Ronan hasn’t been returning my calls. I say it to him as well. “Yeah, no,” I go, “I was trying to find out how you got on in, like, the Leaving Cert?”
He’s there, “I habn’t been thinking abourrit, Rosser. Ine fuddy focused on this fight and nuttin else.”
The atmosphere is tense in the Tipsy Wagon – especially for a Tuesday lunchtime. The cor pork is full of people. They’re mostly fans of Ronan’s opponent, the so-called Beast from Blanchardstown East, Josey Anto. We can hear them chanting through the walls of the dressing room – in other words, the ladies toilets. They’re going, “Beast! Beast! Beast! Beast!”
Ronan throws a combination of punches at the sanitary towel vending machine. Buckets of Blood, his trainer, tells him to forget about the crowd – he’s only fighting one man today.
The problem is that the last time he fought this dude, he was carried out of the cage on a stretcher, a pile of broken bones, with his face a mess.
I had to identify him by his tattoo records.
“Are you not even curious,” I go, “as to how you did?”
He’s there, “What are you talken about?”
“In terms of, like, results – how many points you got and blah, blah, blah. For all you know, you might end up going to college.”
“Me results are in there,” he goes, nodding at his gym bag. “In an envelope. I said I wadn’t going to open it until arthur the fight – doatunt want any distract shiddens.”
I remember when I did the Leaving Cert, I couldn’t wait to see what I got for ruling my pages and writing my examination number on the front of the answers booklet. It was a lot less than I expected, as it happens. But Ronan’s way cleverer than me. They do say that stupidity skips a generation.
“But this is your future,” I go.
He shakes his head. “That sham next doher in the men’s jacks is me future,” he goes. “Taking the Irish Mixed Meertial Eerts phantomweight belt off him is all that mattors to me at this moment in toyum.”
He hits the vending machine again – two lefts, then a right – and the drawer pops open, offering him a sanitary pad. There’s obviously a knack to it.
“Look at the woodied face on you,” Ronan goes. “Ine gonna bathor him, Rosser.”
I’m there, “You know how I feel about this sport, Ro. It’s, like, borbaric?”
He laughs. He goes, “It’s not beer baddick! It’s no bethor or woorse than your spowert, the rubby.”
I go, “We’ll have to agree to differ on that basic point.”
There’s a knock on the door and a dude in a long white coat walks in. “Couple of last minute questions,” he goes. “I wanted to ask you, what’s your blood type?”
“Oh,” Ronan goes. “It’s O.”
“Ah, that’s good,” the dude goes, “we’ve got plenty of that. And do you have medical insurance?”
I’m there, “He’s on mine – we’re talking Plan B Plus Options. Anything happens to him, you bring him to the Blackrock Clinic, okay? Nowhere else.”
The dude nods, then leaves.
“It’s joost precaution eddy,” Ro goes when he sees my face. “It’ll be the utter fedda going to the hospididdle in addyhow.”
There’s another knock on the door and suddenly it’s time to go. Buckets leads Ronan out. And that’s when I realise that I can’t do it. I can’t watch. I’m not a coward. I’ve walked into tackles that did damage to my vital organs. I’ve walked into husbands who tried to do damage to the most vital organ of all. But I can’t watch my son get hurt.
So I stay where I am, in the ladies’, leaning against the sink, listening to the crowd go wild as the MC makes the introductions. It’s like, “Laaadieees and gentlemeeen, will you please welcome to the octagon, with a record of six wins and one defeat, Sent from Heaven via Dublin Eleven, the Little Pest from Finglas West – it’s Ronaaan! ‘Maaanslaaaughter’! Maaasters!”
I hear nothing but boos.
Then Josey Anto is introduced – “with a record of 19 wins from 19 fights, he’s put more people in Connolly Hospital than the HSE, it’s the Avalanche from the Rough End of Blanch, Joooseeey ‘The Widow Maker’ Antoooooo” – and I feel my guts suddenly tighten.
There’s, like, a roar from the crowd then and I try not to think about what’s happening beyond that door. I try to think of other things and my eye is suddenly drawn to Ronan’s kit bag, lying on the floor in the corner. I stort to think about his Leaving Cert results and what kind of future he might be facing. And I do what any other parent would do in the same situation. I take the envelope out of his bag and I tear it open.
My hands are literally trembling as I pull out the piece of A4 paper and unfold it slowly. I stare at it for like, 20 seconds, my mouth slung open like someone from Roscommon stepping out of Busarus for the first time. I can feel suddenly tears in my eyes?
Then I fold it up again because I hear the roars outside grow louder and I know what it means every time the decibel level rises like that. It means Ronan is taking a serious pounding.
Then, totally unexpectedly, the noise dies down, replaced by a simple applause. And all I can do is hope that he’s okay and that he won’t need my VHI details.
The next five minutes feel like five days but eventually the toilet door opens and Buckets of Blood walks in, looking sad but resigned, followed by Ronan, who’s got blood streaming from his nose and tears streaming from his eyes.
I just, like, throw my orms around him. “Fair focks!” I go. “I’m saying that, Ro. Fair focks.”
He’s like, “What are you bleaten on about? I got moordered.”
“You got five As!” I go. “Ro, you got five actual As!”