Pang goes, “Okay, what’s this?”
We're about to leave the gaff to drop her back to the school. She's going back home to China today and Honor is coming back home to us. I notice the girl has got my famous Rugby Tactics book open on her lap.
I’m like, “Pang, please don’t rip that up!”
She goes, “I’m not going to rip it up! I’m interested! What is it?”
"It's what's known as a Rugby Tactics book. It's basically a book in which I scribble down all my thoughts about rugby. That's why it's a disgrace that the IRFU has never found a role for me within the set-up – there's never a time when I'm not thinking about the game?"
“What are all these names?”
"I did those during the World Cup. They're, like, team line-ups. The XV that I would have picked to stort against Canada, Romania, Italy, France and Orgentina."
“And what are all these diagrams?”
“These are just moves that I believe would have unlocked various teams in the competition. And this page here is just my thoughts on where certain teams had certain weaknesses.”
Pang reads from the page. She's like, "Chris Robshaw is a complete dick. "
I'm there, "Yeah, no, I don't know if that would go down as a technical weakness? Some of it was just, like, random thoughts that occurred to me on certain days."
“So why do you keep this?”
“I don’t know. Honor calls it my Sad Book.”
"You must know why you take all these notes."
"Okay, I'll tell you. I have this dream that, you know, one day Joe Schmidt is going to see it."
“Who’s Joe Schmidt?“
You forget sometimes that China isn’t a rugby country.
I'm there, "Joe Schmidt is the Ireland rugby coach. I have this dream that one day he's going to see my Rugby Tactics book, look through it, then go straight to the IRFU and demand to know why someone who's still got a massive, massive amount to contribute is sitting at home scribbling his thoughts in a notebook."
Sorcha sticks her head around the door. She’s like, “Okay, Pang, it’s time to go.”
Sorcha can't wait to see the back of the girl, but I've actually warmed to her? I carry her cases outside to the cor, then we all get in.
We’re, like, nearing Mount Anville when she turns to me and goes, “You should send it to him.”
I’m there, “What are you talking about?”
“Your book. You should send it to this man, Joe Schmidt.”
“Do you mean send it unanimously?”
“The word is anonymously.”
She’s eight years of age and she’s from China and she has better English than I do.
I’m like, “Anonymously then?”
She’s there, “No, put your name on it. Send it to him with a letter.”
"There wouldn't be much point, Pang. I'd be considered a bit of a joke in Irish rugby circles. I'm this goy who had this incredible, incredible – I'm going to add another one – incredible talent, but I loved the lifestyle that went with it too much. The booze. The women. They're not interested in my views."
“People have to see what is in that book!”
“Can I tell you something, Pang? They don’t. But it’s actually an amazing thing for me that at least someone believes in me, even though you’re someone who knows absolutely zero about the game of rugby.”
I can feel myself becoming emotional. I promised myself I wouldn’t cry.
We pull into the cor pork of the school. There’s 30 or 40 other parents standing around, saying goodbye to their Chinese exchange students and waiting for their own children to be returned to them in time for Christmas.
We get out of the cor.
Sorcha says goodbye to Pang, but it’s just, like, a handshake. There’s no love, no sadness at saying goodbye. Sorcha goes, “I’ll let you two have your moment,” then she wanders off to talk to some of the other mothers, leaving us alone.
“It’s going to be weird not having you around,” I go, “even though I couldn’t stand you at the stort. I actually thought you were God’s revenge on us for sending our daughter away to another country.”
Pang goes, “Can I tell you something?”
“Of course – you can tell me anything.”
“Do you remember I told you that I was allowed to smoke at home?”
“You said all kids in China smoked.”
“I was lying. My dad would kill me if he knew.”
“Oh.”
“You’re so much cooler than my dad.”
“That’s a lovely thing for me to hear. People give out about kids smoking but you never hear both sides of the argument.
“It is kind of cool, I suppose. And it helps keep the weight off. I hear Sorcha’s friends say that all the time.”
“I’m going to miss you,” she goes.
I’m there, “I’m going to miss you, too.”
She throws her orms around me and I realise that I'm crying. I'm crying for the first time since Johnny Sexton returned to Leinster.
I watch her get on the bus. She waves out the window to me and then, just like that, she’s gone.
I tip over to Sorcha and the other parents. Sorcha goes, “Are you okay?”
I’m there, “Yeah, no, I can’t believe she’s gone.”
“You’re looking forward to seeing Honor again, though, aren’t you?”
“Not really, no.”
“Ross, that’s a terrible thing to say about your daughter.”
“I’m joking.”
As one bus leaves the schools grounds, another one arrives. The children stort piling off it.
I go, "I think one of the positive things about having Pang here for the past three months is that it's taught me to possibly appreciate our own daughter a little bit more?"
Sorcha kisses me on the cheek and goes, “That’s terribly sweet, Ross.”
And seconds later, we both smile as we see our beautiful little Honor walking across the cor pork towards us. "Oh my God," she goes, "you two have got so fat!"
ILLUSTRATION: ALAN CLARKE