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Life with Ross
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Ross’s Log
I had poitin in the hipflask. The old man is hammered. We’re in the RBS hospitality tent at Croke Park. The old man is singing…
I’m cracking my hole laughing. The old man can hordly stand. He’s heckling Neil Francis’s speech now. I haven’t touched a drop…
I watch the old man stagger out onto the pitch at half-time. He kicks the ball and it wobbles like a shot duck. Doesn’t reach the posts.
I spot the ball, take four steps backwards, three to the left. Do you even need to ask what happens next?
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Ross’s Log
I’m suddently kicking like ROG, remembering what it was like to be the actual best again.
I thank Brother Benedict, then point the cor back in the direction of Dublin. I think, look out for my pretty face at Croker tomorrow…
I walk through the front door. The old man goes, “Big day tomorrow, eh? O’Carroll-Kelly and son, showing the world what we can do.”
I whip out the hipflask my old man bought me for my 18th. “Let’s have a nip of this,” I go. “Good brekky – set us up for the day.”
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Ross’s Log
I’m staring at this stranger. “Brother Benedict,” he goes. “An old friend of Denis Fehily’s. What way are you kicking that ball at all?”
I tell him about the All Blacks. How I haven’t taken a kick in a high pressure situation for, like, ten years. How I’m kacking myself…
I look away. “But I saw you play,” the Brother goes. “A man with your talent should never be afraid. What would Denis say?”
I shrug. “You’re not addressing the ball with the confidence of a man who was once the best outhalf in Ireland,” he goes. “Try again.”
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Ross’s Log
I’m on my way to Thomond when my old man rings. “Eighty-eight percent accuracy with my kicking,” he goes. “And I’ve other news…”
I’m not ready to hear this. The old man goes, “I think your mother and I are falling in love again.” I nearly drive into an actual wall…
There is, like, a gale blowing in my face. Four steps backwards, three to the left, hand through the hair and kick…
I watch another ball sail wide. “There he is,” I hear a voice go. “The great Ross O’Carroll-Kelly!”
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Ross’s Log
I’m on the road to, like, Limerick, home of Munster rugby, to try to rediscover my kicking mojo…
Arrive in Limerick and it’s, like, way scarier in real life than it looks on the news. Does anyone know if there’s a Four Seasons?
I just caught the squad for the NZ match on the radio. I’m not in it. No surprise there – though I’ll never give up the dream…
I’ve just discovered there’s no, like, Four Seasons in Limerick. I’m driving around. Does anyone know anywhere that’s even, like four stor?
I hop in a Jo Maxi, head for Thomond Pork. I walk around it once or twice. You have to hand it to them – it’s some pile of bricks!
I decide that I’m going to buy, like, a rugby ball – get in there, take some kicks…
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Ross’s Log
I wake up with an epiphany – which isn’t slang for anything. Means I realise that to improve my kicking, I can’t stick around here.
I need to take a leaf out of Declan Kidney’s book. I need to go to Munster – dangerous as that sounds – and relearn my craft.
I decide – this morning I leave for Limerick. Being around my old pair is making me ill anyway.
I’m asking various people I know which road it is leads to, like, Limerick…
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Ross’s Log
The old dear’s wearing a cast right up to her knee, milking it now.
I’m on the phone talking to Ro – he’s Keith Flint. Hasn’t done any business since Sorcha’s protest storted. Worse, the horse has put on two stone…
I tell him he did his best, but the girl has a mind of her own. I go, “Why do you think our marriage failed?”
I’m watching the old dear, lying on the chaise, playing the whole sympathy card. The old man’s brought her breakfast from the Handweavers…
I’m watching the old man put a cold compress on the old dear’s forehead and talk about her – and I quote – ‘anky wankle’
I’m thinking, I’m basically responsible for bringing my old pair closer again. How, like, focked up is that?
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Things go bump in the night
I’m awoken in the middle of the night by a scream. Then I hear bump, bump, bump, bump, bump…
I go back to sleep with a smile on my boat. When I eventually surface, I notice that the old dear is hobbling around the kitchen.
I’m there, “What the fock happened to you?” The old man answers for her. “Took a bit of a spill. Bloody woodworm – ate right through that floorboard. Still, I’m going to be waiting on her hand and foot – isn’t that right, Fionnuala?”
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Ross’s Log
I end up having a nightmare, where my old man shows me up in front of, like, 80,000 rugby fans. Then I realise, roysh, I’m not even asleep…
He knocks on my door and asks me if I fancy training with him today. I tell him to fock off. “Tremendous,” he goes. “Touch of the old friendly rivalry, eh?”
I hear the old man arrive back home, totally full of it. “I’m happy to report,” he goes, “that yesterday was no fluke. I’ve still got the old magic.”
I think, I’ll fix you…
I grab the old man’s hammer and rip up one of the floorboards at the top of the stairs. Then I take the bulb out of the light on the landing…
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Every day Ross will be keeping the world informed on the rich tapestry of his life via Facebook, Bebo and Twitter. You can follow all Ross's musings here, and read his reflections on the week's events every Saturday.
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