This is me in my absolute element.
I’m there, “Rugby is a sport in which you travel forwards by going backwards, in which to succeed is to ‘try’ and in which the ball is shaped with the actual intention of breaking your hort.”
There’s, like, 30 kids in front of me, standing around in seven or eight little huddles, and they’re just waiting for the Rossmeister to fill their heads with knowledge. I honestly think I could have been a teacher if I’d been any good at, like, school?
We’re standing in the middle of the newly laid rugby pitch, which the previous principal, the late and not-so-great Tom McGahy – may he burn in hell – turned into a morket gorden after banning the sport from Castlerock.
READ MORE
I’m actually becoming tearful remembering that I’m actually standing in the exact same spot where Fr Fehily stood when I was a first year?
“Rugby,” I go, pretty much channelling the dude, “isn’t the greatest thing. It’s the only thing. You will no doubt have a lot of teachers filling your heads with a load of horseshit about exams and college places and careers. Forget it. Look at me. Everyone, stop talking among yourselves and look at me. I am Ross O’Carroll-Kelly. And I am a prime example of someone who literally didn’t do a tap in school and yet life worked out – you’d have to say – pretty well for me.”
My dad asked me who was coaching us and I told him you and he said he’d never heard of you
— Some kid
I hear one kid turn around to my son, Johnny, and go, “Is that your old man?”
And it breaks my – literally? – hort when I hear Johnny go, “No – don’t know who he is.”
The other kid goes, “It’s just that he has, like, the same name as you? And your brothers.”
And Leo – of all people – goes, “Yeah, no, it’s just, like, a coincidence?”
I ignore it and carry on regordless.
I’m there, “I know it’s hord to, like, picture yourselves in the year, I don’t know, 2031. But I can picture you. Right now. You’re at the RDS and you’re lifting the Leinster Schools Senior Cup. All of you, close your eyes and visualise it.”
No one closes their eyes. I might as well be talking to the wall.
I’m there, “So you probably want to know a little bit about me. Well, I was once described by Tony Ward as a once-in-a-generation talent and by Gerry Thornley as the future of Irish rugby.”
“Did you, like, play for Ireland?” one kid goes.
“Sadly not,” I go, “due to a combination of injuries, bad luck and telling Warren Gatland that he knew fock-all about rugby one night in the Berkeley Court with a few drinks on me.”
“If you were so good,” the same kid goes, “how come none of us has ever heard of you?”
I’m there, “I’ve just given you my reasons.”
Another kid goes, “My dad asked me who was coaching us and I told him you and he said he’d never heard of you.”
I’m like, “Then he clearly doesn’t know his rugby history.”
I notice that Brian is showing another kid something on his phone. The two of them stort laughing.
I’m there, “Dude, put your phone away.”
Then they all stort doing impressions of me, going, “Dude, put your phone away,” like I’m some kind of joke figure.
I’m there, “Other interesting facts about me, I hold the records for most points scored and most tries scored in a Leinster Schools Senior Cup campaign. Those records will probably never be broken.”
“This is boring,” some kid goes – even though it’s anything but.
I’m there, “I played as a hooker for Seapoint when I made my comeback to rugby at the age of 36 and I kicked the conversion to stop them being relegated to Division 2C of the All Ireland League. It still gets talked about.”
“Do you know Johnny Sexton?” another kid goes.
I’m there, “Yes, I do know Johnny Sexton. As a matter of fact, he always considered me a bit of a guru. He’d tell you that himself if he was stood here.”
“Could you ask him to coach us?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m coaching you.”
“You don’t even know him.”
“Yes, I do.”
“You’re a liar.”
“I’m not a liar.”
I wasn’t crying – except maybe a little bit
One of the kids grabs the sack of rugby balls and empties it on to the ground. They all make a grab for them, but I push them back and I’m like, “To hold a rugby ball is a privilege that you haven’t yet earned,” giving them big-time Joe Schmidt vibes.
“How long are we going to have to stand here listening to this loser?” another kid goes.
That’s the line that ends up snapping my crayons.
I’m like, “Loser? A loser, am I?”
I pick up a rugby ball, turn on my heel and I walk away from them.
I can hear them behind me, going, “Was he crying? I think he was crying!”
I wasn’t crying – except maybe a little bit.
Then I hear the shouts of, “Loser!”
They’re not expecting what happens next. When I reach the sideline, I stop and I turn around. I stort kicking at the ground to make a dent in it.
“The fock is he doing?” I hear Brian go.
I bend down and I place the ball in it. I take four steps backwards, then three to the side. I run my hand through my hair. Then I look from the ball to the posts, then back to the ball, then back to the posts again.
I hear one kid go, “There’s no way he’s going to put that over,” because I’m on the halfway line.
I run my hand through my hair again, then I run at the ball and I send it sailing through the air and through the famous chopsticks.
Everyone’s like, “Whoa! Did you see that?”
Johnny goes, “That’s my old man.”
And I’m there, “Now you know who I am. So let’s train.”
