Game of Throw-ins

by Ross O'Carroll-Kelly

  Bucky steps in then, like a true captain. He goes, ‘If anyone from the IRFU storts sniffing around, asking questions, we tell them the same thing – it never focking happened. It’s just Greystones being Greystones.’

  ‘Dicks,’ everyone, at the same time, goes.

  Byrom’s there, ‘Look, laahst woykind, the first haahf in Groystoynes, was the first toym in nearloy throy months that woy dudn’t ploy togither as a toym. Woy forgot what it was thut moyd us strong – ut was eer togithernuss. Thut’s the oynloy woy we’re gonna boyt Bruff. And, Rossoy, we’re not gonna doy ut wuthaaht yoy. So what doy yoy soy, Moyte?’

  And I just go, ‘Why are we sitting here like a bunch of knobs? Let’s go back to focking work.’

  I wake up feeling – yeah, no – okay.

  As in, I don’t have a headache, although I can smell cigor smoke and I’m wondering is that another symptom, or am I possibly having a stroke, until I open my eyes to see the old man standing at the end of the bed, smoking a Cohiba so big you could snap twelve inches off the thing and still have enough left to stir your porridge.

  I’m like, ‘What the fock are you doing here?’

  He goes, ‘Your good lady wife let me in.’

  ‘What time is it? It’s the middle of the night.’

  ‘It’s the middle of the day, Ross. One o’clock, to be precise. I just wondered did you have any plans for Friday afternoon?’

  ‘That’s the day before we play Bruff. No, I’ll probably just take it easy. Visualization exercises and blah, blah, blah.’

  ‘Well, I’m here with an invitation for you.’

  ‘An invitation to what?’

  ‘To Charles O’Carroll-Kelly’s May Day Political Think-In.’

  I actually laugh? I’m there, ‘I thought you’d finished with all that bullshit. I thought you’d retired from – what was it? – public life?’

  He goes, ‘It’s turning out to be quite the year for comebacks, isn’t it?’

  Charles O’Carroll-Kelly’s May Day Political Think-Ins were a tradition that stretched back – fock, it must be, like, forty years?

  Even when I was a kid, the first day of May was always the day of the year when the old man invited around all of his friends from politics, business and the Law Library, to drink Cognac and one-hundred-year-old port and discuss, at a very annoying volume, various ways to make Ireland a better place for all of its citizens, but especially those who work in politics, business and the Law Library.

  The Think-Ins stopped about five years ago, after the old man had his hort attack in Monte Corlo, then announced his retirement from public life in a seven-page letter to The Irish Times which they didn’t bother their holes publishing.

  He promised Helen that he’d embrace a healthier lifestyle and he seemed to be definitely serious about it? He walked to Donnybrook village every day for the paper, gave up the cheese and the brandy and cut back to seven cigors and two Shanahan’s steak dinners a week.

  And, of course, he was suddenly more zen about shit? He could watch the politicians on Vincent Browne Tonight without feeling the need to shout, ‘Hypocrite! Hypocrite! Hypocrite!’ at the TV screen until his face turned red and the veins in his forehead stood out like motorways on Google Maps. The worst you’d hear out of him would be something along the lines of, ‘Parturiunt montes, nascetur ridiculus mus!’ followed by a sort of, like, knowing chuckle.

  And that, the world probably presumed, was the end of Charles O’Carroll-Kelly. Until, well, like the dude just said: ‘It’s turning out to be quite the year for comebacks, isn’t it?’

  I’m there, ‘So what exactly are you coming back as?’

  ‘Let me just say this first, Ross. You’ve proved something to me these past few months. Something about second acts. I mean, first acts are all very well, but they unfold in a largely predictable way, don’t you find? But it’s second acts that contain all the drama, all the surprise, all the excitement.’

  ‘You’ve changed since you put that thing on your head.’

  ‘There’s no point denying it, Ross, I have changed. I feel like the man I was forty years ago.’

  ‘God focking help us.’

  ‘The final straw was talking to Scum the other day, when he said I should be in politics. I went home and I said to Helen, if I can persuade Scum to do what I say, then there has to be a place for me in Dáil Éireann.’

  ‘Politics? Who are you going to run for? I thought Fianna Fáil focked you out for being too crooked even for them.’

  ‘Aha! That information is embargoed until Friday, I’m afraid! You’ll get it along with everyone else!’

  He turns to leave.

  I’m there, ‘By the way, thanks – you know, for sorting out the Ronan situation.’

  He goes, ‘Business. Always. Finds. A way.’

  ‘At the same time, I’m still saying fair focks.’

  ‘I’d better be off. I’m having lunch with your mother.’

  ‘How is she? Not that I care – I’m just asking.’

  ‘Heartbroken is the word! And still rather shaken up by what happened at the funeral Mass.’

  ‘Still, two billion squids – I’m sure that’s going to help with the grieving process.’

  ‘I think your mother would happily live as a pauper for the rest of her life if she could have Ari back for even one day.’

  There’s, like, silence then. It’s that kind of silence where everyone in the room knows what’s just been said is horseshit but no one wants to actually acknowledge it?

  I go, ‘You don’t think she did kill him, do you?’

  He laughs like it’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard. He’s like, ‘Ross! Listen to what you’re saying! This is your mother we’re talking about!’

  ‘Yeah, no, I’m just putting it out there.’

  ‘Fionnuala O’Carroll-Kelly, Ross! It’s not so long ago that Irish Tatler was giving her an award for her humanitarianism.’

  ‘Yeah, no, there is that, I suppose.’

  ‘I rest my case!’

  On Thursday night, we train like mad men, knowing that it’s the last week we’re all going to be together like this. Senny won’t be back next season – and I certainly won’t? A few of the others will probably drift away, too, find birds, stort careers, go travelling, maybe even emigrate.

  And Byrom is on his way, too. He pulls me to one side as I’m leaving the clubhouse and he tells me the news that he’s quitting after Saturday’s match.

  ‘Thet’s just betwoyn moy and yoy,’ he goes. ‘Oy doyn’t want the goys knoying – not before the goym.’

  I’m like, ‘Where are you going?’, thinking he’s going to say Pembroke or some other cricket club.

  Instead, he goes, ‘Oy’m goying hoym, Rossoy. Oy’m goying hoym, to Noy Zoyland, to boy wuth moy kuds.’

  ‘I thought you couldn’t bear to see, I don’t know, another man raising them.’

  ‘Soying another min royse them is a daahn soyt bitter than not boying wuth them at all.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Oy’ve realoyzed, thoyse laahst few woyks, Oy’ve just boyn hoyding aaht here. Ut’s toym Oy minned up and wint hoym.’

  I tell him fair focks.

  He goes, ‘Are woy gonna wun on Sitterdoy, Rossoy?’

  ‘We’ll either win,’ I go, ‘or die trying.’

  I love it as an exit line, so I automatically turn around and stort making my way back to the cor.

  Ten seconds later, I’m looking over my left hammer, reversing out of my porking space, when I suddenly spot a familiar figure sitting behind the wheel of a red Renault Clio, porked next to mine. I end up having to switch off the engine and get out.

  She obviously sees me coming because she’s already storted rolling her eyes and shaking her head. She still makes me tap on the window before she rolls it down, though.

  I’m there, ‘Hey, Torah.’

  She goes, ‘Hi,’ but she doesn’t give me any more than that, except, ‘Is Senan
still inside?’

  I actually laugh. I’m there, ‘You’ve some nerve showing your face around here after what you pulled?’

  She goes, ‘What I pulled?’

  ‘Yeah, no, telling Senny that I made a move on you.’

  ‘You did make a move on me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You tried to kiss me. In Club 92.’

  ‘So why did you tell Senny that you made it up?’

  ‘Because he couldn’t cope with the idea of you betraying him.’

  ‘So you took a bullet?’

  ‘I shouldn’t have said anything in the first place. He had enough on his mind, worrying was he going to get into the academy.’

  I’m there, ‘I tried to explain to him that making a move on one another’s girlfriends would have been considered pretty standard behaviour in the rugby world I grew up in. He didn’t seem to want to listen.’

  ‘Yeah,’ she goes, ‘I don’t particularly care what you consider standard behaviour?’ and she suddenly puts the Clio into reverse, then backs out of her spot, but without looking in her mirror or over her shoulder.

  I hear a sudden bump and then a roar behind me. It’s like, ‘Aaarrrggghhh!!!’

  Torah slams on the brake and throws the door open. I race around to the back of the cor to find Dordo lying on the deck in obvious agony. I look down and I notice that a bone is poking out of the side of his Cantos where I know a bone shouldn’t be.

  He’s like, ‘Aaarrrggghhh!!!’

  Torah goes, ‘Oh my God!’ when she sees him – and she doesn’t even know how vital he is to the team.

  I’m there, ‘Yeah, fair focks, Torah, you’ve just taken out our scrum-half.’

  All the goys come suddenly racing out of the clubhouse to find out what the screams of agony are about.

  Byrom’s going, ‘Daahdoy, are you alroyt, Moyte?’ hoping against hope – like the rest of us.

  Dordo goes, ‘My focking leg! It’s focking broken!’

  We all look at each other and we’re all thinking the exact same thing: Where are we going to get a replacement number nine at such short notice?

  It’s a cruel, cruel game. But I wouldn’t change a single thing about it.

  At least we wait until the ambulance has arrived from Loughlinstown before we stort openly discussing options.

  ‘Is there innyone on the sicond toym?’ Byrom goes.

  Bucky shakes his head and he’s like, ‘Frankie Fallon is their scrum-half. He’s getting married on Saturday.’

  The focking idiot – but that’s another day’s work.

  ‘What abaht the Thirsty Thirds?’ Byrom goes.

  Maho goes, ‘Colin Carey. But he did his cruciate on the last day of the season.’

  That’s when I hear a cor boot slam and I spot Christian walking towards the clubhouse with his gear bag slung over his shoulder – obviously planning to do an hour in the gym.

  I’m like, ‘Holy shit! What about Christian?’

  Byrom goes, ‘What, thet moyte of yours?’

  ‘He played scrum-half once or twice for us back in the day.’

  ‘Could he full un for Daahdoy?’

  ‘He’s got a rugby brain, Byrom – very similar to mine.’

  Thirty seconds later, Christian is in the dressing room, taking his training gear out of his bag when suddenly, like, nine or ten of us pile into the room and we’re all just, like, staring at him.

  He’s there, ‘What?’

  I’m like, ‘How would you feel about playing for us against Bruff on Saturday?’

  He laughs. He’s there, ‘Are you serious?’

  I go, ‘Have you ever known me to joke about rugby?’

  He doesn’t answer – doesn’t need to.

  He’s like, ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Daahdoy’s broyken his lig,’ Byrom goes.

  Christian’s there, ‘So, what, you want me to play scrum-half?’ and what’s incredible is that I don’t see even a flicker of self-doubt in his eyes. ‘Not a problem,’ he just goes.

  The Jesuits raised us well.

  I arrive home and they’re in the house? As in Sorcha’s old pair.

  ‘Ah, for fock’s sake!’ I go, when I see him sitting in the living room – in my chair, by the way.

  ‘Ross,’ Sorcha goes, ‘don’t be rude. I told you my mom and dad were coming over for Dad’s birthday.’

  ‘I still stand by what I said,’ I go – refusing to even acknowledge him or his ridiculous birthday.

  They don’t even have the focking TV on. They’re sitting around talking – that’s what kind of a family you’re dealing with – about fock knows what, probably Africa and its problems because, as I pushed the door, I heard Sorcha mention ‘dengue fever and other vectorborne diseases’ and that’s an exact quote.

  I’m like, ‘Where’s Honor?’

  ‘She’s upstairs,’ Sorcha goes, ‘reading the boys a night-night story.’

  It makes me automatically smile.

  She goes, ‘Tell her to hurry up, Ross – we’re going to have birthday cake.’

  I tip quietly up the stairs and I stand on the landing. I can hear Honor’s voice and then Johnny, Leo and Brian shouting their reactions to the various twists and turns in the story that their big sister is telling them.

  Again, I smile – can’t help it.

  It’s only when I get closer to their bedroom that I realize that Honor isn’t reading them, I don’t know, The Three Little Pigs or The Gingerbread Man or anything like it.

  I give the door a little shove.

  She’s standing in front of their three cots, which are all lined up against the wall. Johnny, Leo and Brian are standing up, their orms hanging over the top bor, staring at her like monkeys waiting for nuts to be tossed.

  ‘Okay,’ Honor goes, ‘who can say, motherfocking bastard?’

  At the top of his lungs, Brian goes, ‘Motherfocking bastard! Motherfocking bastard! Motherfocking bastard!’

  Honor goes, ‘Good boy, Brian!’ and she tosses – I swear to fock – an M&M into his cot. Brian gets down on his hands and knees, searching for it like a pig looking for truffles.

  ‘Okay,’ Honor goes, ‘Bollocksing shit fock!’

  Oh! My! Focking! God!

  ‘It was you!’ I hear myself go. ‘You’ve been teaching them how to swear!’

  Honor turns around and sees me for the first time. She doesn’t seem to care that she’s been caught in the act.

  She’s like, ‘So?’

  I’m there, ‘Honor, you’re bang out of order here – and I’d usually be the first one to defend you. I’m going to have to tell Sorcha.’

  ‘Tell her if you want,’ she goes, an evil smile creeping across her face. ‘But when I tell her your little secret, this is going to seem like nothing.’

  I’m there, ‘What little secret?’

  ‘I told you I’d get you back, didn’t I – for what happened at the wedding?’

  ‘You’re bluffing. I genuinely hope you’re bluffing.’

  ‘Someone with as many things to hide as you should really be more careful about what he leaves in his pockets.’

  Oh. Sweet. Suffering. Fock.

  It’s like a bucket of ice-cold water has been thrown over me.

  I run out of the boys’ room and into our bedroom. Into the walk-in wardrobe I go. I grab my famous Henri Lloyd sailing jacket, then I put my hand in the pocket. It’s empty. I check all the other pockets. They’re gone. The letters from Nelson Mandela and the paperwork from Sotheby’s saying that they’re not letters from Nelson Mandela.

  I hear Honor going down the stairs and then I hear Sorcha go, ‘Hi, Honor, we’re about to cut Grandad’s cake!’

  I peg it out of the room and down the stairs, going, ‘Shit, shit, shit, shit shit!’

  In response, I can hear the boys in their room going, ‘Shit, shit, shit!’ and then, ‘Focking shitting bollocks!’

  Into the living room I go to find Sorcha and her old pair staring at me sa
dly. It’s like there’s been a death or some shit?

  Sorcha goes, ‘Ross, Honor said she needs to talk to us about something serious – something that’s been, like, troubling her?’

  I’m there, ‘I’ll be very interested to hear what this is about, Babes.’

  Honor goes, ‘I’ve been carrying this secret around with me for, like, days now and it’s really upsetting me.’

  Sorcha’s old man goes, ‘Spit it out, girl!’ because he can see that she’s tearing the orse out of it and he doesn’t trust her anyway.

  Sorcha goes, ‘Dad, stop! Can’t you see she’s upset? Honor, what’s this thing that’s upsetting you? I’m so glad you and I have the kind of relationship where you feel you can confide in me.’

  Honor’s like, ‘It’s something that you’re going to be – oh my God – so upset about. It was something that Dad did.’

  Sorcha’s old man’s ears instantly prick up. He’s only dying to believe the worst about me.

  Honor goes, ‘I’m really sorry, Dad. I tried to keep it to myself, but I just think Mum needs to know?’

  ‘Honor,’ Sorcha goes, ‘what did your father do?’

  And Honor looks me in the eye and goes, ‘He killed a dolphin!’

  I freeze. Holy shit. That’s her secret? Me killing a dolphin?

  She goes, ‘What happened was, I was looking for that photograph that he took of us all last year when we went to Tayto Pork. I wanted to delete it because I look fat in it. And I just happened to accidentally go into his text messages and he was talking about how he killed a dolphin. It was when he went to Bundoran.’

  I actually laugh – it’s relief more than anything? I’m there, ‘Yeah, no, it’s true. I’m going to have to hold my hands up to that one. I literally did kill a dolphin.’

  I can’t tell you how happy I am. But then I look at Sorcha’s face. She’s very definitely not laughing?

  She goes, ‘Do you think this is funny, Ross?’

  I’m there, ‘No, I don’t think it’s funny. All I’ll say in my defence is that you don’t know the circumstances in which it happened.’