Game of Throw-ins

by Ross O'Carroll-Kelly

  The end of another nothing season. Too good to go down, not good enough to challenge. They were playing for the sheer enjoyment.

  A seventeen-point lead, did Maho say? I thought it might have been more.

  Then just before half-time …

  I threw myself headlong into a ruck just as their loosehead was standing up and …

  Crack!

  Our two heads came together. It was weird because I could actually hear everyone go, ‘Jesus Christ!’ as they winced, then turned away. And then nothing.

  I have no idea how long I was unconscious for. It was probably only a few seconds, although it felt like I’d just woken up from a fourteen-hour sleep.

  I remember lying there, looking up at the clouds and feeling the blood dribble down the back of my neck. I remember Eddie Rowan, our medical dude, asking me basic questions, like the colour of the Dungannon jerseys and my old dear’s maiden name – the focking scrote. I remember leaving the field, my orms draped around Bucky and Maho’s shoulders, like a drunken sailor. I remember Christian on the sideline going, ‘Ross, are you okay? Holy shit, Charles, look at him – he doesn’t know what day of the focking week it is!’ and then my old man going, ‘Nonsense, Christian! A little bang on the head, that’s all! He’ll be out again for the second half, right as rain – you see if he’s not!’

  I remember puking my ring up in the dressing room, then feeling suddenly better again, as the players arrived in at half-time, excited because they knew the match was won and three points was going to be enough to keep us in the division.

  I felt better. I know I felt better because while Byrom was telling the goys not to be complacent, I was standing at the sink, washing the blood off my head. It was a small enough cut – we’re talking an inch, maybe two, but not very deep.

  Byrom went, ‘Oy’m gonna toyk yoy off, Rossoy. Oy thunk yoy moyt noyd a stutch or toy.’

  And I went, ‘There’s no focking way I’m coming off. It’s just a bad cut, that’s all.’

  I wandered over to Eddie Rowan’s medical bag and I pulled out a roll of bandaging. I wrapped it around and around my head until the entire thing was covered, then I secured it with a bit of, like, sticking plaster.

  I could see Byrom looking at me, still Scoobious. ‘Rossoy,’ he went, ‘Oy’m not sure abaaht thus.’

  I’m there, ‘Dude, I’ll swing into the Beacon on the way home and get a few stitches put in. I feel honestly fine.’

  He nodded, then went, ‘Oy’m going to boy looking at yoy. First foyve munnets, Oy soy inny soyns that you’re not oykoy, you’re coming off – noy aahguments, understood?’

  I was like, ‘Loud and clear.’

  And now he’s standing in front of us going, ‘Ut’s not the ind of the world. Woy just noyd to goy toy Groystoyns in toy woyks and moyk sure woy wun – oykoy?’

  Ollie Lysaght, our full-back, goes, ‘You say it like it’s easy. They need to beat us to win the league.’

  ‘Well, that’s a double incentuv for us to boyt them, usn’t ut?’

  Seapoint and Greystones are, like, sworn enemies.

  ‘Focking Braystones,’ Andy Warpole, our openside flanker, goes – that’ll give you an idea of the hatred we have for them.

  ‘Rossi,’ Gilly goes, ‘are you sure you’re okay?’

  I’m there, ‘Yeah, no, I’m fine,’ because the room has suddenly stopped spinning and my vision is storting to clear. ‘Byrom’s right, though. We need to pick ourselves up and go again.’

  There’s, like, cheers from one or two corners of the dressing room, but then suddenly, Frankie Hugo, our left wing, goes, ‘Okay, can I ask the question that’s on everyone’s lips? Rossi, what the fock were you thinking attempting a pass like that in the final minute?’

  I don’t get a chance to answer because Senny suddenly rips into him.

  He goes, ‘I don’t think we should be scapegoating anyone.’

  Frankie’s there, ‘I was screaming at you, Rossi: “Don’t do it! The intercept! The intercept!” I could see it happening!’

  But, again, Senny goes, ‘No one individual is to blame. We take collective responsibility. We win, lose and draw as a team.’

  Bucky goes, ‘Senny’s right. We’d have been relegated a long time ago if it wasn’t for that man there. Put it behind you, Rossi. Forget what happened.’

  It’s already forgotten.

  You see, the truth is, I can’t remember playing the pass that was apparently intercepted – as a matter of fact, I can’t remember a single thing that happened in the second half.

  Flidais is surprised to open the door and find me standing on her doorstep – although happily surprised, I think I would have to add?

  She goes, ‘Ross?’ struggling hord to keep the smile from her face. ‘It’s nine o’clock at night.’

  And I’m there, ‘Yeah, no, I was just passing and I thought I’d swing in and tell you that I had a word with Honor.’

  I didn’t, of course – what would be the point?

  She’s like, ‘And?’

  ‘And,’ I go, ‘I think it’s safe to say that I don’t think you’ll be having any more problems. She’s going to hopefully move on to someone else.’

  ‘Oh, thank you so much, Ross.’

  ‘Hey, Honor is a complete bitch – but she’s also a bit of a daddy’s girl underneath it all.’

  I’m feeling better, by the way, except for this blinding focking headache that just won’t lift – although I know a good cure for it!

  ‘Are you not going to invite me in?’ I go.

  She’s like, ‘Sorry,’ opening the door wider, ‘I’m forgetting my manners. We’ll have to keep our voices down, though, because Caleb and Thea are in bed.’

  I could be wrong, but she seems a little bit pissed.

  She leads me into the gaff, then down to the kitchen – me walking a few steps behind her so I can check out her orse. It’s like two bear cubs wrestling.

  I notice the wine glass on the island with a bottle of red beside it – half full, half empty, whatever you want to call it. I say half full because I’m nothing if not an optimist.

  ‘Yeah,’ I go, ‘like I said, that’ll hopefully be the end of Honor bullying Caleb. I was actually thinking about what you were saying the other day – you know, how hord it’s been on the kids since you and your husband got divorced?’

  ‘We’re actually separated,’ she goes.

  ‘Yeah, whatever. I was thinking I possibly should make the same allowances for Honor – as in, it’s been pretty hord for her, you know, since me and Sorcha broke up.’

  Her mouth drops open.

  ‘You and Sorcha?’ she goes. ‘You’ve broken up?’

  I’m there, ‘You seem pleased.’

  ‘Pleased? Why would I be pleased? That’s awful. I mean, you’ve got three young babies. When did it happen?’

  She takes an empty wine glass and looks at me with her eyebrow raised. I nod and she pours me a glass and also another one for herself.

  ‘Yeah, no,’ I go, ‘it was actually around the time that Brian, Johnny and Leo were born. Sorcha woke up one morning and decided she didn’t love me anymore – might have been some kind of post-natal whatever, but that’s what she said. We just decided to stay living together for the sake of the kids. Both free agents – that’s what I’m trying to emphasize here.’

  She goes, ‘Oh my God, I wouldn’t have been able to tell from the two of you. I have to say, you put on a really good act.’

  You have no focking idea, I think.

  ‘So,’ I go, ‘are you, em, back on the dating scene at all?’

  She laughs – she’s definitely two or three glasses down the road. She’s there, ‘Dating scene? There is no dating scene for people of our age, is there?’

  I’m there, ‘You’d be surprised,’ knocking back a mouthful.

  ‘Well, I let one or two of my friends set me up. But, you know, all that’s really available for people our age is other divorced and separated people. I
n other words, people with baggage. There’s so many assholes.’

  ‘They’re out there – there’s no doubt about that.’

  ‘Some real creeps.’

  ‘That’s not a reason to give up, though. That’s a reason for you to become better at spotting the good ones – especially when they’re standing in front of you.’

  She stares at me for a long time. I think it’s only just dawned on her the direction this evening is about to take.

  ‘Oh my God,’ she goes, ‘what am I doing here?’

  I’m there, ‘I don’t know – what are you doing here?’

  ‘I can’t do this. This is mad. I’ve got two children asleep upstairs.’

  At the same time, she’s running her eyes over my body, trying to imagine what I look like underneath my clothes.

  I’m there, ‘We don’t have to do anything. But I feel it only fair to warn you that I am going to kiss you.’

  I move over to her. I take the wine glass out of her hand and I put it on the island.

  She’s like, ‘Oh my God, this is such an irresponsible thing to do.’

  I’m there, ‘Hey, it’s only a kiss,’ and I lean in and throw the lips on her.

  She smells of Decadence by Morc Jacobs and Lean Cuisine Crustless Chicken Pot Pie, the box for which I noticed on the draining board.

  When I’ve kissed her, I go to pull away, except she’s still caught in the moment. She has her two hands on the back of my neck, the fingers entwined, and she pulls my head within range again, then storts kissing me like she’s searching my lips for whatever nourishment was missing from her microwavable dinner.

  I manage to remove my jacket, shoes, shirt and chinos, while her hands are all over my abs and pecs like she’s trying to feel her way out of a cave. She grabs me by the hand, leading me out into the hallway and up the stairs, the baldy-headed ride.

  ‘And don’t forget,’ she whispers, ‘there’s children in the house.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I go, ‘I’ll be quick.’

  ‘I’m not asking you to be quick. I’m asking you to be quiet.’

  Of course, there’s nothing to say I can’t be both.

  Into her bedroom we go and she closes the door behind us. And that’s where I’m going to close the door on the rest of you. I’ve been called a lot of names in my time, but one thing that pretty much everyone accepts is that I am a man of honour.

  All I’m going to tell you is that the next ten to fifteen minutes end up being just what we both needed. It’s a definite load off for the two of us. I’m throwing her around like I’m shearing a sheep and she’s making generally encouraging noises about what I’m doing to her. She’s got her two eyes shut tight in concentration and she’s blaspheming like a nun who’s just won the Lotto.

  It’s not all me, me, me either. She has one or two arrows in her quiver. She pulls a couple of real surprises on me in the dork of the room, before the whole sticky business comes to an end, with her sitting on top of me with her hand clamped over my mouth to drown out the noise. She’s going, ‘Don’t you stop! Don’t you dare stop!’ while rocking backwards and forwards, with her head thrown back, like she’s trying to get a donkey to run like Barbaro.

  Anyway, like I said, let’s just fast-forward to the moment after the deed is done? We’re both just lying there, getting our breath back, when I make a sudden grab for my boxer shorts and Flidais goes, ‘Where are you going?’

  She sounds a bit focking sulky about it as well.

  I’m like, ‘Yeah, no, I don’t think it’d be a good thing for me to still be here when your kids wake up in the morning?’

  She goes, ‘I’m not suggesting you stay until the morning. I was just thinking, you know, we could wait a little while and do it again.’

  Sex, I always say, is like laying concrete. Do it right the first time and you shouldn’t need to do it again.

  ‘Look,’ I go, ‘I’d love a second crack at it, but on a different day. How does that sound?’

  She’s there, ‘Unbelievable.’

  ‘You sound pissed off with me.’

  ‘I’m not. It’s fine.’

  Jesus, she’s high maintenance. Her poor focking ex – I’d say he has some stories to tell.

  I throw the old jockeys on and she goes, ‘So are you going to give me your number or what?’

  This is just when I’m reaching for the handle of the bedroom door. These are the morgins between success and failure when you’re playing at this level.

  ‘It’s just my phone is actually downstairs in my jacket pocket,’ I go.

  And she’s like, ‘You don’t have to actually have your phone to give me your number.’

  What’s that movie? Fatal Attraction?

  I’m like, ‘Yeah, no, good point. It’s, er, zero eight seven,’ and then I stort throwing just random numbers at her – we’re talking six, we’re talking four, we’re talking one, we’re talking blah, blah, blah.’

  ‘Whoa,’ she goes, ‘stop saying numbers. This is too many digits.’

  ‘How many have I given you?’

  ‘One, two, three, fourrr … Twelve. You’ve given me twelve.’

  ‘Okay, knock the last two off. Actually, knock off the last three. That should be enough.’

  I leave her there with a look of, like, total confusion on her face, then I tip downstairs to the kitchen to collect my clothes and get the fock out of the gaff before she decides to try the number.

  I throw on my chinos and I step into my Dubes. As I’m buttoning up my shirt, I notice that I must have lost a couple of buttons in the course of tearing it off. I’ll get Sorcha to sew them back on tomorrow – if I can find them, that is.

  I’m actually down on my hands and knees, searching the floor for them, when I suddenly become aware of someone staring at me somewhere in the dork. I look up and I end up getting the fright of my focking life.

  Caleb is standing right in front of me, in his little dressing-gown.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ I go, with my hand over my hort. ‘You nearly gave me a focking hort attack.’

  He goes, ‘What are you doing here?’

  I actually laugh. You could wait around a lifetime for the chance to deliver a line like this. I’m there, ‘What do you think I’m doing here? I was riding your mother.’

  He stares at me for a good, like, twenty seconds. I’m just grinning at him.

  I go, ‘See, this is what’s known in the business as a taste of your own medicine.’

  He’s there, ‘I’m going to tell Sorcha.’

  Again, I laugh?

  ‘She’s not going to believe you,’ I go. ‘Sorcha thinks you’re just some love-sick kid who has a creepy obsession with her. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again – you’re the wrong kind of horny, Kid.’

  He’s there, ‘I know it was Honor who put those things in my bag.’

  ‘Maybe she did and maybe she didn’t. But I think she was well within her rights. You used the girl to get to her mother.’

  He laughs in what I would have said was a cruel way?

  ‘Yeah,’ he goes, ‘as if I’d be interested in Honor. She’s painful-looking. She’s got horrible skin, horrible hair, horrible teeth – and nobody even likes her.’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong – because I like her.’

  ‘That’s because you’re both sociopaths.’

  ‘Sociopaths. Anyone can use big words, Caleb.’

  He’s there, ‘Four syllables – is that what you regard as big?’

  ‘Syllables,’ I go. ‘Oh, they’re all coming out now, aren’t they? Hey, you better stort being nice to me, Caleb. Because if things work out between me and your old dear, I might end up being your stepdad!’

  I leave him just standing there in the kitchen, not knowing what to say.

  I grab my jacket and I go, ‘I’ll see you round, Bieber.’

  It’s what you would have to call a dream exit. I’m actually feeling fantastic about myself until about, like, thirty s
econds later, when I sit into my cor and my phone suddenly rings.

  It’s Ronan.

  He goes, ‘Rosser, where are you?’

  What happened to stay the fook away from us altogetter?

  I’m there, ‘I’m just in Dalkey at the moment, Ro.’

  He goes, ‘Rosser, shut the fook up and listen. Ine arthur spoying an associate of Scum’s downsteers in the loppy.’

  ‘An associate? What do you mean by an associate?’

  ‘What the fook do you think I mee-un by an associate? A fedda who associates with the sham – do you get me?’

  ‘Okay, I get you.’

  ‘Ine arthur been rumbled.’

  ‘You’re definitely sure it’s not just you being paranoid. I remember Nidge got very bad, didn’t he? And John Boy was the same before him.’

  ‘Ine not being padanoid. Have you been thrinking?’

  ‘A mouthful of wine – that’s all.’

  ‘Reet,’ he goes, ‘I need you to come and gerrus.’

  ‘Get you?’

  ‘From the bleaten hothel – we’re not safe hee-or, Rosser.’

  ‘Okay – and where am I bringing you?’

  ‘I’ve no ithea. Someweer that’s safe.’

  ‘Hey, I know! Matter of fact, I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before.’

  It’s just after midnight when I drive around the back of the hotel as instructed.

  I text Ronan. It’s like, ‘Outside,’ then I think about adding a smiley face, then I think no, I better not, but then I think, Fock it, yeah, why not?

  Five seconds later, the door of the kitchen flies open and three figures emerge from it. They’re all, like, bent over. Their heads are covered with white sheets and they’re sort of, like, running from the knees down.

  They make it to the cor and they all pile in.

  ‘Throvuy!’ Ronan goes. ‘Throyuv, throyuv, throyuv!’

  So I drive.

  Out of the hotel and back onto the N11, heading north at, like, a hundred and twenty Ks.

  ‘Where we heddun?’ Ronan goes.

  I’m there, ‘You’ll see.’

  Shadden’s like, ‘Hee-or, Ro, we left wirrout paying eer biddle.’

  ‘Dudn’t mathor,’ Ronan goes. ‘I gev them Rosser’s credit keerd number when we checked in.’