Sorcha says she’s – oh my God – so excited about Saturday and I tell her I am too.
She goes, “These are the moments, aren’t they?”
Which is random because she’s hasn’t shown the slightest flicker of interest in rugby since she thought Rob Kearney gave her a smile and a wave at Taste of Dublin the year before the pandemic and I didn’t have the hort to tell her that he was smiling and waving at me.
I’m like, “They certainly are the moments?” Although I’m not going to lie. I’m nervous. Which is not usually like me when it comes to The Ster. I don’t know if I could take a repeat of the Toulon match in terms of, like, tension?”
READ MORE
She looks at me with the same blank-faced expression that I give her when she storts talking about the Saturday morning traffic on Rochestown Avenue. And that’s when I realise that we’re – yeah, no, I think it’s a phrase – talking at cross porpoises?
“Ross,” she goes, “I’m talking about our anniversary. We’re having dinner with my mom and dad.”
I’m there, “Oh, that. Yeah, no, I hadn’t forgotten.”
I actually hadn’t because I don’t remember being told about it in the first place.
I’m there, “So, er, what anniversary is it again? As in, like, what number?”
She’s like, “It’s our 21st anniversary, Ross.”
I’m there, “Are you sure–?”
And she goes, “Oh, I’m sure – because it’s exactly one year to the week since you forgot our 20th wedding anniversary.”
“What I was going to ask, Sorcha, was, well, is that a biggie?”
“A biggie?”
“Well, you always hear people banging on about their 10th, 20th, or even 25th wedding anniversaries. When did the 21st become a thing? People always end up going over the top, don’t they?”
“Ross, it’s well-known thing. Twenty-one is brass or nickel, by the way – just in case you’re thinking in terms of a present.”
Sorcha is surprisingly fast for a girl who never played sport in her life
“But the European Cup final is on. It’s Leinster against Bordeaux.”
“Is it afternoon or evening?”
“Afternoon.”
“That’s okay then. The dinner isn’t until eight. You can still watch your match with your pals. Drink zero-alcohol beer, though.”
It’s like the girl has had a head injury and she thinks we’ve only just met.
I’m there, “Sorcha, the match is in Bilbao.”
She goes, “Bilbao? In Spain?”
“So I’m told, yeah.”
“And, what, you were planning to go?”
“Not were, babes – am? I’m leaving for the airport in, like, 20 minutes.”
“No, Ross, you’re not. We’re having dinner with my parents in Chapter One.”
“Sorcha, much as I hate repeating myself, it’s the European Cup final.”
“Ross, it’s a very simple choice. It’s me or it’s Leinster. You decide.”
She watches as my eyes slide towards my cor keys on the kitchen island. I try to make a grab for them, except she throws her orms around my waist and tackles me to the floor like – and this is a compliment to the girl – Maxime Lamothe.
I’d nearly say it was textbook.
She pockets my keys as I climb to my feet again.
I’m there, “Sorcha, would it be the hordest thing in the world to write out the Leinster and Ireland fixtures and stick them on the fridge door like normal families do?”
She goes, “Ross, you’re not going to Bilbao and that’s that.”
“But I’ve never missed Leinster in a European final. The goys are all going.”
“The goys can do what they want.”
“But it’s Leinster.”
“I couldn’t care less that it’s Leinster.”
“You weren’t saying that when Rob Kearney gave you a smile and a wave at Taste of Dublin pre-Covid.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“You got all giggly like you do when you’ve had the third prosecco. And I wasn’t going to do this, Sorcha, but you’ve kind of forced my hand – he was smiling and waving at me.”
“No, he wasn’t.”
“Sorcha, he named me on his Leinster XV of players he can’t believe never actually made it in the game. This was on a bus to Ravenhill. Fergus McFadden told me. He was sitting beside him.”
Sorcha looks crushed. She tells that Rob Kearney anecdote pretty much every time rugby gets mentioned – which, you can probably imagine, is a lot of times in this house.
Well, she can retire the story now.
You might as well go to the airport, JP. He’s not going to Bilbao
— Sorcha
I’m there, “Twenty-first wedding anniversary. People need to cop on.”
She goes, “Ross, you can watch your match here and then we’ll go out to dinner.”
I hear a cor pulling up outside. It’s JP. Yeah, no, I pocket-dialled his number when Sorcha mentioned zero-alcohol beers. I knew he’d hear the conversation and know to come.
Rugby. I’ve said it before and I’ll go on saying it.
I make a run for the front door. A lot gets mentioned about my explosive pace from a standing stort, but Sorcha is surprisingly fast for a girl who never played sport in her life, except if you count tag rugby when she worked for LinkedIn, which – let’s not sugar-coat it – nobody does.
She tap-tackles me – again, full morks for technique – and after I crash to the floor in the hallway, she locks the front door and shouts through the letter box, “You might as well go to the airport, JP. He’s not going to Bilbao.”
I pick myself up and I limp up the stairs.
Sorcha goes, “You made the right choice, Ross – our marriage over Leinster.”
I’m there, “Yeah, no, fair focks – you win.”
But five minutes later, I’m swinging my leg out of our bedroom window and telling JP to open the front passenger door and keep the engine ticking over. I’m thinking about Leo Cullen saying recently that the fans will be Leinster’s 16th man against Bordeaux. That’s as close to a place in the storting XV as I’m ever likely to get.
I throw my Dubes down on to the gravel below me, then I climb down the wall trellis that – talk about korma – I bought for Sorcha as a present for our fifth wedding anniversary.
Fifth is wood, by the way.
