to bring Honor, I notice.

  ‘And now,’ the priest goes, ‘Ari’s wife, Fionnuala, is going to say a few words.’

  I’m there, ‘Are you sure you want to do this?’

  She goes, ‘I’m dreading it, Ross. But I know I must.’

  She stands up and I let go of her hand. She walks unsteadily to the – I’m going to use the word – pulpit?

  Tiffany Blue looks like she’s trying to will her dead with her eyes.

  After a long pause, the old dear goes, ‘Ari and I didn’t have long together – although I was always far more conscious than he was of how short our time was likely to be. Ari would talk about all the things he wanted us to do together, all the places we had to see, as if time wasn’t a factor in his life at all. He was oblivious to the idea that he was aging along with everyone else. Sometimes, he would talk with great fondness about old friends – people he knew from the forties and the fifties – and how sad it was that they’d fallen out of touch. And I would say to him, “Why don’t you pick up the phone?” and he’d say, “Ah, we wouldn’t have anything in common, Fionnuala! He’d be an old man by now!” ’

  We all laugh. It’s a decent anecdote, in fairness to the woman.

  She goes, ‘While Ari was beautifully oblivious to the passage of time, it was left to me to speculate about what our lives would have been like if we’d met when we were younger – the adventures we would have had together, the places we would have visited, the children we might have had together …’

  Her voice sort of, like, wavers?

  ‘Instead, we led separate lives, separated by thousands of miles, until fate conspired one day to bring us … to bring us …’

  She suddenly breaks down, her hand over her mouth, her eyes shut tight and her head bobbing up and down as the tears stort to flow.

  I don’t wait to be told. I’m up off the seat and I’m straight up to the pulpit to help her down. I put my orm around her shoulder and I’m like, ‘You don’t need to say anything else. We get the general idea,’ and I stort walking her down from the altar and back to her seat.

  And that’s when Tiffany Blue decides that she can’t take anymore.

  ‘Okay,’ she goes, jumping to her feet, ‘this is total fucking bullshit!’

  The priest goes, ‘I understand that on sad occasions such as this, emotions run a little high. However, I would ask you to please temper your language while you are in the House of the Lord.’

  The Foxrock branch, as well.

  ‘Fuck you!’ Tiffany Blue goes. ‘And fuck you, Fionnuala, with this bullshit grieving widow act!’

  There’s, like, gasps in the church.

  I can hear Honor go, ‘Oh! My God! Plot twist!’

  I’m there, ‘Yeah, no, you heard the priest. I don’t know how you do things in the States, but when we’re in church, we tend not to swear like we’re in a hip hop video?’

  ‘And fuck you,’ she goes, ‘with your little dick like a packet of Lifesavers.’

  Honor’s like, ‘Okay, I should be filming this!’ and she storts pointing her phone at us.

  ‘You’re drunk,’ the old dear goes – to Tiffany Blue, not Honor. It’s a sad state of affairs that I have to point that out.

  ‘You think I can’t see through this?’ Tiffany Blue goes. ‘Standing up there, pretending to be all, like, sad because Grandpa’s gone. You’re not sad. Because you killed him!’

  Everyone’s like, ‘Whoa!’

  It’s a definite first for the Church of Our Lady of Perpetual Premenstrual Tension, as we used to call it.

  The old man is instantly on his feet then?

  ‘I know you’ve lost someone who was very dear to you,’ he goes, ‘and I understand that you’re very sad, but I can’t allow that calumny to go unchallenged – church or no church. How dare you suggest such a thing?’

  Tiffany Blue’s there, ‘Well, is it not a bit convenient that he dies two days before he’s due to go to hospital to have his mental state assessed?’

  ‘You need to get yourself clean again,’ the old dear goes.

  ‘So now I can’t prove that he wasn’t of sound mind when he married you. Or at least that’s what you think, you dried-up skank.’

  ‘You’re being irrational.’

  ‘Why was he on the treadmill? He was ninety-two years of age!’

  ‘Because he wanted to be fit and ready for those demeaning tests that you – his own flesh and blood – insisted he be subjected to. That’s on your conscience, not mine!’

  I’m still standing between them, bear in mind, with my orm around the old dear’s shoulder. I can feel her body literally trembling.

  ‘Why would he take a bath before he got on the treadmill?’ Tiffany Blue goes then.

  The old dear’s like, ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘He took a bath, according to you, then he got on the treadmill. Why would he do it in that order?’

  ‘Because we never got his medication right.’

  ‘Bullshit. He’d never stepped on a treadmill before. He never took exercise in his life.’

  The old man goes, ‘The poor chap died of a heart attack and that’s all there is to it.’

  ‘Induced,’ Tiffany Blue goes, ‘by her.’

  The old man’s there, ‘Fionnuala, don’t say another word! This is bloody well slander of the worst kind and I know just the chap to get it remedied through this country’s courts of law!’

  ‘He had burn marks on his legs,’ Tiffany Blue goes. ‘Where did they come from?’

  ‘From a borbecue,’ the old dear tries to go. ‘While we were on honeymoon. I explained it. Some coals slipped from the fire and then …’

  I’m there, ‘Hang on, what exactly are you allegating here?’

  ‘She dropped something in the bath,’ Tiffany Blue goes, ‘while Grandpa was in it – something electrical – to give him a heart attack. Then she dried him off, dressed him in a T-shirt, shorts and sneakers, dragged him downstairs and left him beside the treadmill. Then she tried to have him cremated before I could get a post mortem performed on the body.’

  The old man points at the old dear and goes, ‘Look at her! Look at that woman grieving there! Does anyone in this church honestly believe that Fionnuala O’Carroll-Kelly would be capable of such a thing?’

  There’s, like, silence for a good five or six seconds – these are her so-called mates, bear in mind.

  The old man’s like, ‘Well?’

  It’s only then that people stort to shake their heads and go, ‘No, of course not. That’s ridiculous.’

  The priest looks at Tiffany Blue and goes, ‘I’m going
to ask you to leave this church right now.’

  Tiffany Blue just stares the old dear out of it for about thirty seconds. Then she steps out of the pew, into the aisle, and clip-clops her way down the aisle and out of the church.

  A few seconds later, she steps back inside just to shout, ‘This ain’t over, bitch!’

  You can say what you want about Greystones – it’s Newtownmountkennedy with nicer views; even the tide is afraid to come in; its name translated into Irish is Na Clocha Liatha, which literally means, ‘Check your shoes – I think one of us has stepped in something!’ – but this much is also true: it’s a tough place to go and win a rugby match.

  Seapoint versus Greystones is one of the bitterest rivalries in Irish rugby. It’s not for no reason that it’s called the El Classico of second-tier rugby in Ireland.

  The two teams hate each other for, like, a whole host of reasons. A lot of our goys played schools rugby with their goys? We’re talking Pres Bray, we’re talking Gerard’s, we’re talking CBC Monkstown, we’re talking Blackrock, we’re talking Clongowes. A lot of them are still friends – best friends, in some cases? Plus, a lot of our goys ended up playing for The Point because – let’s be honest here – they weren’t good enough to make the firsts in Greystones. So they’ve obviously got shit to prove.

  It’s a fixture with more individual needles than the Liffey Boardwalk.

  Byrom has obviously heard about what happened at Strength and Conditioning on Monday night because he addresses it head-on in his pre-match team talk. He goes, ‘You could cut the tinsion in here wuth a knoyf. Look, Oy doyn’t knoy what wint on, why you’ve all fallen aaht – something to doy with the loydoys, noy daaht. Oy doyn’t want to fuckun knoy. What I can tell yoy from experience is that in a year’s toym, moyboy toy, yoy woyn’t remimber what it was all abaaht. Ut won’t boy important toy yoy. But yoy will remimber what hippens aaht on that putch todoy. Ut’ll defoyne the rist of your loyves.

  ‘Toy months agoy, I would niver have drimt that woy’d foynd aahsulves un thus pusition. We were a laahfing stock. Do yoy remimber what Groystoynes dud when they came to Kulbogget Paahk? They scored eight troys. They were toyking the puss. But todoy we’re a dufferunt toym. That’s because we staahted to beloyve in aahrsulves. Lit’s fuckun shoy them what koynd of a toym we are naah by stopping thum wunning the loyg. Whativer shut is goying on between yoy, lit’s put it aaht of our hids for the nixt eightoy munnets. Lit’s koyp The Point in Duvusion Toy Boy of the All Ireland Loyg!’

  It’s pretty stirring stuff, it has to be said. Everyone claps. As we’re walking out of the dressing room, I tip over to Senny and I offer him my hand. I’m like, ‘Dude, I’m sorry. Like I said, I was hammered. The other point I’d love to make is that making a move on each other’s birds was an accepted port of the game when I played.’

  He looks me in the eye. He goes, ‘I’m not shaking your hand, Rossi. But I am prepared to play with you today, because I’m a professional,’ which is a definite dig at me. ‘And that’s how professionals behave.’

  The first ten minutes end up being the ten most intense minutes of rugby that I’ve ever experienced. Greystones – focking Braystones – are really fired up for this one. They’re determined to build an early lead and make the second half just, like, a victory lap for themselves? The hits are unbelievable – on both sides. The hordest tackles of all are best friend on best friend.

  I’m tempted to say, that’s rugby.

  Worse than the tackling is the sledging. I’m throwing the ball into the lineout and one of their goys is going, ‘Send us a postcord from Tullamore next year!’ and ‘I hope you enjoy Navan!’

  There’s one or two comments about my hair as well – ‘Who’s the old dick who thinks he’s Ian Madigan?’ and that type of thing.

  On the sideline, Byrom is going, ‘Doyn’t lit thum into your hids – ut’s all paaht and paahcul.’

  And I’m there, ‘He’s right – let’s not get suckered into personal battles against this pack of Wicklow focking Sandpeople.’

  But it gets even worse as the half wears on, with Greystones leading 12–3.

  Some dude who was in Clongowes with Senny – they’re supposedly, like, cousins? – keeps asking him why he didn’t come to play for a real team when he got focked out of Lansdowne. ‘Is it because you’re a focking bottler?’ he goes.

  Possibly as a result, Senny is having a mare with the boot.

  On the sideline, Byrom is going, ‘Sinny, you’re litting thum unto your hid, Moyte! Doyn’t lit thum unto your hid!’ and I can hear my old man, a short distance away, go, ‘Respect for the opposition number ten is the sine qua non of the game! Without it, let’s just make the ball round and call it soccer!’

  I’m actually doing okay – and feeling okay – until about twenty-five minutes in, which is when I stort to get a bit, I don’t know, light-headed?

  Bucky asks me if I’m okay. I’m there, ‘Yeah, no, I’m just a bit, I don’t know, dizzy.’

  ‘Dizzy?’ he goes. ‘Might be dehydration.’

  Someone throws a bottle of water on and I take three or four mouthfuls from it. But that’s when the pains in my head stort up again. They’re, like, the worst yet? It feels like I’m being repeatedly stabbed in the head.

  ‘You okay?’ Maho goes, as he watches me grimace.

  I’m there, ‘Yeah, no, the water seems to have definitely done the trick.’

  A few minutes later, after seven or eight phases, Greystones win a scrum ten metres from our line.

  We do the whole binding thing, then the referee does the usual, ‘Okay, crouch …’ which is what we end up doing.

  And that’s when the Greystones hooker, who’s built like the focking robot out of Big Hero 6, looks me dead in the eye and sort of, like, smiles. Of course, I’m too distracted by the pains in my head to realize that he’s got, like, a trick up his sleeve here?

  The referee’s like, ‘Touch!’

  And that’s when this dude goes, ‘Here, Ross, is it? What’s the difference between you and an Eddie Rocket’s tuna melt?’

  The referee goes, ‘Pause!’

  ‘I don’t know, what?’ I make the mistake of going.

  And the dude goes, ‘An Eddie Rocket’s tuna melt is dolphin-friendly!’

  ‘Engage!’

  What the fock?

  Badoom!

  Bucky and Maho are suddenly shouting, either side of me. They’re going, ‘Push, Rossi! Fock’s sake, Rossi! Push!’

  But I’m so thrown by the comment that I can’t. My legs are suddenly like jelly.

  I’m thinking, Do people know it was actually me who killed that dolphin?

  ‘Push, Rossi!’ they’re going. ‘Focking push! If you don’t, it’s going to be a –’

  Pushover try. They score a pushover try. The ultimate indignity.

  ‘Referee!’ I hear the old man go. ‘Watch the Greystones scrum! There’s clearly all sorts going on in there!’

  But the goys know whose fault it was.

  They’re all going, ‘What the fock, Ross? It’s like we’re playing with a seven-man scrum.’

  I go, ‘How the fock do they know it was me who killed the dolphin?’

  Wynney, our blindside flanker, goes, ‘He’s probably just guessing. Keep your focking head in the game, Rossi.’

  I try, except the headaches get worse as the half wears on and now I’m feeling something close to paranoia.

  Yes, it was all over Instagram and Facebook and whatever-the-fock else these dudes are into – but I never saw my name anywhere near the story. So how the fock do the Greystones players know?

  A minute or two later, I’m getting ready to throw the ball into a lineout.

  Bucky goes, ‘Cat Germany Four!’ which I instantly know means middle.

  That’s when the Greystones jumpers, all at the same time, stort going, ‘Duh-dun!’ doing the cello bit from the theme tune to Jaws. ‘Duh-dun!’

  I pull the ball back over my head.

 
; They’re like, ‘Dundun, dundun, dundun, dundun …’

  Then, just as I’m about to throw it, their number eight goes, ‘Eee-eee-eee-eee-eee-eee-eee-eee!’ making the sound of a dolphin. ‘Eee-eee-eee-eee-eee-eee-eee-eee!’

  Oh, fock!

  I end up throwing the ball so long that it totally clears the lineout. Their inside centre gets his hands on it and he’s a flier – he evades two tackles and puts the ball under the posts.

  It’s over and it’s not even half-time.

  The goys all turn on me, then, because they know we’re about to be relegated and this time there’s going to be no escape act.

  Byrom’s shouting, ‘You’re not ploying as a toym!’

  And Blissy goes, ‘Yeah – and some of us aren’t playing at all!’ meaning obviously me?

  My focking head, though. It feels like it’s about to explode and I’ve never been so relieved to hear a whistle blow. As we’re walking off the pitch at half-time, I turn around to Byrom and I go, ‘I want you to take me off.’

  He’s like, ‘Toyk yoy off? Hoy am Oy putting on?’

  ‘I don’t know. Throw on one of the Thirsty Thirds. I’m done. I’ve fock-all left to give.’

  He stares at me, then he looks over his shoulder at Bucky, who just nods.

  I sit through Byrom’s team talk.

  He goes, ‘We’re oynloy twintoy-throy points daahn – woy can stull wun this mitch,’ except no one actually believes him.

  He doesn’t even sound like he believes it himself.

  The Greystones players are already in celebratory mood next door. You can hear the excitement in their voices. They’re going to be playing their rugby in Division 2A next season – that’s as sure as we’re going to be playing ours in Division 2C.

  Byrom tells one of the thirds that he’s going on. No one says shit to me. That’s the way it goes. You don’t go crying over fallen comrades while the battle is still raging.

  They run back out onto the field. I stay where I am. There’s, like, silence in the dressing room. I listen out for the old man. Ten seconds later – reliable as a clock – I hear him go, ‘Where the hell is Ross O’Carroll-Kelly? Seapoint’s talisman, for heaven’s sake!’

  I run into the jacks, into trap two, and I make an oral sacrifice to Armitage Shanks, God of Porcelain.