They stagger out onto the pitch in two or three different huddles, their orms folded against the cold of a horrible January morning.
I’m there, “Welcome back, ladies! Hope you had a good Christmas!” and they’re all, like, hating on me for my – yeah, no – cheeriness?
The first training session of the year was always my favourite, but not so with these girls.
“I can’t focking believe we’re doing this,” Tien Lockridge – our number eight – goes. “It’s, like, one degree or something.”
‘I remember Past Ross thinking, you need to stort being nicer to Future Ross. He’s a genuinely good bloke’
‘Sorcha, I’m wondering is climate justice maybe a bit above Santa’s pay grade?’
Sorcha goes, ‘I make no apologies for saying it, Honor. You are a danger to democracy’
‘When they see the copper, the triplets think it’s about them gobbing on the cauliflower and turmeric latte crowd - which I’m not even sure is a crime’
And I’m there, “Then you won’t object to doing four laps of the pitch to warm yourselves up. Off you go – all of you.”
They do what they’re told but they’re not loving it? I hear quite a few “Oh my Gods,” and they don’t mean it in a good way. But I have a major, major surprise for them this morning. When the last of the stragglers finishes their run, I gather them all together in a circle.
I’m there, “Newpork Comprehensive,” and their heads immediately drop. They don’t like being reminded about what happened before Christmas. “Newpork. Comprehensive. Two words that should fill you all with embarrassment. Because they beat you. Not at swimming. Or at debating. Or at, I don’t know, chamber singing. They beat you at rugby.”
Not one of them can look me in the eye.
At the top of my voice, I go, “Rrrrrrrugby!” and I roll the R like my old man in the Horseshoe Bor with eight measures of Courvoisier inside him.
Finally, one of them looks up. It’s, like, Angelisa Gunning – our number 10. She goes, “They wouldn’t beat us again,” but she sort of, like, says it under her breath. “We’d destroy them next time.”
What I’m looking for here is not just accuracy with the boot. I’m looking for someone brave enough to step forward. I’m looking for the girl who’s going to be our captain
I’m there, “What was that? Say it loud enough for everyone in the group to hear.”
“We just had an off day,” she goes. “We’d beat them if we ever played them again.”
I’m there, “That’s good to hear – because we ore playing them again?”
It’s, like, a definite mic drop moment. They’re all like, “Excuse me?” and you can actually hear the excitement in their voices.
I’m there, “They’ve agreed to a rematch.”
“When?” Shosh Birney – our scrum-half – goes.
I’m there, “On the most sacred day of the rugby year. We’re talking the 17th of Morch.”
“Oh my God!” they all stort going – except this time in a good way? “Oh! My actual! God!”
I’m there, “This is, like, your equivalent of a Leinster Schools Senior Cup final. Now obviously there’s going to be a lot of pressure on you from, like, teachers, parents and blah, blah, blah, to focus on your schoolwork over the next few weeks. But you don’t need me to tell you that this match is, like, way more important than school. Now let’s train.”
Which is what they end up doing. They put in, like, two hours of solid work. No one complains. No one hides. I’m watching them work and I’m thinking how un-focking-believable it is that one of the provinces has never added me to their coaching ticket.
Eventually, I call time on the session, then I gather them all together again.
I’m there, “Okay, we’re going to finish with a game,” and I tell each and every one of them to pick up a rugby ball, which they do.
I’m there, “Right – does everyone see that Hyundai IONIQ 5 over there?” and they all follow my gaze to Fionn’s cor, which is – hilariously – plugged in and chorging.
They’re all like, “Er – yeah?” because it’s maybe a hundred feet from where we’re all standing.
I’m there, “I want you to kick the ball out of your hands and see can you land it through the open sunroof.”
Yeah, no, Fionn has this thing about fresh air. He’s the kind of dude who insists on opening the window on the Dort on cold and pissy mornings. I don’t know how he hasn’t been lynched.
“That’s the principal’s cor,” Shosh Birney goes.
I’m there, “So?” because what I’m looking for here is not just accuracy with the boot. I’m looking for someone brave enough to step forward. I’m looking for the girl who’s going to be our captain.
“It’s just that, well, we don’t want to get into trouble,” Tien Lockridge goes.
I’m there, “You won’t get into trouble. You’re on the school rugby team.”
But not one of them steps forward – which disappoints me, it has to be said.
Ten seconds later, of course, Fionn steps out of the school to find out what the fock. He switches off the alorm, then tips over to us. He looks at me and goes, ‘Did you do that?’
So I pick up a ball and I go, “Watch the master in action,” because I actually taught Ian Madigan this trick. I used to bet him that I could land the ball through the sunroof of Sean O’Brien’s Kia Sorento and I ended up taking quite a bit of money off the dude before I was banned from the Leinster training ground.
I launch the ball high into the air and it comes down a little short of the torget, bouncing off the roof and – fock it – setting off the alorm.
All of the girls look instantly worried. If women’s rugby is ever going to be treated as seriously as men’s, they’re going to have to embrace the whole obnoxiousness thing.
Ten seconds later, of course, Fionn steps out of the school to find out what the fock. He switches off the alorm, then tips over to us. He looks at me and goes, “Did you do that?”
I’m there, “Yeah, no, it usually takes me two or three goes to find my range.”
He’s like, “Why aren’t these girls in class?”
I’m there, “Newpork have offered us a rematch.”
He reacts like this means literally nothing to him. He goes, “Rugby training is for one hour – before school storts. Get to your classes, all of you.”
He turns around and walks back to his cor. He unplugs the thing, then gets into it to drive it to his regular porking space.
It’s at that exact moment that Angelisa Gunning steps forward and launches her ball into the air with her boot. We all look up and follow its – I want to say – trajectory? It sails through the air before dropping, like a hole-in-one, through the sunroof of Fionn’s so-called cor.
It’s obviously a surprise to him because he ends up not applying the brake in time and driving straight into a focking wall. I watch Angelisa punch the air the same way I used to back in the day. And I know in that moment that I’ve found my captain.
