“Ross O’Carroll-Kelly!” a voice behind me goes. “It is you, isn’t it?”
I turn around, making sure to keep my hands firmly behind my back in case I’m being served with legal papers. Yeah, no, it’s a trick that Hennessy Coghlan-O’Hara taught me and it’s served me well over the years.
But it turns out that it’s not a solicitor for once? It ends up being a dude called Frankie “Melon Head” Lubey, who played for Gonzaga back in the day and whose battles with the Rossmeister General remain the stuff of schools rugby legend.
I literally haven’t laid eyes on the dude since the first Oxegen Festival in 2004, when me, Oisinn and JP pushed over a chemical toilet while he was sitting inside laying a foot of pipe. I’ve often wondered over the years if he knew I was involved.
The Young Offenders Christmas Special review: Where’s Jock? Without him, Conor’s firearm foxer isn’t quite a cracker
Restaurant of the year, best value and Michelin predictions: Our reviewer’s top picks of 2024
When Claire Byrne confronts Ryanair’s Michael O’Leary on RTÉ, the atmosphere is seriously tetchy
Our restaurant reviewer’s top takeaway picks of 2024
But then he greets me with a high-five that quickly turns into a chest bump that quickly turns into a bear hug and he goes, “How the hell are you?”
I’m there, “Living my best life, Melon He–, I mean Frankie.”
He’s like, “I haven’t seen you since — when? First year in UCD?”
He obviously doesn’t know? I think, thank fock for that.
I’m there, “Yeah, no, it would have been around that time alright. What are you doing here, by the way?”
Here being Blackrock, where the Castlerock College girls’ rugby team are about to play their first ever match against — believe it or not — Sion Hill.
He goes, “I’m coaching my daughter’s team.”
I’m like, “What, your daughter’s in Sion Hill?”
He went to Gonzaga, bear in mind. Things are obviously not going well for the dude.
He’s like, “Yeah, no, I just offered to help out with training. And you know how it is — you get sucked in, don’t you?”
I laugh. I’m there, “Dude, I can’t tell you the number of times over the years I’ve walked past a rugby pitch and shouted a piece of constructive criticism to a group of players, then finished the day as their full-time coach. I think people like us can’t help ourselves. It’s just in us — thank God.”
He goes, “Do me a favour, Ross, would you? Will you go easy on us today?”
I’m like, “Excuse me?”
“I’m just saying, it’s our very first rugby match.”
“Er, it’s ours too?”
“Dude, we’re no good, though. I’m just scared that a 10- or 15-try hiding will put the girls off rugby forever. And no one wants that. Come on, Ross, please. It’s only a friendly after all.”
I’m tempted to point out the obvious to him, that there’s no such thing as a friendly in rugby? But then I get a flashback of him crawling out of that knocked-over toilet like a swamp creature emerging from the Tordis and I decide that — yeah, no — maybe the dude has suffered enough humiliation at my hands.
So I go, “Hey, leave it with me,” and I give him a big wink.
Anyway, I gather the girls together for their prematch pep-talk. I’m there, “Okay, I want you to forget all that stuff I said on the bus about humiliating the opposition and grinding their noses in the dirt.”
That earns me more than a few curious looks from the girls.
“Er, what happened to ‘Show no mercy?’” one of them goes.
I’m there, “I’m just saying, try to keep it to double figures. You put more than a hundred points on these kids and they might never want to play the game again. Not that I think that’s a bad thing. It’s a way of filtering out the weak-minded. But maybe stop scoring tries when you hit the 90 to 95 mork.”
They’re all like, “Whatever,” not happy campers at all.
I’ve only been working with them for, like, three weeks and I already feel like I’ve created a team in my image — in other words, winners.
Out on to the pitch we walk. The Sion Hill players don’t look up to much and you can see how intimidated they are in our presence.
I give Frankie a nod and a smile as if to say, “I’ll make this as pain-free as I can for you,” and then the match all of a sudden kicks off.
There’s, like, literally 60 seconds gone when the Sion Hill inside-centre gets the ball in her hands, then with a flick of her hips wrong-foots our defence and breezes through to score a try under the posts. Their 10 nails the kick and I’m going, “They got lucky, girls! Let’s just reset and go again.”
But it’s Sion Hill who end up going again. It’s the same girl — their number 12, who I suddenly realise is Frankie’s actual daughter — who exchanges passes with their outside-centre to score in the corner. Their 10 adds the cheese and biscuits and suddenly Frankie is looking at me with a humungous smirk on his face, shrugging his shoulders as if to say, “It’s pure luck! I’m kind of embarrassed that this is even happening?”
We’re playing absolutely kack, by the way? My players are looking at me as if to say, “Do something! Where’s this famous tactical genius that everyone in rugby circles talks about?”
But Sion Hill add a third try straight from the re-stort and I end up freezing like a rabbit in the headlights. A fourth is quickly followed by a fifth, which is followed by a sixth, then a seventh, then an eighth. Sion Hill are playing rugby from another planet.
A minute before half-time, just after they score their ninth, the referee blows hord on his whistle and spreads his orms wide.
I walk on to the pitch, going, “What’s the Jack?”
He’s there, “It’s over.”
I’m like, “Over? Dude, it’s not even half-time!”
He goes, “I’m just scared that a 10- or 15-try beating would put your players off rugby forever. No one wants that.”
That’s when I turn and I see Frankie standing behind me with a huge smile on his perfectly round, Galia head.
I’m there, “You focking gamed me.”
He goes, “I know it was you who pushed over the portaloo at the very first Oxegen with me inside it.”
I’m like, “Dude, I have literally no idea what you’re talking about.”
But he just goes, “Payback is shit, huh?”
