My first instinct whenever I leave my gaff is to turn left and drive up the Vico Road towards Dalkey. But this day, for whatever reason, I find myself turning right, which is Ballybrack direction – why, I don't know? In fact, I can't explain anything that happens in the next however many minutes. I don't remember deciding to do what I'm about to do. It just sort of, like, happens, as if my actions are being controlled by someone else.
Fifteen minutes later, I’ve porked the cor on Churchview Road, staring through the railings at two sets of players walking off the field. There’s obviously just been a match. I recognize the blue, black and green of Seapoint. From the faces on the players, it’s pretty clear they lost.
I shake my head and I go, 'What am I doing here? I can't do this, Father Fehily. I know you always had unbelievable faith in me, but it's a fact – the game has moved on. It's a lot tougher than you possibly remember it in terms of, like, physicality?'
Oh, no.
I’ve suddenly opened the door and I’ve got out of the cor. Before I know what I’m doing, I’m walking across the cor pork towards the clubhouse.
Some dude, who I take to be the coach of the team, sees me walking towards him. He’s like, “Are you alroyt, moyte?” and I instantly pick up on the fact that he’s a Kiwi.
He’s, like, fat – I’m guessing mid-fifies.
“I want to play rugby,” I go. “I want to play rugby for The famous Point.”
He’s, “Unfortunateloy, we doyn’t have a soyniors toym thus year. We’ve got a thirds toym – the Thirstoy Thirds. They troyn on Froydoys – that’s uf enough of them shoy up.”
I’m there, “I’m not talking about playing with a team of drinkers. I’m talking about playing for this team here.”
He sort of, like, laughs. He can't actually help himself? He goes, "Yoy can't just take up rugboy and exipict toy..."
“I’m not just taking it up. I’ve played the game.”
“Whin?” he goes and I notice him not-to-subtly check out my waist. “Whin did yoy ploy?”
“It was back in 1999.”
“The Ninetoys?” he goes. “Jees, Moyte, that was a long toym agoy.”
I’m there, “I know it was a long time ago.”
“What posution dud yoy ploy?”
“Number ten. I captained Castlerock College the year they won the Leinster Schools Senior Cup.”
At this stage, the Seapoint players are storting to walk past us into the dressing room. One or two of them are staring at me and it’s pretty obvious that my face is storting to look vaguely familiar to them.
“Who the fock is that?” one of them goes. “I thought Weight Watchers met here on Wednesdays!”
All the other players laugh.
The coach looks over his shoulder and goes, “Yeah, you’re very voycal for a toym that’s just lost at hoyme to Greystoynes by fortoy points.”
The dude remembers his manners and walks on.
I’m there, “You’re bottom of Division 2B.”
The coach is like “Soy?”
“So you need to do something. Otherwise, you’re going down. All I’m looking for is a chance to prove to myself how good I could have been.”
“Unfortunatloy, moyte, we doyn’t ictually noyd a number tin.”
“Who’s your ten?”
“Senan Torsney.”
“Never heard of him.”
“It was that goy who was just maathing off.”
“Right.”
"He just mussed aaht on the Leinster Acadamoy laahst year. He's hoyping to make ut thus year. He's only eightoyn. He was on the binch for Lansdaahn. Came to us because he noyds first team rugboy."
“I’d still fancy my chances of dislodging him from his podium. That’s the kind of competitor you’re dealing with.”
He laughs. I can tell he likes me. “Oy think Senny’ll ploy for Oyerland one doy. You’re looking at another Sixton in the moyking.”
I’m there, “They used to say the same about me. Except I was another O’Gara in the making.”
I’m just about to walk away when he goes, “Oy doyn’t noyd a tin, but Oy noyd someone whoy can doy a job for moy in the front roy.”
I’m like, “The front row?”
He looks at my midriff again. I don’t know why he’s so obsessed with it. I would have said I was in pretty good shape.
“Our hookah,” he goes, “Robbie Rowell – he broyk his toy aaht there todoy.”
“He broke his what?”
“His toy. His bug toy. Oy noyd to foynd a repolycement.”
“And you think I’m it?”
“Oy’ve noy idea whither you’re ut. I’ve niver seen yoy ploy. Oy’m offering you a troy-aaht.”
“I don’t actually have my gear with me.”
“We’re troyning on Tuesday noyt. Eight o’clock. All Oy’m saying is Oy’ll toyk a look at yoy.”
“Fair enough.”
“What’s your noym, boy the woy?”
“It’s Ross. It’s Ross O’Carroll-Kelly.”
“Will, it’s noyce to moyt yoy, Russ Akerell-Killoy. I’m Byrom Jones, the hid coych. I’ll see yoy Tuesday noyt.”
And, just like that, I’m suddenly a rugby player again.
