The old man says it’s like looking for a proverbial what’s-it in a bloody well what’s-it. He’s pacing backwards and forwards and smoking like a crematorium chimney.
“He’s 16 years of age!” he goes. “Sixteen, Ross!”
I'm like, "Yeah, no, I know how old my own son is?"
“And he’s spent the last two months of his life on his own in Manchester. Try his phone again.”
“I just did. It’s still off.”
“Well, where would a 16-year-old boy alone in Manchester spend his time?”
“Use you brain, will you? You check the pubs and I’ll check the amusement orcades.”
That’s when we both go our own separate ways.
It’s hord to describe Manchester to someone who’s never actually experienced it. Imagine if the Ilac Centre was an entire city and you’re about 90 per cent of the way there.
As it happens, I'm pretty sure I know where Ronan is hiding out. I just wanted my old man out of the way. He usually spends his afternoons in Slots on Tariff Street, feeding coins into the fruit machines, one hand working the change cup, the other working the lever like a dinner lady's orm.
Slots is rammers, especially for two o’clock on a weekday afternoon. I spot him almost immediately. He’s up at the cage, breaking a 20. He’s like, “Gib us anutter bucket of 50s thee, Meertha, will you?”
First name terms with the staff. You’d have to love him.
He sits on a high stool in front of a machine with Pirates of the Caribbean on it, even though the game doesn’t involve pirates at all. It’s the same as all the others – four pinwheels with cherries and sevens and oranges and diamonds.
I sidle up beside him and I go, “This takes me back.” He gets a fright. He stares at me, open-mouthed for a few seconds, then goes back to feeding the machine.
I'm like, "It takes me back to the day you made your First Holy Communion. Wes Quirke's old man running you out of the Goodtime Emporium for nudging the coin cascades with your orse and that Lady Gorda threatening to put you on the Juvenile Diversion Programme to scare you straight."
He laughs. Despite everything, he laughs. He goes, “We’d some crack, didn’t we, Rosser?”
I’m there, “We did, Ro. I like to think we still do.”
There’s, like, 30 seconds of silence before he eventually goes, “You know, doatunt you? You know the throoth.”
I'm there, "Yes, I know the truth. There's not a lot gets past me, Ronan. Actually, that's not true – a huge amount gets past me. Brains-wise, I'm pretty much Namibia. But we went to the training ground and they said you'd been released by the club before Christmas."
“We?”
“Yeah, no, your grandfather came over with me.”
He’s, like, totally crushed when he hears this news. He worships my old man and vice versa.
I'm there, "We were going to surprise you. Except we were the ones who ended up getting the surprise? So what happened – are you going to tell me?"
He shrugs. “I just wadn’t good enough,” he goes. “I know you’re secretly trilled.”
“Why would I be thrilled?”
“Because you wanted me to play rubby.”
“What parent wouldn’t want that?”
“I knew it from the veddy steert, Rosser. The utter kids – thee were just bettor than me.”
“All those things you told me. That manager dude…”
“Louis van Gaddle.”
“He was supposedly asking questions about you. He thought you might be ready for the senior squad.”
“I med it up, Rosser.”
“Why would you make it up?”
“I was embaddassed. I ditn’t want you to know I failed. I thought you’d be ashayumed of me.”
“Ro, any shame I feel at you not making it as a professional soccer player is nothing compared to the shame I felt when you told me you wanted to be one in the first place. I genuinely mean that.”
He continues putting coins in the slot and pulling the lever, though without any real passion. I feel so sorry for him in that moment. Just because he has a moustache and a 12-month-old baby doesn’t mean he’s not still a kid.
I'm there, "I've an idea, Ro – why don't we head home? You know what's on this weekend? Ireland and England at the Aviva. We could watch it from the old man's box."
He goes, “I’ve a trial on Monday.”
A trial. I’m almost afraid to ask the obvious. Football, criminal – it could be either. I’m there, “What kind of trial are we talking, Ro?”
He’s like, “It’s with Macclesfield Towin. You’ve probably nebber heerd of them.”
“Don’t take it personally. I’d never heard of Manchester United until about a year ago.”
“Macclesfield are in the Conferdence.”
I just nod. It’s all gibberish to me.
I’m there, “I’ve a new plan, then. Why don’t I take you up to this famous Macclesfield myself? We could check out their set-up together.”
I'm suddenly thinking about my old man and the unshakable belief he had in me. None of it was justified, of course. But he was always there on the sidelines, telling everyone within one-kilometre radius that they were watching the next Tony Ward, even on those days when I couldn't have hit snow if I've fallen off a yak.
Ronan goes, “I don’t know.”
I’m there, “Why don’t we go for a few pints and discuss it?”
“Ine only 16, Rosser.”
“Okay, cans then.”
“I probably should stay off it. It’s anutter reason thee let me go. I was thrinking too much.”
"Ah, who's to say what's too much, Ro? There's an awful lot of rubbish being talked about drink. They're trying to say three pints is a binge now. That used to be a storter. I mean, if these health nuts had their way, I'd be having my last pint before Ireland's Call, my hangover during the second half and my morning-after fry-up at six o'clock in the evening. Where would that leave us? "
"We could go up to Macclesfield," Ronan goes, finally taking his hand off the lever. "But I kind of liked your foorst plan."
I just smile. I’m like, “Are you talking about Ireland at the Aviva?”
He goes, “Ine talking about going home, Rosser.”
I’m there, “In my world, Ro, they’re the exact same thing.”