‘You’re woodying about nuttin,” Ronan goes. I’m there, “I’d hordly call it nothing. I’m worrying about you – about, like, your safety.” “Ine invincible, Rosser. I refuse to be beaten by addy man aloyiv. Ine breaking necks …”
“And cashing cheques. Yeah, I’ve heard your spiel, Ro.” “And pucking the lug off shams.” “Pucking the lug – all of that. But this front you put on isn’t going to protect you.”
We’re in the gents toilets in the Tipsy Wagon in Blanchardstown, where my son has changed into his fighting gear. He’s staring into the mirror, talking himself up for his fight against Josey Anto for the vacant Irish Mixed Mortial Orts Phantomweight title.
He’s like, “The doorty pox is going down. Two hits. Me hitting him, him hitting the floe-er.”
Through the wall, I can hear the noise building up in the cor pork outside. Ronan – or Manslaughter Masters, as my first-born calls himself these days – has brought quite a lot of support with him from Finglas.
I go, “It’s not too late to pull out, Ro. There’s an emergency exit just beyond that door. We could slip out. I could hide you under my coat. My cor is pretty fast.
“Me and you could be in Kielys enjoying a couple of Dutch masters before anyone realised you’d totally bottled it.”
He’s like, “Pull out? Are you seerdious? This is me moment, Rosser.”
“Can I make a last-minute case for rugby? It’s a great sport, Ronan. And 100 per cent safe. Yes, there’s the odd ear or finger lost in a scrum, but there’s usually 40 or 50 surgeons in an average rugby crowd.”
“This is me spowurt, Rosser. Mixed Meertial Eerts.”
“I just don’t consider it a sport. It’s like watching CCTV footage of a fight in a fast food restaurant.”
Ronan’s trainer, Buckets of Blood, sticks his head around the door of the jacks. “Ronan,” he goes, “it’s toyum.”
Ro’s there, “See you back here in 10 minutes, Rosser, when I’ll be the Awdle Arelunt champion.”
I’m there, “I’d be happier just to know you were alive.”
I walk out and I take my seat at the side of the Octagon. Behind me, I hear someone go, “That’s he’s aul lad there – the snobby-looking fedda in the yachting jacket,” meaning, I’m presuming, me.
I get a tap on the shoulder. I turn around and it ends up being some fat dude wearing a T-shirt with my son’s face on it. He’s there, “You must be veddy prouth.”
And I go, “I’m not actually. I’d nearly rather he was in prison. At least there’s rules when people fight in there.”
He laughs like he thinks I'm joking. "Go on ourra that!" he goes, then he hands me a warm, plastic, pint glass full of Not Heineken. "Get it inta ya, Cynthia!"
Josey Anto's name is called first. The announcer goes, "Laaadddiiieeesss and gentlemen," even though I see very few of either here, "will you please welcome, with a record of 32 wins from 32 fights, all by way of knockout – he is The Beast from Blanchardstown East, Joooseeey 'The Widow Maker' Annntooo. "
A huge roar goes up. Out he comes. The dude is ripped like an Abercrombie model and has a face like a sandblasted beetroot. He gets into the cage and he roars, “Ine gonna rip his legs off and beat him to death with them.”
You wouldn’t hear the likes of that in rugby. Except maybe in Bruff.
Ronan comes out next. The same dude goes, “With a record of five fights and five wins, please show your appreciation for The Armageddon from Dublin 11, it’s Roonaaan ‘Maaanslaughterrr’ Maaastersss!”
It’s hord to know who has the most support. The crowd goes literally ballistic as Ronan makes his way to the cage, his orms held above his head, showing no sign of fear whatsoever.
Into the cage he goes. He and The Widow Maker exchange insults and threats across the canvas – “Ine gonna beat you into a toorty-year coma, you doorty-looken doort boord!” and “You’re about to get your face rearranged, you bleaten clown.”
The word that Ronan’s old man is the audience has spread through the cor pork. People are coming up to me and shaking my hand and telling me it’s an honour and that my son is a role model for children everywhere.
Then the two fighters are, I don’t know, summoned to the centre of the ring. The bell goes and we’re off. The noise is, like, deafening.
Ronan and Josey dance around each other for, like, 20 or 30 seconds, feigning punches, but mostly feeling each other out. Then Ro sees what he thinks is an opening and he makes a lunge for Josey, leaving his left hand dangerously low.
I shout, “Watch his right, Ro!” except it’s suddenly too late. The punch detonates on the side of Ronan’s face with a sickening crack. His eyes stort spinning like pinwheels. I have no idea what keeps him upright but Josey finishes him off with a kick to the leg that turns Ronan’s kneecap 90 degrees to the left.
People actually turn away to avoid seeing Ronan go down like a dynamited building.
The referee waves it over. But there’s just, like, silence from the crowd. No one seems to know how to be happy about this. I run to the cage, where my son is being loaded onto a stretcher, totally out of the game, spitting zeds.
One or two people tell me I should be ashamed of myself for allowing my son to take port in such a sport. “It’s barbaddick,” says one dude, who just so happens to be wearing a Manslaughter Masters headband. “You’re no kind of fadder letting him do that!”
Ronan is lifted out of the cage and I follow the stretcher as it’s carried towards a waiting ambulance.
I’m like, “Ro, are you okay? Ronan, answer me! Please – answer me!”
He opens his eyes, his face totally twisted in pain and he goes, “I want a rematch, Rosser.”
ILLUSTRATION: ALAN CLARKE
