I can’t believe it. I can’t believe this is actually happening? Yeah, no, you always try to think about worst case scenarios in your head – just so you have a plan in case something goes wrong – but this is beyond my, literally, worst nightmares.
We’re losing, like, 32-0 – and we’re lucky to have nil.
The Blackrock first years are taking us aport. We haven’t been inside their 22 even once and we haven’t touched the ball for, like, 15 minutes. It’s, like, phase after phase of Blackrock attacks and they are quite literally laughing at us.
My three sons, who I had to pay to play – a grand each, seeing as you’re asking – are the worst players on the pitch. The lowest of many low points was when Brian accidentally found himself with the ball, got creamed by their number eight and, at the moment of contact, blurted out – and this is, like, word for word – “Mommy!”
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And to think that I gave them the full Father Fehily talk before the match: “You are the special ones! Your daddies are rich! And after today, you won’t have to work hord for anything else in your lives ever again!”
Heady words – but absolutely wasted on them. As were all the moves and tactical plays that I shared with them from my Rugby Tactics Book, some of which I’d been holding back in case I ran into Leo Cullen socially and he asked me if I had any thoughts about the upcoming match against Edinburgh.
I went through the plan for today with them, 20 times a day for the last, like, seven months – and I might as well have been talking to the birds.
And, of course, Christian is in his element.
He’s there, “Hey, Ross, I hope you’re not gaming us now – pretending to be absolutely shit to lull us into a false sense of security!”
I’m like, “There’s still another half of rugby to play, Dude.”
And he goes, “You have us where you want us – is that it?”
He’s, like, full of it.
I’m there, “Just remember the Miracle of Cordiff, Dude.”
He goes, “Are you going to show them the highlights on your phone at half-time?”
I’m like, “Er, no.”
I was actually going to, but I won’t now.
The referee blows the whistle and he makes a beeline for me.
He’s like, “What do you think?”
I’m there, “What do you mean?”
He goes, “Do you want me to blow it up?”
I’m like, “Blow it up? There’s, like, 40 minutes left.”
He’s there, “I just thought, you know, you might want to spare them any more embarrassment. This could put them off rugby forever.”
I’m like, “Two words for you, Dude: Leinster 33, Northampton Saints 22, Millennium Stadium, 2011.”
He goes, “Oh, you’re bringing on Johnny Sexton for the second half, are you?” and he has a good chuckle to himself. “Suit yourself.”
My players walk past me into the dressingroom. They refuse to even look me in the eye, in fairness to them.
I’m there going, “You’re a focking disgrace. You don’t deserve to wear those jerseys.”
And that’s when Christian puts a hand on my shoulder. He’s there, “Can I’ve a word?”
I’m like, “Whatever.”
“In here,” he goes – then he opens the door into what turns out to be a storage cupboard, about the size of an average lorder.
I’m there, “What’s this in relation to?”
He goes, “Do you want to forget about the second half?”
I’m like, “You as well? Dude, do you remember what Father Fehily used to say to us whenever we losing a match? ‘Check the labels on your jerseys. Those colours don’t run.’”
He goes, “Ross, I left our five best players on the bench because I felt sorry for you. They’re going on in the second half. Dude, this could be an absolute humiliation.”
I’m like, “So?”
He goes, “Imagine if Leo Cullen gets to hear about it? What would that do to your possible future coaching career?”
That ends up being all I need to hear.
I’m there, “Yeah, no, fine – we’ll throw in the towel.”
He smiles at me and goes, “You’re doing the right thing. Let’s go tell the ref that you’ve decided to put them out of their misery.”
Except when Christian pulls the handle of the door, the thing doesn’t open. Yeah, no, someone – whether intentionally or not – has turned the key and locked us in.
‘Just focus on your breathing, Dude. Breathe in for eight seconds, hold it for eight, then breathe out like you’re blowing out a candle.’
Christian storts, like, hammering on the door, because he’s famously – I think it’s a word – claustrophobic?
He’s going, “Let me out of here! Someone! Let me out!” and he storts – again, made-up word – hyperventilating? Suddenly, I’m remembering the time when we were in first year in Castlerock College and a gang of sixth years locked him into one of the lockers.
I end up doing what I did that day, which is to talk him down.
I’m there, “Just focus on your breathing, Dude. Breathe in for eight seconds, hold it for eight, then breathe out like you’re blowing out a candle. Okay, let’s do it again. Breathe in for eight seconds–”
After five minutes, he’s calm, although we’re still locked in the closet and we can hear the players walking back out on to the pitch again.
He’s like, “We’re going to miss the second half.”
And I’m there, “I’m kind of glad.”
“Dude, I’m sorry,” he goes, “for the way I’ve been acting.”
I’m like, “Yeah, no, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have let rugby come in the way of our friendship.”
I don’t mean it, of course. He’s still a Judas. But he offers me his hand and I end up shaking it.
“For what it’s worth,” he goes, “I still think you’re an incredible rugby coach.”
I end up laughing.
I’m there, “You’re either lying or delusional. I can’t teach these kids anything. As a matter of fact, I’m going to resign as the Castlerock College Director of Rugby as soon as I get out of here.”
That, by the way, ends up being 45 minutes later, when the match is finally over. Someone turns the key and opens the door and it ends up being – yeah, no – my son, Brian. I’m about to give out yords to him, but then I notice that his two brothers – and all of his team-mates, in fact – are hugging each other and celebrating.
I’m like, “What the fock? Like, literally?”
And Brian goes, “We won! It was 38-32! And it had absolutely nothing to do with you!”
