The Saint Ignatius of Loyola Church is packed for the annual Castlerock College Thanksgiving Mass. There must be, like, five hundred past pupils here, filling out every pew and even spilling outside into the freezing cold night. We’re all belting out the words of what used to be Father Fehily’s favourite Christmas hymn, making sure we do him proud.
Joyful, all ye nations rise.
Join the triumph of the skies.
With angelic host proclaim:
Christ is born in Bethlehem.
Hark! The herald angels sing:
Glory to the newborn King!
When it’s all over, we shuffle out of the church and into the cor pork. Then everyone stands around in the cold for half an hour, hundreds of old school friends just catching up with each other, sharing memories, exchanging news and generally talking about how the whole recession thing never really affected them at all.
“I was just remembering,” JP goes, “how much Father Fehily loved that song,” JP goes. “I was thinking about him conducting with his hands as he belted out the lines.”
We all laugh. He used to do that.
Oisinn goes, “You’d miss his Christmas Mass, though – and that’s not being disrespectful to Father Jehoiada. By the way, has anyone got plans for New Year’s Eve?”
“I’m having a porty in the George,” Oisinn goes. I presume he’s talking about the yacht club, not the gay bor. “Look, it’s not a major deal. It’s just a few drinks to celebrate my dischorge from bankruptcy.”
Me and JP are just like, “What?” because it’s come around so quickly.
“Yeah, no,” Oisinn goes, “as and from the first of January 2015, I’m back in the black – my debt to society paid. I thought, you know, it might be worth ringing in the New Year properly this year.”
I’m like, “Fair focks, Dude. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
I suddenly spot my old man tipping over. He’s got on his lucky Cole Haan camel hair coat on – so-called – and that ridiculous hat he insists on wearing.
“There they are!” he goes. “The backbone of the team that brought Leinster Schools Senior Cup glory to Castlerock College in the year of Our Lord, one thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine!”
He’s the wrong side of a bottle of brandy, judging by both his volume and the hum him off him.
The goys are all like, “Hey, Charles!” because for some bizarre reason they all think he’s great.
He goes, "Gloria filiorum patres! Parare Domino plebem perfectam!"
Courvoisier always brings out the Latin in him.
JP goes, "Couldn't have said it better myself, Charles," loving my embarrassment. "Although I'd throw in a pendent opera interrupta for good measure."
“And I wouldn’t stop you,” the old man goes. “No, indeed! By the way, Kicker, there’s a chap over who’s rather keen to meet you. Brother Melchior?”
I’m there, “I don’t know a Brother Melchior.”
“Well, you wouldn’t know him – he’s lived in Tanzania for the last fifty years. But he knows all about you and your extraordinary exploits on the field!”
“Continue.”
“Well, he said it to me just now. He said, ‘Your son was the famous rugby player – is that correct?’ I said, ‘You’re absolutely right – got it in one!’ and he said, ‘Well, I would love to meet him – just to say I shook his hand.’”
I suppose I did bring glory to the Jesuits as much as I did to the school.
“Oh,” the old man goes, “here he comes, look!”
Brother Melchior ends up being this, like, old dude – we’re talking ninety, possibly even older – and he’s literally bent over double, moving really slowly, like someone who’s dropped a contact lens and is terrified of stepping on it.
He just, like, extends his hand to me and goes, “I’ve always wanted… to meet you.”
His voice is sort of, like, high-pitched and a little bit shaky.
I’m like, “Yeah, no, cool,” giving his hand a good shake.
“I’m Brother Melchior,” he goes. “I don’t know if Denis… ever mentioned me… We were in Africa… together... oh, many, many moons ago.”
I’m there, “He may have done. He said a lot of stuff. I mostly remember his quotes.”
“Oh, he loved his quotes… Loved them… Well, he told me all about you… in his letters, you see.”
“This is all good stuff for me to hear.”
“He was the first one to tell me… about this player he’d seen… He said watching him play rugby… was like looking into the face of God.”
I was good. I could try to be modest about it but I'd just come across as a dick.
I’m there, “What specific qualities of mine did he mention that set me aport from other players – the likes of Gordon D’Arcy especially?”
I’m a sucker for a compliment. I can hear Oisinn and JP both groan.
“He said you had… everything,” Brother Melchior goes. “The most complete player… that he’d ever… ever seen.”
I’m there, “Like I said, this is a definite boost to the old ego. Of course, the man definitely knew his rugby.”
“Oh, he loved his rugby… He said to me, ‘This boy will be… one of the all-time greats… And I’m talking about on a world stage…’”
“If only I’d met a coach like Joe Schmidt,” I go, “who could understood what I could bring to the set-up and maybe stop me drinking like a rock star. Johnny Sexton has said that about me in interviews. I could have had it all. On the record.”
“Well,” the dude goes, “it gave me great pleasure… later on… to watch your career… and to see that Denis… was absolutely right about you.”
Of course I’m enjoying the praise so much that it never occurs to me to go, ‘What career? I haven’t kicked a rugby ball since the Backstreet Boys were still together.’
“Grand Slams… Heineken Cups... Captaining your country…”
Oisinn is the first one to cop it – he actually laughs? Then I hear him turn around to the old man and go, "He thinks it's Brian O'Driscoll!"
The old man’s like, “Good Lord!”
"I used to read about you," Brother Melchior goes, "in the papers… I had the Irish Times sent to me in Tanzania… Every day… I read about all those important tries you scored for Ireland..."
Okay, this is embarrassing.
The old man has to stick his hooter into the conversation then. He goes, “The thing is, Brother Melchior, he’s not actually the chap you think he is!”
I turn around to the old man and I go, “Yeah, shut up, will you?”
“You were a credit,” Brother Melchior goes. “to yourself… a credit…to the country... and a credit… to the game of rugby.”
I’m there, “I’ll take all of that.”
“Even though he thinks he’s talking to Drico,” Oisinn goes.
I’m like, “Don’t listen to them.”
The dude goes, “I want to shake your hand again… and tell you thank you… Thank you… Thank you…”
So I let him shake my hand again, then off he goes, delighted with himself for having met one of the true legends of the game.
The old man goes, “Sorry, Kicker. I should have suspected something when he mentioned the hat-trick of tries you scored in Paris. It should have rung an alarm bell with me.”
JP goes, “I can’t believe you stood there and let him think you were Drico.”
I’m there, “Hey, I just didn’t want to hurt the dude’s feelings, that’s all.”
Oisinn and JP both laugh. Even the old man looks away in embarrassment. "Good Lord," he goes, "isn't that what's-it over there? I haven't seen since God-knows-when," and then off he goes as well.
As we all head off into the night, I can't help thinking about the conversation with Brother Melchior, which has left me a little bit, I don't know, sad? Look, I'm not knocking Drico. He achieved all the things he achieved in the game and I'd still consider him a hero of mine as well as possibly a mate. But talking to Brother Melchior has made me suddenly realize more than ever that it could have been me – that it should have been me?
I know there were a lot of factors – we’re talking bad luck, we’re talking issues with my famous rotator cuff, we’re talking switching from pints to shots the night I told Warren Gatland a few home truths in the Berkeley Court Hotel. All those things played a port in me not actually making it.
But suddenly tonight – at the age of, what, nearly thirty-five? – I’ve been reminded of the amazing career that I could have potentially had. And it’s got me dreaming all sorts of crazy dreams about making a comeback.
