JP mentions that Chloe is penning a novel relating to her university years, expressing a hope that Chloe could do for DBS what Sally Rooney achieved for Trinity. I expressed my bemusement, questioning the sanity of such an endeavour. Yet, JP, seemingly clueless, reiterated her mindset as though it was something praiseworthy, which momentarily caught me off guard.
As we sat there, JP’s gaze rested on me as though I was revelling in some vulgar entertainment featuring his mother. Sorcha suddenly brought up the topic of a menage a trois, questioning my assumption of her interest in such an act. Change, declared the elderly man, had been sweeping since our school years, with a newfound hostility towards traditional media.
The contest kicked off, with participants being instructed to remove a sock and place it into the beer glass in front of them on the table. This took place last weekend at The Bridge, post a defeat of Munster, with the rest of the Saturday night stretching out before us like Yolanda Adams languishing on a reclining chair.
I then suggested there might be a character in Chloe’s book based on me, having shared a few scenes with her in the past. JP’s response was sceptical, as the recollection stirred discomfort in him. He was quick to dismiss the possibility, comparing our relationship to that of Connell and Marianne. Yet, unfazed, I encouraged him to keep harbouring that thought.
Switching the topic, JP inquired about Sorcha. Startling him, I mentioned she disclosed her desire for another child recently, likening it to adding another skillet to our growing collection. Aghast, JP reminded me of our advancing age, urging me to dissuade Sorcha. Confirming our age bracket, I assured him that I was already working on it.
Finally, enquiring about the boys, he received news that while there were no severe concerns, their lacklustrre performance in rugby was undeniably disappointing. I concurred, labelling it the worst nightmare for any parent.
Indeed, I ferry my sons to Wanderer’s training every Saturday morning, but they exhibit little interest. Mick Stelfox, a former Mary’s player you likely remember, acts as their coach. He occasionally offers a glance my way that seems to suggest, perhaps talent doesn’t always pass from parent to child.
“I’m rather sorry you are faced with this situation.”
The silver lining, herein, might be the possibility of another son whom I focuses strictly on developing him into a pro rugby player. It could even serve as an inspiration for the other three lads. Whose turn is to buy the round?
“Indeed it is my turn.”
“Afterward, I experienced nightmares for weeks on end,” exclaims Oisinn, which seems rather exaggerated, don’t you think?
He motions to Jamie for two additional servings of the local Amsterdamage brew.
I pointedly remark, “The issue is technology, mate. They’re completely consumed.”
He responds with a perplexed look “Is there nothing we can do?”
“Last weekend’s performance was so poor that I was tempted to revert to my old technique of, sending anonymous post with chicken feathers in it.”
“Excuse me?” he interjects, looking quite surprised. For a moment, it looks like I confessed to following his mother’s OnlyFans account.
“Indeed it was you!” He exclaims.
I acted oblivious, “What exactly was I responsible for?”
“Back in our final school year, I received an anonymous parcel of chicken feathers.”
“Didn’t I admit to that?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Well, you missed that high ball against Belvo in a tense moment. I figured a little shock therapy might help you concentrate.”
For a moment, he just looks into the void with a stunned expression. “I can’t believe it was you.”
And so I responded, “Mate, you never missed another ball for the duration of your school career, you should be thanking me.”
And please, lads, spare me your attempt to lay a guilt trip. I certainly didn’t enjoy resorting to such methods. Might I remind you, none of you would own a Leinster Schools Senior Cup medal if not for me?
Just as the conversation takes this turn, Christian appears, looking utterly cheery.
He enthusiastically comments, “I hear you and Sorcha are considering adding another bundle of joy to your family – ”
“I’m quite certain we are not intending to strive for another thing of any sort”
“That’s comforting. I was about to mention. Given your age? Are you feeling okay, JP?”
Then JP says, “Ross once sent me chicken feathers through the mail.”
Christian responds with a puzzled “Pardon?” since it’s clearly odd. “When did this occur?”
JP answers, “During our Senior Cup year.”
My response was, “I believed I had indeed informed you that it was I who did it.”
Now it was Christian’s turn to be taken aback.
He asks, “Did someone send me chicken feathers via post after I conceded a penalty against Michael’s?”
My response was, “That was a careless penalty to concede, Mate – just straight in front of the goals.”
“It was you who did that?” He asks.
“Lads, I was your leader. Spurring you on was my duty.”
“My father reported it to the police.”
“Seems like they can finally wrap up the case.”
“I’ve been troubled by that for 25 years. Who could despise me so much to send me chicken feathers via post?
“At least,” I say, “you were arguably our top player that year – after yours truly, of course.”
That’s when Oisinn finally decides to make an appearance.
He brings up the topic, “Splendid outcome today.”
My response was, “It wasn’t even a contest.”
Then he asks, “JP, I hear Chloe is penning a book about her university years.”
And my response was, “She aims to achieve for DBS what Sally Rooney accomplished for Trinity.”
He questions, “Why would anyone aspire to replicate that?”
And I retort, “Mate, you just voiced my thoughts.”
JP isn’t quite over the feathers issue yet. He asks, “Oisinn, did you ever receive chicken feathers in the mail?”
I said, “This is beginning to feel like a witch hunt.”
Oisinn responds, “Once. When we squared off with Gonzaga back then. I was penalised thrice for causing the scrum to collapse.”
JP then informs him, “Just so you know, it was Ross who mailed them.”
Oisinn, quite shocked, exclaims, “What?” He gives a rather exaggerated reaction. “You?”
And I’m standing there saying, “Lads, I truly believed you were all aware of this.”
“A few weeks on, Oisinn was still being tormented by nightmares,” he confessed, a bit dramatically if you ask me.
So I reminded him, “But remember how you made it to the Irish schools team that summer? Even though shingles kept you from travelling to Argentina.”
The three of them stood there, dumbstruck.
Attempting to keep a light tone, I added, “Don’t you all start accusing me of guilt-inducing you. Believe me, I wasn’t thrilled having to do everything. Had it not been for me, none of you would be brandishing a Leinster Schools Senior Cup medal.”
That’s when Fionn finally joined us – notorious as he is for being the last one to arrive just to avoid buying his round.
He greeted with, “Hello, everyone. Hello, Ross, I heard some whispers about Sorcha wanting another child.”
Taken aback, I questioned, “Has she blurted this out on Instagram?”
Denying my assumption, he replied, “No, it actually came up in conversation earlier. What’s with the funereal silence, though?”
To which JP queried, “Fionn, did you ever receive chicken feathers in the post?”
Whilst finishing the remains of my pint, I listened to his response.
“Indeed, during our school days. More than once, actually.”
Feeling somewhat sullen, I announced, “You know what, chaps? I think I best be off. Tonight just isn’t my night.”