Category: Writing Genre

Ireland Versus England: 557 And Counting

I’ll tell ya something now that’ll shake you up, Pat. If you took up rugby instead of playin the oul soccer and the GAA, you’d be up there on 557 points with myself and Johnny.

Ah, but Ronan…

No but Ronan about it, Pat! You’d be our equal, and you’d play agin England tomorrow to go top.

I loved playing in goal. Jackson was my hero. There’s no goalies in the rugby.

When did you ever hear of a goalie scoring 557 points, Pat? Tell me that, and if you did and if you do, I’ll eat my hat. Pure rubbish playing in goals, an anyway there’s no goals in rugby. It’s tries, conversions and penalties.

I saved two penalties once. Not at the same time. Two in the same game. We were up against…

I’m not hearing ya, Pat. Listen to me now, and listen good. Nothing ever came of been a goalie. Sweet fuck all. Wouldn’t ya like to be in the same bracket as the two of us?

Well, no actually. I wouldn’t. Soccer was my game and…

You’re a woeful gombeen, y’are. You’ll go down in history tomorrow if you score a few points. No matter if we win or lose. No matter if you’re shite for 75 minutes and you pop one over. History, I’m telling ya.

You were fair good yourself. Did you dream?

I was, but nah. I’m not in same class as you. You could’ve been the man. You were taken over by that Jackson lad. Shur, all he ever done was stop the team from been relegated every year, and three times he couldn’t even do that.

He played for England once.

Did he now? England! Shur, that’s not so much of a big deal, now is it? See what France done to them last week? The fans were wanting to leave early, but the stewards made them watch to the end.

Jacko was class, he was. He died last year.

Class, was he? Well, he’s not class right now. England are here tomorrow and they’ll be in that dressing room and they’re piss poor, they are. If you were to be running out in the green, you’d have them shaking with the trembles.

557 you say? That’s fair scoring. How many games would ye have played to notch up 557?

Don’t matter one bit, Pat. ‘Tis the headline in tomorrow’s paper I’d be keen to see. “de Búrca secures Grand Slam. All records broke.” The Cork Examiner will do a full page just on you and the record. They’ll give man of the match to one of the other lads, and they’ll praise the team to high heaven, but you get a page to yourself. Did Jackson ever get that? Goalies don’t matter. D’ya want another half pint of Cassilero?

Ah, go on so. I’ll play.

Wouldn’t doubt ya, Pat. You’ll play better with a double.

Ronan, ya eejit. Cassilero comes in a glass and there’s no such thing as a double.

There is today, Pat. I’m putting my shirt on you. Now, this has to be said so, I’ll say it twice. Don’t let me down. Just don’t let me down.

Will ya have something yerself?

No, I’ll be wanting a clear head. I want to see the look on Johnny’s face when you pass him out. The fecker’s been grinning at me all week. You just go out there and show me what ya can do. I’ll be commentating for some second-rate French radio crowd. Gotta keep a clear head.

Was the Grand Slam ever won in Dublin before, Ronan?

Nearly, a few times. Nearly. Tomorrow’s the day.

Secrets

He could hear the rain on the roof. It had kept him awake for a while now, not quite knowing how long. At first it was a light dripping but just now it fell heavily. He could visualise drops hitting and bouncing up again, merging and being split on the upward escape.

John’s mind wandered from the destroyed drops. He could not move his thoughts away from what lay ahead. In a few short hours, after breakfast, he would drive to the old house where his mum lived. She would be expecting him at ten. Every Tuesday this was his routine, and Catherine came to expect it too. They both looked forward to good coffee, fruit scones and some carefully-selected catching up.

As he turned and twisted, his mind became oblivious to the constant sound of the rain. They had decided last week that she must be told. Moreover, it fell to him to deliver the blow. Now, as dawn approached, his doubts returned. His tortured mind controlled him. He could feel it in his stomach.

About one thing, there was absolutely no doubt. He had been given the short straw. His brother and two sisters had managed to wriggle their way out of the situation. Being the eldest, he was left alone to tell her. They said it would be for the best.

“She’ll take it better from you”, said Peter. On the other hand, Patricia did offer, and it was a very genuine offer.

“We’re right behind you,” said Carmel, “and if there’s anything we can do to help, just holler.” Liar, he thought. Hollering at Carmel was like trying to keep the tide out.

“I’ve no problem telling her,” she informed everyone. “It’s just that, well, I think she might just flip. Wouldn’t it be better coming from you, John?”

He wanted to say no. No, it wouldn’t be better. How the hell could she think that? What way does her mind work? In the end, he gave up and he gave in.

“That’s a first for you.”, she said quietly.

“What?”, he wondered. His mind was racing and didn’t need interruptions.

“Every Tuesday you have the scone with your coffee, but I’ve never seen you to have jam on it.” She was smirking at me, as if she knew what was coming.

“I’m beginning to wonder if something is bothering you, because here’s another thing…. there’s not much escapes your poor oul mother… I was at the shop during the week and Mary Dunford says to me that she saw the whole lot of ye coming out of McCarthy’s across the road the day before.”

Mam stopped in her tracks, put the half scone back on her plate, and looked at the family picture on the wall. Her puzzled look was enough to make me realise she wasn’t quite finished.

“I’d say it’s years and years since ye were all together in the one place! Not since yourself and Carmel had that big huha.”

“The truth of it is that I have a bit of news for you, mam.” He figured that there was no point in delaying any longer. She’s as cute as the bees, he reminded himself.

“I’m going to stop you right there, because I have some myself. And, you know how forgetful I am… if I don’t tell you now, I’ll have it all forgotten. Anyways, it’s only right for your mother to go first.”

His phone beeped a shrill musical note and automatically he went to check.

“Have you told her?” It was Peter on the group WhatsApp. “Ring me. Urgent.”

“I promised I’d get the money for you, and I did. I have it for you now, so you’ll be able to keep the house. It’s yours, but don’t say a word to them. If you do, I swear I’ll take every penny back.”

She took out her worn blue cheque book, ripped off the top one and handed it to him. He knew immediately that if he lifted the cup to his lips she would see the shake in his hand.

Another message from the group. This time Carmel.

“Change of plan. Don’t say a word. In case you don’t see this message, I’ll ring you straight away.”

“Where did the money come from, mam?”, he needed to know. “Eighty thousand just doesn’t appear overnight.”

John’s mind was racing once more.

“Well, I might be heading towards sixty, but a bit of Romance Scamming works both ways. Poor fella is coming to Dublin next month to see me. The operation is very expensive, but he forked up. Now, it’s yours. I’ve also signed the deeds of this house to you. Not much good to me anymore.”

As she put away the cheque book, she looked at John.

“Another scone, love?”

On his way to the car, Carmel rang. First time he could ever remember a call from her, but before he picked up, he knew exactly what to say. She was frantic.

“For Christ sake. Why didn’t you answer our messages? Did you tell her? Don’t tell her. It’ll kill her.”

“Yes. It’s done. She took it all very well. Surprisingly well, to be honest. I’m glad we decided to tell her the truth.”

“John, it’s a fucking mess. She’s not dying. Doctor Murphy’s secretary rang to say they had her test results mixed up with some other wan from up the road in Fermoy. There’s no cancer.”

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