'My son’s nickname is Manslaughter. I won’t be mentioning that at Castlerock'

So I’m making my way to my seat in the cor pork of the Broken Orms pub when I spot a familiar face in the crowd – it’s, like, Gorda O’Floinn, as in the local Youth Diversion Officer? He recognises me as well, which shouldn’t come as any great surprise. I spent so much time talking to him when Ronan was growing up that I nearly asked him to be my best man.

“Rob O’Carroll-Kelly,” he goes.

I'm there, "It's actually Ross O'Carroll-Kelly?"

Finglas isn’t what you’d call a rugby town.

“Ross,” he goes. “That’s right. God, how long has it been?”

I’m there, “I was just wondering the same thing – although it seems like only yesterday that Ronan was shouting, ‘Go back to Templemore, you fooken Fascist!’ at you outside the courthouse on Porkgate Street.”

Gorda O'Floinn chuckles – I suppose the word would be fondly? "He was a wild one alright," he goes. "Oh, there's no doubt about that."

It has to be said that Gorda O'Floinn was always sound – think Officer Krupke except with George Webbs and a Leitrim accent.

“Well,” I go, “you predicted that no good would come of my son – and you were bang on, in fairness to you.”

He looks at me like he thinks I’m mad. He’s like, “What are you talking about at all?”

“What am I talking about?” I go, having to laugh. “He’s about to fight someone called Sos Redmond in a cage in a pub cor pork.”

All around me, by the way, people are changing, "Ro! Nan! Ro! Nan! Ro! Nan!"

He goes, “Trust, me, there’s worse things he could be doing.”

I’m like, “Well, I hope it’ll just be the usual caution – provided he doesn’t resist arrest. The old red mist still falls whenever he sees a man in uniform. Try to ignore whatever he calls you. Maybe stick the cuffs on him as well.”

“Cuffs? What are you talking about?”

“Er, I presume you’re here to break up the fight?”

He laughs in my actual face. "Not at all," he goes, "I'm here to watch the fight."

I’m like, “Watch it?”

“Watch it, like everyone else. You must be very proud of him altogether.”

“Er, not really, no.”

“Well, you should be. He’s a hero in this community. We’re very lucky to have him. Young people need positive role models – believe me, I see it every day in my work.”

"Dude, I can't believe that what's about to happen here is actually legal. It's basically a bor fight, al fresco?"

The next thing we hear is all this, like, booing? Sos Redmond is making his way to the cage.

“I hope he pucks the head off you,” someone behind me shouts. “I hope he sends you back to Blanchardstown in an ambulance.” Then he fires a plastic cup full of beer through the air and it explodes off the wire cage.

“Calm down, Father!” Gorda O’Floinn goes. “It’s only a game!”

I turn my head and I literally can’t believe my eyes. It’s Father Gibbs, the local priest, who, only a few years ago, was preparing Ronan for his Confirmation.

“Father,” Gorda O’Floinn goes, “have you met Ronan’s dad?”

“Oh, yes,” the priest goes, instantly remembering my face. “Ron O’Carroll-Kelly, isn’t it?”

Rugby could do a lot for this town.

"Ross," I go. "And I can't believe you're in favour of what's happening here as well."

He’s like, “Your son is one of the best things that has ever happened to this area! He is a wonderful young man who has given people pride in their community!”

A voice comes through the speakers. It’s like, “Laaadieees and gentlemeeen, will you please welcome to the octagon, Ronaaan! ‘Maaanslaaaughter’! Maaasters!”

The place goes literally ballistic, as Ronan walks to the cage, all business. Into it he goes. He points at Sos Redmond and he tells him that he's going to boorst him and Sos Redmond says, no, he's the one who's going to end up getting boorst here today, then Ronan says he won't be getting boorst, because he'll be too busy pucking the lug off him.

And all I can think, while this fascinating exchange is taking place, is that my son’s nickname is Manslaughter.

I won't be mentioning that at the next Castlerock College Old Boys Reunion.

Suddenly, the fight has storted. Ronan chorges straight across the cage and decks Sos with a punch that I end up nearly feeling, standing 30ft back from where it actually lands.

It's like, Crrraaaccckkk! and down he goes.

“Lights out!” Father Gibbs shouts. “Say goodnight, Gracie!”

Gorda O’Floinn turns to him. He’s like, “Have you him backed?”

The priest goes, “I’ve 500 on him at evens.”

“You were very lucky to get him at evens.”

Sos gets up, but Ronan floors him again, this time with a punch to the ribs, followed by a kick to the jaw. But this time Sos is up straight away and he panels Ro with a punch that catches him, like, unawares?

Ro staggers backwards against the far wall of the cage, trying to cover up, while Sos rains punches down on him. And then, from out of nowhere, Sos produces the most unbelievable roundhouse kick that puts Ro down.

The crowd are suddenly screaming at him to get up. They're all like, "Gerrupta fook ourra that!" We're talking men and woman, we're taking young and old, getting totally sucked in by, I don't know, the brutality of the violence? "Battor dum, Ronan! Battor the doorty pox!"

Sos bears down on him, trying to choose the punch that'll put my son into Connolly Hopsital for a month. But then Ro suddenly manages to wrap his legs around Sos's neck and the crowd goes bananas. Sos's orms go limp and his eyes stort practically popping out of his head?

Gorda O’Floinn slaps me on the back. “He has him!” he goes. “He won’t let go until the fella taps out!”

But all I can hear is a voice shouting, “Kill! Kill! Kill! Kill!”

I turn around, presuming at first that it’s Father Gibbs. He’s got money riding on it, bear in mind. But then I realise, with a shock that almost stops my hort, that the voice is mine.

ILLUSTRATION: ALAN CLARKE