The room is absolutely rammers and I’m listening outside the door as various randomers talk s, h, one, t, about me and my famous coaching methods.
“I sent my son to this school,” one dude goes, “because I wanted him to have a good education. There are some of his teachers he hasn’t even met yet.”
I feel like nearly walking in there and reminding him that it’s only October. I feel like pointing out that, when I was at school, there were entire subjects – specifically, physics – that I didn’t even know I did until I got my exam timetable for the Leaving.
The dude isn’t the only one with stories, though.
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I hear one of the mothers then go, “The only thing that Jack even talks about these days is protein. Friday night is pizza night. He won’t eat it any more. He says it’s empty calories. He sits there instead, chewing on a chicken leg and drinking his protein milkshakes.”
There’s, like, lots of sympathetic noises from the other parents. If that’s Jack Ryan-Elms she’s talking about, she has no idea what she has on her hands. He’ll play for Ireland one day and that’s coming from someone who predicted the same for a certain Jonathan Sexton.
Again, I hold my – I think it’s a word – counsel?
Then some random dude goes, “I don’t like who my son has become since he started playing this ... rugby. He’s rude, he’s obnoxious, he’s full of himself. He refuses to do any of his chores.”
Chores? Who are his parents, the focking Dursleys?
He goes, “He walks around the house like he’s the one who paid for it. Feet on the furniture. Won’t speak when spoken to. Giving his little brothers dead legs for no reason at all – or worse, wedgies. Listening to Hitler speeches at full volume while shouting the lines. Our neighbours are German. They can hear him through the walls.”
A semidetached house? Jesus, no one can say rugby discriminates on the grounds of class.
The dude’s like, “Rugby, quite frankly, has turned him into a little yob.”
I give her a wink and she sort of, like, blushes. I’ve always had a way with moms. I’m like a mother-whisperer
— Ross
That ends up being the straw that sends the camel to the chiropractor.
I burst into the room and every single head turns – we’re talking parents and teachers?
Fionn goes, “Ross, you’re not supposed to be here. You were told to recuse yourself from this meeting.”
Recuse? Yeah, like, that’s a word.
“Who the hell is this?” some dude goes. It’s the dude from the semi-d.
I’m like, “Are you Graham Morley’s old man?”
He goes, “Er, yes,” and he says it in a really defensive way.
I’m there, “Your troubles are over. Your son is off the programme. He was rubbish anyway.”
“Ross,” Fionn tries to go, “I’m afraid I must insist that you leave.”
I’m like, “Where’s Jack Ryan-Elms’s old dear?”
A woman puts up her hand.
I’m there, “Your son will play rugby for Ireland one day. I’ve only made that prediction six or seven times about a player and I’ve only been wrong once.”
I was the once.
“But he just walks around the house,” the woman goes, “rifling through the fridge and cupboards, even looking under sofa cushions, for things to eat with protein in them.”
I’m there, “You have no idea of the future that lies in store for you. You’re going to be a Senior Cup mom. That’s going to be lunches three or four times a week. Plus, a whole new wardrobe.”
I give her a wink and she sort of, like, blushes. I’ve always had a way with moms. I’m like a mother-whisperer.
I’m there, “Who was complaining that their son hasn’t met his teachers yet?”
“I said it,” this dude – even younger than me – goes.
I’m there, “And that’s why you sent him to this school, was it?”
He’s like, “I sent him to this school to learn. And, yes, to play rugby, or whatever makes him happy, in his free time.”
I’m there, “Who’s your son?” because he’s about to get cut from the team.
He goes, “Donnacha Price.”
I’m not cutting him. He’s going to be my full-back.
I’m there, “Dude, which would you rather – your son had his head filled with a load of nonsense about novels and calculus and whatever else? Or would you rather see him bring glory upon himself with his brilliance from the tee?”
“Well,” he goes, “I would like both.”
I’m like, “There is no both. We are no longer operating in a world of both. What I would point out is that I have three children of my own in the rugby programme. I haven’t even bought them any of their schoolbooks yet. I spent the money on weights for them. Does that make me a bad parent?”
There’s, like, silence. I don’t push the issue, though. Everyone here knows my boys, if even just by reputation.
I’m happy with what I’ve heard here today. Why don’t we get off this man’s case and let him do his job
— Another dude
Suddenly, some dude in the audience stands up and goes, “I sent my son to this school because of this man. I was one of the lucky ones who saw him play rugby.”
Other supporters of mine stort to find their voices then.
Another dude goes, “We’d be fools to think that this isn’t happening in other schools. There’s one school – I won’t name them – but their first years are running up the Sugar Loaf every weekend with a breeze block under either orm.”
I’m thinking, this is good information for me to have.
The teachers sense that the mood of the meeting is turning. Fionn’s like, “Ross, I expressly told you not to come here today.”
But a woman goes, “You said your own children are in the programme – and I presume they’re going to college one day.”
I’m there, “Absolutely.”
For the record, they have zero chance of going to college. In fact, we spent their college fund on an Aga and a holiday in the Maldives.
“I’m happy with what I’ve heard here today,” another dude goes. “Why don’t we get off this man’s case and let him do his job.”
There’s, like, a roar of approval, followed by a round of applause. I hold up my hand – all pretend modesty.
Then I go, “Who the hell is this? That’s what you asked when I walked into the room,” and I’m talking to the dude from the semi-d, who for some reason is still sitting there, even though his son’s rugby career is over. “I’ll tell you who I am. I’m Ross O’Carroll-Kelly. Now say that back to me so that I know you understand.”
