YOU wouldn't think it to look at me now - overweight, slowing down - but 30 years ago I was quite a promising rugby player. Not exactly Irish squad level, I hasten to add, but nevertheless quite a useful club performer. I was playing well and averaging a try a game as a speedy, tricky winger.
Of course I was playing on a good team, which was a big help. Just when I was beginning to get a swollen head, my career was shattered in a thousand pieces. Yes, life has a funny way of bringing people down to earth. Never get carried away with your own importance.
I can still remember that autumn day quite clearly. There was a clear blue sky and the sun was shining. It was the start of a new rugby season and the pitch was in perfect condition. No mucky, bald patches, it was like a newly-mown lawn. Ideal for the running game; ideal for me on the wing. Blackrock College was playing St Mary's at home in a "friendly".
Heroic Tackle Attempt Everything was going fine until shortly before half-time. The St Mary's open-side wing forward, a tall, well-built guy who had been causing us a lot of trouble, broke like a rocket from a maul. For some reason or other, there were none of our forwards around to take him down.
Unfortunately, I was the only one in the immediate vicinity and knew I would have to take him. There was no place to hide. I heroically rushed to tackle him. Just as I reached him, be head-butted me in the face. Take my word for it, it was sore, very sore. There was blood all over the place. The brilliant blue sky turned into dark night, full of bright stars. I fell in a heap.
The game was stopped for about 10 minutes. They were looking for a doctor, but, as with policemen, they are never there when you want them. Eventually one of the spectators, a club member, helped me into his car. I was stretched out in the back seat as we rumbled towards the nearest hospital. I can still see the people in the double-decker buses gawking out at the figure covered in blood, laid out in the car. They probably thought I was a murder victim.
We arrived at the hospital, where I was told "not to worry", it's only a broken nose. "You're lucky, it's a clean break," I was assured. I appreciated the assurance, but I couldn't agree that I was exactly lucky. "We'll have you right in a few minutes," said a nurse.
They would do the job there and then by giving me a local anaesthetic and fixing the break.
They put what appeared to be two wires up my nose and asked me to sit down on a chair. Just like being at the dentist, the face would then freeze and they could get working. I think that was supposed to be the modus operandi. I went over to the seat and sat down.
The next thing I remember was waking up on the floor in a pool of blood. Apparently, I had fainted. As the floor was made of marble and my head was not quite as hard, a lot of damage was done. When I regained consciousness, there seemed to be a lot of doctors and nurses around, all very excited. I overheard one doctor remark: "I've never known this to happen before." His more experienced colleague, replied: "Well, I remember when I was in Burma in the '40s, there was a similar case.
Guinea Pig I was centre stage. A kind of guinea pig. A trolley stretcher was rushed into the room, and I was lifted on and express-trained down to casualty. There they inserted 17 stitches into a gaping head wound and told me I also had a suspected fractured skull and was suffering from shock. Yes, they were right there: I was certainly quite shocked. It wasn't every day I experienced such real drama. I had been admitted with a measly broken nose and ended up with 17 stitches, a suspected skull fracture, heavy loss of blood and a deeply shocked nervous system.
To digress, I remember there was a depressing middle-aged man in the ward. Apparently, he had been there a long time, so long in fact that he actually thought he was a doctor and had begun diagnosing everybody's symptoms. There always seems to be someone like him in hospitals. He always had some depressing advice. Like his comment to me: "Yeah, when they say it's a suspected fractured skull, it means they don't know and it probably is a fractured skull." Every night, just before lights-out, this guy used to ask everyone in the ward to close their eyes for a minute. we always complied. One night, with my journalistic curiosity, I decided to peep out and see what was going on. He pulled out one of his eyes and put it into a little black velvet bag. (Yes, you have read that last sentence correctly) He placed it under his pillow. I had never seen anyone with a glass eye before, and the shock nearly gave me a relapse.
Treated like Royalty In spite of nearly killing me on the first day, the hospital treated me like royalty after that and I had a reasonably comfortable two weeks' rest. I think they were afraid that I was going to sue them. It was a less litigious age then; if it happened today, there would be solicitors' letters all over the place. My mortgage would certainly be paid off by now.
A month later, I was astounded when they had the nerve to send me a bill. I sent it back by return post, unpaid. I told them they were lucky I was such an easy-going person and pointed out that a more mercenary-minded hombre would have sued them. Needless to say, the bill didn't come back.
The statute-of-limitations time has long gone, and so has the hospital. It closed down many years ago. But I still have fond memories of it.
Not only did that accident bring an end to a very promising rugby career, but my broken nose meant I was left with a diminished sense of smell. The result of this incapacity is that my wife always insists that I leave my shoes and socks outside the bedroom every night.