'What's going on, then? Is it because of Drico doing that TV ad?'

ROSS O'CARROLL-KELLY: Ro wants to quit the 'rubby' for boxing - I have to stop him before he ends up in Club Fed

'HELLO, Mr O'Carroll-Kelly," she goes, and of course I end up nearly looking behind me. She wheels herself over to where I'm standing and I'm like, "I keep telling you, Blathin, it's Ross. Just call me Ross, or even the Rossmeister - any of those . . ." Her face lights up like Colin Farrell having his first fag of the day.

"Oh my God!" she goes. "When he finds out you're here, he's going to be like, Oh! MyGod!"

I smile. Ronan's little girlfriend is blooming into a proper little Mountie right before our eyes. I'm proud of him. Although he could at least acknowledge the fact that I'm here, the fact that I walked across town to - believe it or not - Dorset Street to give him his Lemony for the Italy game.

An hour ago, I didn't even know there wasa Dorset Street.

But no, he doesn't even look up, just keeps shuffling around the floor of the gym, banging away on the heavy bag. He hasgot a decent dig on him, in fairness to him, even though - like any father - I'd prefer to see him using those skills for cleaning out rucks and all the rest.

I thought he was going to be the next Johnny Sexton, though he's got it into his head that he's going to be the next Burden It Dunne. All I can do is accept his decision and hope that a second Grand Slam in two years brings him to his senses.

"So," I go, loud enough to let him know I'm even inthe room? "here we go again! Another Six Nations is upon us! The tension! The scorves! The half-time hipflasks!" It's the mention of hipflasks that suddenly gets his attention. Honestly, who'd be the father of a thirteen-year-old?

He's there, "Howiya, Rosser?" Howiya, Rosser? Eleven grand a term is what I'm paying Castlerock. Still, I let it go. He goes back to hitting the bag and I turn around to Bla.

"I presume yourold man will be glued to it this weekend," I go. "Course he will! Clonskeagh, for fock's sake! And let me tell you, it's all ahead of youas well. Senior Cup. Blahdy blah. Ah, Mount Anville are huge fans of the game. Huge fans of mineas well, back in the day." I flick my thumb in Ronan's direction. " He'sprobably told you one or two of my stories." From her reaction, it's obvious that he hasn't?

"Of course, he's a chip off the old block himself," I go, bulling him up, because Sorcha read somewhere that, like, positive reinforcement of good behaviour is good for kids. "I was the first one to notice - and actually say - that he can pass a rugby ball off both hands better than a lot of players twice his age. Anyway, Ro, I've got your ticket here for Saturday."

He's there, "Nah, you're alreet, Rosser."

I'm like, "Er, excuseme?" That's when he stops thumping the bag again and hits me with the words that every parent must secretly fear.

"See, Ine not really into the rubby any mower."

You can imagine my reaction.

"Are you in some kind of trouble, Ro?"

He's there, "No."

"Well, what's going on, then? Is it because of Drico doing that TV ad for the credit union?"

"No."

"Look, no one's saying it was right what he did. I mean the credit union! God knows I've been trying to steer you away from that kind of life. But just put it out of your mind. Try to remember his heroics last year." He throws another dig at the bag and it, like, wobbles on its chain.

"Sure what's the point in being into the rubby? They doatent even have it in school any mower." That's actually true. Castlerock pulled out of the Leinster Schools Senior Cup last year, claiming that the peer and parental pressures that its players were exposed to were turning them into - get this - monsters.

Er, hello? It never did me any horm.

"I thought I already answered that," I go. "As soon as you finish first year, I'm getting you the fock out of there and sending you to possibly Belvo, or - and Father Fehily will be turning somersaults in the ground hearing me say this - I was even thinking Clongowes."

"Nah," he goes, "Ine after making me moyind up, Rosser - rubby's just not my thing."

I turn around to Bla. I'm like, "He doesn't mean that. Don't tell your mom and dad," remembering that her old man's, like, a doctor.

The next thing I hear is myold man's big trainwreck of a voice echoing around the walls of the gym.

"So," he goes, "here we go again. The pageantry! The Cole Haan camelhairs! The respectful hush that falls over the denizens of Doheny and Nesbitt's of Lower Baggot Street when I make my annual prediction that this - yes this- will be Ireland's year . . ."

I'm there, "You know your grandson just told me he doesn't want his ticket for Saturday?"

"Yes, he seems to think that the old egg-chucking might not be his game - hey ho!"

"Hey ho? So you're, like, cool with that?"

"Well, at first I thought it might have been that Credit Union ad."

"He says it's got nothing to do with the Credit Union ad."

"Well, I tried to explain to him, as gently as I could, that someone like Brian O'Driscoll would have a bankaccount as well. I think they should have been required to point that out in the terms and conditions at the end. This is the greatest rugby player to ever walk the planet. He's not the kind who'll be borrowing 500 quid to buy a sofa in Harvey Norman or follow the Republic of Ireland soccer ladsoff on some damned fool's errand. Something of that order."

Ro looks up and goes, "Howiya, Cheerlie?"

The old man gives him a wave. He's there, "He can really hit that bag, eh, Kicker?

I was telling him the other day about myfather taking me to see Billy 'The Spider' Kelly - quote-unquote - in Donnybrook bus depot, of all places. Oh, this was back in the 50s, Ross."

I'm like, "Whoa, whoa, whoa! Are you saying this is something you're actually encouraging?"

"Well," he has the actual cheek to go, "children should be encouraged to pursue their owndreams - whatever they may be."

I look at Bla. I'm there, "This coming from him. He caught me watching a Gaelic football match when I was eight and grounded me for, like, a month. He asked me did I want grow up to be a farmhand."

"Look," he tries to go, "your mother and I agree we both made mistakes in, well, pushing you into areas where you might not have otherwise gone. Rugby isn't for everyone, Ross."

I just shake my head. "With that attitude," I go, "I won't be surprised if he ends up in Club Fed. Like his granddad, of course."

Of course, he has no answer to that.

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