OK, Ro's no Rain Man, but that's no reason to pass up a chance to score in Vegas
I ALWAYS PRESUMED, roysh, that if I was ever going to make a fortune off my son's back, it would be by selling him to one of these soccer clubs - Manchester United or one of those.
That Alex Ferguson would roll into the estate in the back of a limo, watch him to do a few - I don't know - keepy-ups, then go, "OK - we'll take him," throwing Tina and I enough money so that neither of us has to worry about working again.
Not that either of us ever has worked - but, like, the worry alone would actually wear you out.
Never in a million years did I think that it would be Ronan's mind that would be my basic retirement fund.
Of course, as Cinderella said to Snow White, every focker wants to know you when your goose is shitting golden eggs, and the school's been on the Wolfe pretty much every day, telling me I need to send the boy somewhere to have him assessed.
I was just like, "No need - I'm looking after that end of things myself," which is actually true. Me and Ro are in the living-room of the gaff in Foxrock, eating sardines - because I heard they're good for, like, the brain? - and watching Rain Man on DVD.
"Now don't be acting the maggot with all that 'who's on first base?' shit," I tell him. "I don't want you drawing heat on us." "Loose lips cost chips," he goes.
I'm there, "Exactly. You just concentrate on counting the cords and telling me how to play my basic hand." He's like, "Are we really going to Vegas, Rosser?" like it's, I don't know, his lifetime ambition? "I'm only after being reading about Benny Siegel."
I'm there, "Well, keep reading those blackjack books I gave you. I'm booking us into the Wynn - we're talking five-stor all the way, Kid. We're worth it."
No sooner have I said that than the doorbell rings. I can see through the frosted glass that it's, like, Fionn - here to spoil the fun.
"Ross," he goes, "we need to talk." I'm there, "Dude, I know the school's looking for shekels to build a new science wing. But if there is money to be made out of this kid, they can get to the back of the focking line." He invites himself in, then basically brushes past me, into the living-room and it's all, "Hi, Ronan," and, "Alreet, Mr de Barra - what's the story?"
Fionn cops the deck of cords on the table, not to mention Dustin Hoffman on the Liza, and being, well, pretty clever himself, he realises straight away what's going down here. He, like, gestures me into the next room, obviously wanting to talk in private and then he tries to guilt-trip me with the whole shaking-his-head thing.
"Ross," he goes. "Ronan's not autistic." I'm there, "Excuse me?" "He's not autistic," he goes. "He's gifted." I'm like, "Gifted? Well, what can they do then?" He's there, "Ross, it's not super-powers. Look, he appears to display a higher than normal rate of concentration, memory and problem-solving capacities - that's all." Trust him to try and put a dampener on things.
"Okay," I go, "just as a matter of interest, what are you suggesting we do with him." He's there, "What the school would like is for Ronan to see a child psychologist, one with the expertise to perform either the Wechsler Intelligence Test for Children or the Stanford Binet Test . . ." It's beginning to sound like this whole thing might end up actually costing me money?
As if reading my mind, Fionn goes, "Ross, this isn't about exploiting Ronan for financial gain. It's about recognising whatever extraordinary abilities he might have and offering him an education that's commensurate with those abilities . . ." Suddenly, the - I suppose - father in me comes racing to the surface. I'm like, "Jesus, Fionn, what was I thinking? Trying to make doe-ray off my son's back . . ." "Look, don't be too hard on yourself," he goes. "It comes as a shock to a lot of parents to discover that their children have phenomonally high IQs. They think they immediately have to do something, when in fact what the child probably really needs above anything else is . . . a childhood."
I'm there, "Look, I just want him to be happy. Okay, Dude - send him off, open him up, see what's going on in there, whatever . . ." Fionn tells me I'm doing the right thing, which is nice to hear, especially as he's been one of my biggest critics down through the years.
We go back into the living-room to hear a sound that no parent could ever get tired of - the sound of his child laughing.
"Shorts on the highway," Ronan goes. "He's some can of piss, this fella, isn't he?" We all laugh. "Of course," Fionn goes, "this movie is predicated largely on a myth, that counting cards requires a mind that deals primarily in abstractions. Even someone of average intelligence can track the ratio of high cards to low cards in a deck and determine the probability advantages."
"Ah, yeah," Ronan suddenly pipes up, "it's just a matter of assigning a positive, negative or null value to each card in the deck, then adjusting the running count as each card is dealt . . ." Of course my jaw just hits the floor.
"Two to six are plus one," he goes. "Tens, aces and paints are minus one. Seven, eight, nine are zero. That's yisser basic hi-lo system - but there's others, man. I'm after being reading about the Omega II and I think I've come up with one or two refinements . . ."
I look at Fionn as if to say, sorry, Dude. Then I ask Ro if he still has a passport.
• Keep up with Ross's adventures online at www.irishtimes.com/blogs/lifewithross
