Byrom reminds us of the job we’re facing. “Bictuv or noybodoy’s fools,” he goes, “and we’d be croyzoy to under-istimoyte them. But at the staaht of the soyson, Oy’ve got to till yoy, this is one of the mitches Oy maahked daahn as a hoym wun. We’re bitter thin Bictuv – Oy royly doy beloyve that, despoyte our posution in the toyble. We’ve got eight goyms lift. We’re gonna noyd at loyst foyve wuns to have inny realustic hoype of remoyning in Divusion Toy Boy. Lit’s git the first of thoyse wuns todoy!”
He claps his two hands together and everyone just, like, cheers. At the top of their voices, everyone suddenly storts shouting, “Come on, The Point! Let’s do this!”
We’re each handed a jersey. I lay mine flat on my lap and I look at it. It’s not the red and black of Castlerock College. It’s the black, blue and green of Seapoint Rugby Club. It feels weird – of course it does – but I look at the crest and I think about that Mortello Tower, wherever the fock it even is, and I’m suddenly filled with pride.
“Mon, The Point!” the shouts go up again.
I stand up and I pull the jersey over my head, then down over my belly. Then I go to pop the collar and I realize that it doesn’t have one. It’s yet another way in which the game has changed.
The players stort to file out of the dressing room and onto the field. I’ve got, like, serious focking butterflies. But then nerves are good. It’s all about channelling that energy in a positive way.
Eat nerves, shit results – I text that Johnny Sexton before every big match.
On the way out of the dressing room, I sidle up to Bucky, our captain, and I go, “Can I just run through the lineout codes with you again?”
He’s like, “I focking told you the lineout codes.”
“Yeah, no, I wouldn’t mind doing just a quick recap.”
“What, have you got Alzheimer’s or something?”
“No, I don’t have Alzheimer’s. I just wouldn’t mind you telling me again so it’s, like, fresh in my head.”
Bucky just shakes his head and goes, “This is a mistake. I’m saying that now. An old fart like you playing in the AIL. Okay, I make all the lineout calls. And we work off a simple code. Three options with the throw – front, middle or back. That’s F, M and B.”
“Yeah, no,” I go, “that sounds pretty straightforward.”
He shakes his head. “For fock’s sake,” Bucky goes, “I don’t just shout F, M or B. How long do you think it’d take the opposition to work that out?”
If I got it straightaway, my guess would be not very long.
He goes, “It has to be encrypted. So I’ll shout the name of a country and then a number. For instance, it could be Colombia Three. So what you have to do is count back three letters. The third last letter of Colombia is B, which means the lifters are expecting you to throw the ball to the back. Germany Four means you need to throw the ball to the middle. France Six means it’s going to the front. Also, you’ll hear me throw in a third word, usually a colour or an animal, just to confuse the opposition. So I might shout Belgium Kangaroo One. Magnolia Australia Three. Ignore the animal and the colour. It’s just a decoy word. All you need to think about is the country and the number. Do you understand?”
This shit is so far over my head, I couldn’t reach it with a stepladder. Of course, I don’t want to look stupid in front of him, so I go, “Yeah, no, that’s pretty basic actually. And what was that about a colour and an animal?”
He goes, “For fock’s sake,” like it’s a massive, I don’t know, imposition. “The colour and the animal are irrelevant.”
“You were the one who mentioned them, Dude.”
"Because they're a focking decoy. If I mention a colour or an animal, just ignore it, okay? The only relevant pieces of the code are the country and the number."
“Okay.”
“So if I say Denmark Giraffe Four . . .”
“The first thing I do is drop the Giraffe – the Giraffe is gone.”
“Yes, the Giraffe is gone. It’s the fourth last letter of the word Denmark. Which is M. Which means we’re expecting the ball to be thrown to the middle.”
“Yeah, no, that’s, em, pretty straightforward alright.”
“Just make sure you get it right. And make sure you put your weight in at scrum time. We’re not here to indulge your midlife crisis.”
Anyway, the game storts and we end up scoring a try after, like, two minutes. Davy Dardis, our scrum-half – the smallest man on the field – gets over the line and Senny adds the points.
But I’m getting a serious sledging in the scrum. The Bective hooker keeps looking at me, going, “Jesus, the last time I saw a body that fat, ten Japanese fishermen were chasing it in a trawler!”
The match is, like, twenty minutes old when we win our first lineout. The players line up as I grab the ball in my two hands, pull it back over my head and wait for the call.
And that’s when Bucky goes, “Azerbaijan Six Deep Maroon.”
It's, like, what the fock? Which one of those words is a country? It's got to be Abrakebab, doesn't it? So how many letters back – did he say six? Jesus, how do you even spell it?
I end up thinking about it for too long. Bucky and the others are screaming at me. They’re going, “Throw the ball! Throw the focking ball!”
I end up panicking and I just fock the thing into the air. Bective win the lineout, then five phases later, they score a try, which ends up getting converted.
There’s no doubt who my teammates blame.
The next time there’s a break in play, Bucky gives me a shove in the chest. He’s like, “I told you the code!”
I’m there, “Abrakebab? Are you taking the piss?”
“I said Azerbaijan. It’s an actual country.”
“That’s a debate for another day. You couldn’t have thought of an easier one to spell, no?”
“It was B for Back. It couldn’t have been anything else. There’s no F or M in it.”
“And how was I supposed to know that? I didn’t even know it existed until five seconds ago.”
We end up having to be separated.
From the sideline, Byrom shouts, “Goys, yoy’re suppoysed to boy on the soym soyd.”
The Bective goys are loving it, of course.
Five minutes later, we suddenly have another lineout ten yords from the Bective try line.
I pick up the ball again and wait for Bucky’s call.
He goes, “Goitered gazelle Bosnia and Herzegovina twenty!”
I’m thinking, Bosnia, Bosnia, Bosnia – okay, that’s got to be B for Back. Which means the ball has to go to the back!
I launch it into the air. It ends up being a beautiful throw as well. But Bective end up stealing it and they score another try from it and it’s basically game over.
Our two second rows – I don’t even know their names – end up seriously losing it with me.
I’m there, “It’s not my fault they guessed right.”
One of them goes, “They didn’t guess. You announced it.”
“What?”
“You said the word back.”
“No, I didn’t.”
Bucky goes, ‘You did. Unbelievable. Not only can you not scrummage, you can’t figure out lineout codes without moving your lips.”
Shit.
All in all, I would definitely have to be considered one of Ireland’s thickest people. Top ten definitely.
We end losing by something ridiculous. I’m pretty sure it’s 45-7, but the only people who are still counting at the end are the referee and whoever’s covering the match for the papers.
And then, as we’re walking off the pitch, Bucky gives me a seriously hord shove in the back and goes, “Congratulations. You’ve just played your first and last game for Seapoint.”
Extracted from 'Game of Throw-ins' by Ross O’Carroll-Kelly, published by Penguin Ireland on 1st September. Take your photo with the pack: you will find the scrum in bookshops, tweet your pic to @rossock using #prettiestpack or email prettiestpackinireland@gmail.com to be in with a chance to win a trip for two to Rome to see Ireland V Italy in the Six Nations
