Game of Throw-ins

by Ross O'Carroll-Kelly

  The old man tears off a mouthful of cheese, then tries to work up enough saliva to persuade it down his Jeff Beck, sweating himself two collar sizes thinner, while at the same time stealing sly looks at Hennessy, to see what kind of progress he’s making with the spoon. There’s, like, chanting and roaring and it would have to be described as boisterous – these are all, like, Horseshoe Bor regulars, remember – with support about seventy/thirty in favour of my old man.

  Ten minutes in, Hennessy is only, like, halfway through his pint, while a good, like, three-quarters of the cheese is gone, although some economist dude, who the old man knows from Doheny & Nesbitt’s, points out that the old man has ‘gone with the front-loading option’ and, while he appears to be making quicker progress, most of the cheese is still in his mouth, hordening into a big dry ball – like one of those golf-ball soaps I buy him every year for Christmas. And for his birthday.

  The good news is that Hennessy is slower than usual. He supposedly injured his wrist playing nine holes in Elm Pork yesterday and has had to switch to southpaw, placing the old man at a serious advantage.

  ‘Come on, Charles!’ the roar goes up.

  ‘Go on, Hennessy!’ comes the reply.

  The old man forces the last piece of Cheddar into his face. Now, all eyes are on his Adam’s apple – the question being, can he persuade that giant boulder of hord sludge down his throat. He, like, coughs and splutters once or twice and a senior counsel friend of his offers him a glass of Seppelt, but he ends up getting shouted down by fans on both sides.

  ‘Just the focking cheese!’ they all go. ‘Nothing to wash it down!’

  They’re sticklers for the rules, these people – well, today, anyway.

  Hennessy suddenly storts to speed up – or maybe it’s just the way the pint glass, like, narrows? – but he’s suddenly getting closer to the end. And that’s when the old man storts working his jaw like a literally lunatic, trying to get his spit glands into production to help him break up what’s still in his Von Trapp.

  It ends up being pretty much a photo-finish at the end. The old man swallows the last piece, then opens his mouth to show the room that it’s empty, just as Hennessy is picking up the pint glass to pour the last bit of liquid onto his spoon.

  There’s, like, a humungous round of applause, with literally everyone joining in – even Hennessy. The old man struggles to get his breath back, then he stands up.

  He goes, ‘Let me begin by extending my commiserations to Mr Hennessy Coghlan-O’Hara, who, as ever, fought a good and noble fight – although I must remind him that the score now stands at nineteen victories to eighteen! And so, m’learned colleague, it falls to me to say something to set the tenor, as it were, for the year ahead, 2015 – hopefully our final year under the rule of Enda Kenny, Cabinet Secretary of the German-controlled Vichy Republic of Ireland.’

  That gets a massive cheer.

  ‘And, as fate woud have it,’ he goes, ‘I have an announcement to make of some considerable import. Ladies and gentleman, after five years in the, inverted commas, political wilderness, Charles O’Carroll-Kelly has decided … to return to politics!’

  The roars are loud enough to upset the foundations of the house.

  ‘I was born in this country,’ he goes. ‘And I love this country – oh, yes – for all its faults and for all its problems, which are many. So independence didn’t work out quite the way we hoped it would. But that is no reason to go surrendering our future to Berlin and Brussels and their battalions of unelected, faceless bureaucrats who think they should tell us how to live. I, for one, am frankly tired of watching Enda Kenny and Eamon Gilmore and all the other secondary-school geography teachers, whom we have somehow elected to represent this country, having their backs slapped by unelected Gerhards and Jean-Claudes and being told, “Good boys!” for visiting austerity on this country’s citizens in line with the demands of international financiers and global bond speculators – no offence to some of you present.

  ‘There currently exists, I think it’s generally agreed, a political vacuum in this country. Voters are looking for an alternative to the parties who have governed this state for nigh on a century. That is why, here, today, I am announcing the arrival of a seventh force in Irish politics – or eighth if you count Renua, which, I think I’m correct in saying, nobody here does.’

  No one says shit.

  ‘People are tired of the old same old faces and the same old political marriages of convenience,’ he goes. ‘Fianna Fáil and Labour! Fine Gael and Labour! Fianna Fáil and the Progressive Who-Even-Remembers-Anymore? Who knows, one day it might be Fianna Fáil and Fine Gael!’

  Everyone laughs.

  He goes, ‘The good news is that, next time out, there will be a new name on the ballot paper – a political party that represents a new way of doing politics. Which is why, today, bloated though he is with cheese, Charles O’Carroll-Kelly is announcing the formation of … New Republic!’

  There’s, like, suddenly mayhem. People are cheering and chanting, ‘CO’CK for Taoiseach! CO’CK for Taoiseach! CO’CK for Taoiseach!’

  I turn around to Christian and I go, ‘I might go and lie down.’

  He’s there, ‘Are you okay?’

  He’s genuinely concerned about me.

  I’m like, ‘Yeah, no, I am. The headaches have stopped by the way. And the blurred vision and the memory loss. It turns out we were possibly worrying about nothing.’

  ‘Ross,’ he goes, ‘that doesn’t mean you don’t have concussion. The symptoms can come and go. That’s why it’s such an insidious thing.’

  ‘Whatever that even means. Yeah, no, I’m just going to go and lie down and clear my head of all this other shit that’s going on.’

  ‘Do your visualization exercises.’

  ‘You took the words out of my mouth. Tomorrow is probably going to be the last rugby match I ever play, Christian. And I’ll tell you something, Dude, by five o’clock tomorrow, all of the questions are going to be finally answered about the player I could so easily have been. And I won’t have to grow old wondering.’

  Epilogue

  It’s finally here. The day, the hour, the moment. It’s incredible, given what’s been going on, but at the same time it’s a fact – I’m in the zone.

  ‘Ut’s boyn a long, haahd royd,’ Byrom goes. ‘But nah ut comes daahn to thus – oytoy munnets of rugboy thut’ll determine whither Seapoint ploy their rugboy in Duvusion Toy Boy or Toy Soy nixt soysun. Whativer hippens aaht on that putch todoy, moyke sure yoy loyve nathing behoynd. Because beloyve moy, the rist of your loyves is a long fuckun toyme for regrits.’

  All the goys are, like, clapping and cheering and kicking the fock out of the lockers.

  I turn around to Bucky and I go, ‘Look, I know I’m not the captain, but do you mind if I say something here?’

  He’s like, ‘Go ahead, Rossi – you’ve earned the right.’

  I stand up and I go, ‘The coach is right. And I’m saying that as someone who’s got enough regrets for five focking lifetimes. I spent the last fifteen years of my life telling myself that next week, next month, next year would be my time. I’d get my shit together and finally become the player that the likes of Tony Ward predicted I would one day be. But the years just fell away and suddenly I found myself at thirty-four, thirty-five years old, remembering something that Father Fehily, my old mentor, used to say: “One of these days is none of these days.”

  ‘By that he meant, don’t put shit off until tomorrow – because there might not be a tomorrow. So do it today. Recognize the moment. The moment is now. Four months ago, I was one seriously depressed man. I was staring down the barrel of middle age, thinking about all the things I could have done and a lot of people would say should have done in my life. Winning Heineken Cups and Grand Slams. Obviously captaining the Lions. It never happened. Any of it.

  ‘And then one day, something led me to this very field in the middle of – you know it as well as I do – Ballybrack,
where I met a bunch of great young goys, who decided to give a fat, washed-up has-been like me a break. And after a difficult stort, I think I helped you realize that we didn’t have to accept the inevitability of relegation. It was in our hands to do something about it. And you helped me realize something. And it wasn’t just that I could still carry off a muscle top or a young person’s haircut at the age of thirty-five.’

  Everyone laughs.

  I’m there, ‘It was that saving Seapoint from relegation was my Grand Slam, my Heineken Cup final, my Lions call-up, all rolled into one. One of these days is today. One of these days is right now. So let’s go out there and beat these bog-hopping cabbage fetishists!’

  Out we walk, onto the pitch, our heads up, our shoulders back – the black, blue and green of Seapoint.

  I turn around to Christian and I go, ‘Still sure you can do a job for us at scrum-half?’

  He’s like, ‘After that speech, I feel like I could walk into machine-gun fire.’

  It’s an amazing thing for me to hear.

  I’m there, ‘Dude, whatever happens today, I want you to know, I am so proud of you.’

  He goes, ‘I hope you’re still saying that at five o’clock.’

  I look over my shoulder for Senny. Something tells me he’s going to be our key man today and I possibly should have a word in his ear, as someone who’s been there and done it. But when I look around, there’s no actual sign of him?

  I ask Blissy and Ollie Lysaght where he is and they say he must be still back in the dressing room.

  So back I go.

  He is still in the dressing room? He’s sitting down, tying, then retying the laces of his boots.

  I’m there, ‘Dude, what the fock?’

  He goes, ‘I can’t get these focking things right. They’re either too tight or they’re too loose.’

  And I’m suddenly worried, because as I always say to Mads – just as I said it to Johnny Sexton before him – when you’re in the zone, you shouldn’t notice shit like that. When you’re in the zone, you could put the ball between the posts in your granny’s slippers.

  I’m there, ‘Dude, come on, this is the moment.’

  He goes, ‘I’m well aware that this is the focking moment, Rossi. But these laces have to be right. There’s a lot riding on today.’

  ‘Yeah, I know – the future of Seapoint in Division 2B of the All Ireland League.’

  ‘More than that. The goys from the academy are here again – to watch me.’

  ‘I don’t see how that’s bigger than Seapoint Rugby Club staying up.’

  ‘Maybe that’s why you never actually made it in the game. Because when it came to it, you never had that ruthless streak.’

  ‘Dude,’ I go, ‘I’m going forget you said that and just put it down to pre-match nerves. Tie your laces and I’ll see you out on the pitch.’

  Out I go.

  I spot the old man on the sideline. The leader of New Republic or whatever the fock they’re called. I catch his eye and he goes, ‘Carthago delenda est, Ross! Carthago delenda est!’

  And then, standing next to him – I end up having to do a double-take – it’s Oisinn! He’s back, looking tanned and happy – and beside him is JP, here to support us.

  ‘Eat nerves,’ Oisinn shouts, ‘shit results.’

  I smile at him and then – oh shit, oh shit, oh shit – I suddenly get this, like, stabbing pain in my head, just behind my eyes. Not now, I think. Give me twice this pain tomorrow – just don’t do this to me now.

  Senny finally joins us on the pitch. Bucky asks him if he’s okay and he goes, ‘Just focking concentrate on your own game, will you?’

  The Bruff players stort with the mind games straightaway. Their loosehead walks up to me while I’m doing a few stretches and goes, ‘Tis a cure for sore eyes to see you – and you only a scrap of shop-bread! I pledge my immortal soul, I’m grateful to God, His son and the entire communion of saints for putting yee fellas in our path this day! And may all be safe wherever the tale is told!’

  Word of my heroics has obviously reached Limerick because they’ve clearly decided to torget me? Their hooker decides to add his two yoyos to what his mate said.

  ‘It comes best from you,’ he tells him. Then he looks directly at me and goes, ‘Let me tell you, upon my word, you’ve got the full of your hands of thrubble this day, for I’m only waiting for the wind of the word to knock the steam out of your pipe!’

  I’m just thinking, Let’s see if you’re still saying that in five minutes’ time.

  Christian shouts, ‘Come on, Seapoint, let’s focking do this!’

  My head is throbbing like it’s never throbbed before. Senny gets the ball in his hands, the referee blows the whistle and the match is suddenly underway.

  After three minutes, we win our first scrum. As the two front rows are getting ready to come together, their hooker looks at me and goes, ‘Look at you! You’re only the turf of the rick and you living in mortal dread of me! There’ll be a long day before you – and tis the barren hope for yee!’

  I slip my right orm out of the bind on the way in and I punch the focker so hord in the face that I feel his cheekbone actually move. Down their scrum goes.

  I go, ‘They’re deliberately collapsing, Ref.’

  He awards us the penalty.

  And if the Bruff players didn’t know it before, they certainly know it now – they’re in a match.

  I’m out on my feet.

  I can’t even walk in a straight line and I mean that quite literally. I feel like I’ve been in a plane crash. My body is beaten up, but my head is even worse.

  The pain – I can’t even begin to explain it to you. There are moments when the only thing that helps is to close my eyes. But I can’t close my eyes – not for more than a second or two, because we’re still in a match.

  We’re still in a match, but we’re losing. It’s, like, 12–6 to Bruff, even though we’ve dominated in terms of possession. We’d be ahead if it wasn’t for Senny, who’s chosen today to have a mare. He’s missed four of his six kicks – none of them particularly hord? – and he also knocked on when we had a chance to score early in the second half, with the Bruff defence finally broken and three of our players screaming for the ball out wide.

  Plus he’s making wrong decisions – we’re talking left, right and centre.

  Bucky goes, ‘Senny, you need to relax. We’ve got time here.’

  And Senny lets a roar at him – his captain, bear in mind. He’s like, ‘You focking relax!’

  Our man of the match – no question – ends up being Christian. I can hear people on the sideline going, ‘Who’s the Seapoint scrumhalf?’ and then the old man going, ‘Christian Forde! Won a Leinster Schools Senior Cup medal for Castlerock College back in 1999, along with the Seapoint number two! I was one of the fortunate ones who was there to witness it!’

  But the minutes are ticking by.

  The Bruff players are getting inside Senny’s head, going, ‘I’d take my oath that you’ll not kick nine points this day!’ and he’s letting it get to him.

  His game is, like, full of mistakes.

  They’re going, ‘Will you look at him! He’s as tormented as an ass tethered in a storm – and he without half the sense!’

  We know we’re getting relegated unless something dramatic happens. But there’s only, like, thirty seconds left.

  We have possession of the ball right on their twenty-two, but we know that, as soon as we surrender it up, the game is going to be over.

  We win a scrum.

  Christian pulls me to one side. He goes, ‘Are you okay?’

  I’m there, ‘No – I feel like I’m going to focking vom.’

  ‘You really should go off.’

  ‘I’m not going off – end of conversation. Dude, we need something special here.’

  ‘Okay,’ he goes, ‘do you remember when we were at school, we played Mungret in a friendly? It was the first time I ever stood in at scrum-half?�
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  I’m there, ‘You’re not talking about –’

  He goes, ‘I am.’

  ‘Okay, let’s do it.’

  I turn around to Bucky and I go, ‘Tell Senny to get in the pocket.’

  Bucky’s like, ‘What are you talking about? Three points is fock-all use to us.’

  I’m there, ‘Bucky, trust me, okay?’

  He just thinks, Fock it, what the hell, then goes, ‘Senny, get in the pocket!’

  You can see the confusion on the faces of the Bruff players. Mind you, they’re from Limerick – a lot of them look like that all the time.

  We crouch, we touch, we pause, we engage. A rip of pain goes through my head again.

  Christian puts the ball in. We give it one last, humungous push. The Bruff scrum moves back a foot or two and Christian wheels around the back of us to pick up the ball.

  Senny is in the pocket. Christian makes a movement like he’s about to offload it to him and the Bruff players chorge forward to try to slap down the kick. But Christian doesn’t release the ball. He tucks it under his right pec, sneaks around the back of the scrum and, with his head down, makes a break for the line.

  The Bruff players see what’s happening, but they cop it a split-second too late?

  We’re screaming at him, ‘Go on, Christian! You’re in, Christian! You’re in!’

  He crashes over the line, grounding the ball in the corner.

  And all hell breaks loose. He’s suddenly, like, swamped by bodies. It was a Father Fehily move – me, Christian, JP, Oisinn and the old man are the only people here who know it.

  When he gets to his feet, I chest-bump him. I just decide the moment calls for it.

  But of course the work isn’t done yet. Senny still has to put the conversion over and the angle is horrible. It’s from, like, right on the sideline and, as usual, there’s a wind blowing across Kilbogget Pork like you wouldn’t focking believe.

  ‘Just take your time,’ Bucky tells Senny, throwing him the ball. Senny grabs a cup and spots it. He takes however many steps backwards, then he looks from the ball to the posts, then back to the ball, then back to the posts, then back to the ball.