I call out to see Ronan on Monday morning. He’s smoking one of his world famous rollies and filling in a form.
I’m like, “Alright, Ro? Is that the census?”
He looks up and sees me standing there. He goes, “Alreet, Rosser? No, it’s me CAO applicashidden fordum.”
I’m there, “Your what?”
He goes, “You’ve nebber heard of a CAO applicashidden fordum? Yeah, don’t tell me – you played rubby!”
I’m there, “Well, I did play rugby. That’s a fact.”
He goes, “The CAO fordrum is where you list yisser preferdences for coddidge.”
“Coddidge?” I go. “Are you trying to say college?”
He’s there, “Coddidge – exactly. Ine gonna need 50 snots, by the way, cos me fordum is late.”
I whip out a roll of fifties and I peel one off. He sees the size of my wad and he changes his mind.
“Er, Rosser,” he goes, “make that foyuv hunthret, will you?”
I laugh as I count them off. Like father, like son.
It’s nice to see the old Ro is back. He’s barely mentioned the words mixed mortial orts since his defeat to Josey Anto in the cor pork of the Tipsy Wagon in Blanchardstown a few months ago. His fractured cheekbone, dislocated knee and broken tibia have all healed and I’m beginning to put the whole UFC thing down to just another phase he went through, like ram-raiding the local off-licence. And soccer.
“So what are you putting down?” I go. “As in, what are you applying to study?”
He’s there, “Ine putting law in Thrinity, Rosser.”
I laugh – can't help it. I'm like, "Law in Trinity? I'm going to have to say fair focks to you, Ro. I'm actually saying it?"
He goes, “I’ve decided I want to be a solicitodder. To one of the big criminoddle famidies.”
“Which one?”
“Whichebber’s paying the most muddy, Rosser.”
“Do you know who’d be proud to hear you talking like this, Ro? Your grandfather.”
“Ine arthur tedding him already. He was the one what put the idea in me head. He says someone needs to take on the Criminoddle Assets Burdeau. They’re getting away with bleaten moorder.”
"Well, he would say that. They took everything he had. Well, everything he couldn't hide in Panama. "
“Well, when Ine fidished, Ine gonna make bits of them in the cowurts. I’ve alretty got me apprenticeship loyunt up.”
“Already?”
“Yeah, Hennessy’s gonna take me unter he’s wing.”
“Hennessy Coghlan-O’Hara is one of the most immoral people who’s ever walked this Earth. You really couldn’t hope for a better role model if this is the road you’ve decided to go down.”
He finishes filling in the form. I’m just, like, shaking my head, going, “This is a day I won’t forget in a hurry. A son of mine applying to go to college. It’s true what I’ve always said. Intelligence must skip a generation.”
He sucks the last bit of life out of his rolly, then twists it into the ash tray.
He doesn’t comment one way or the other.
I’m there, “Because I was genuinely worried about you, Ro. That whole cage-fighting thing. I thought that was going to be your career.”
He shrugs. He looks sad. He goes, “I just didn’t hab it, Rosser – not for the highest lebbel.”
I’m there, “That’s the spirit, Ro. If at first you don’t succeed, it’s a pretty good indication that you’re never going to. We’ll get those tattoos removed over the summer and we can all get on with the rest of our lives.”
Except he doesn’t say anything. He seems lost in thought and I’m suddenly sorry I even brought it up.
I’m like, “Ro? What’s wrong?”
He’s there, “Just gibbon up, but – arthur one defeat? What if I regret it, Rosser?”
I go, "You won't regret it! You're going to be a solicitor to one of Ireland's leading criminal gangs! Remember Dave out of Love/Hate? You always said he was the unsung hero of the series. Nidge would have been doing 10 in the pen if it wasn't for him. Your words, Ro."
He goes, “You always regretted gibbon up the rubby, but,” and I don’t like the turn this conversation has suddenly taken. “You’re altways saying you could have played for Arelunt.”
"If I'd had a coach like Joe Schmidt, " I go, "who knew how to hornass my talents and stop me drinking, then yes, I accept that I could have been one of the greats of the modern game."
“I don’t want to end up like you, Rosser, always wonderdun what might have been.”
“I don’t wonder, Ro. It’s generally agreed that I could have been as good as Brian O’Driscoll if I hadn’t pissed it up against the wall. And anyway that was rugby. You’re talking about fighting people in pub cor porks.”
“Still a spowurt, but.”
Now it’s my turn to say nothing.
“In addyhow,” he goes, “it was a lucky punch.”
I’m there, “What are you talking about?”
“Me last fight. Josey Anto. He caught me unaweers.”
I reach across the table for his CAO application form. I’m there, “I was just going to say, I could stick that in an envelope and post it for you.”
Except he suddenly whips it away. He goes, “Maybe a solicitodder’s not wat I want to be, but.”
I’m there, “Do you want me to ask Hennessy to have another word with you? He owns a vineyord, you know?”
He’s like, “Maybe I’ve unfidished business in mixed meershiddle eerts.”
I’m there, “Is this because Conor McGregor isn’t retiring after all?”
He goes, “Soddy?” and it’s immediately obvious that he hasn’t heard the news.
I’m there, “Yeah, no, it was on the radio in the cor. He wants to fight that dude who beat him a few weeks ago. He’s saying it was a . . . fluke.”
I notice a change come over Ronan’s face. And I know in that instant that I’ve lost him. I make another grab for this famous form of his, except he turns sideways and he rips it in half, then in half again.
“Rosser,” he goes, “I need you to throp me to the gym.” ILLUSTRATION: ALAN CLARKE
