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The pork is packed and the air filled with the excited chatter of kids who are just happy to be back playing rugby again. They’ve all been sorted into, like, pods and they’re flinging those Gilberts around like the pandemic never even happened.
All eyes are on Hugo Blake-Fox, who's the most talented kid I've seen with a rugby ball since – let's be honest here – me? He's, like, bombing around the pitch, evading tackles, selling dummies and burning off all the other kids with his pace.
"A great little player, isn't he?" Morcus Bellamy, the father of two boys in my children's pod, goes. "His dad put €1,000 on him at odds of 1,000 to 1 that he'll play for Ireland by the age of 21."
And I’m like, “Money in the bank, Marcus. Money in the bank.”
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Meanwhile, I'm looking at my own kids. It's no wonder Hugo's old man didn't want them in his son's pod. Johnny is picking his nose and eating it, Brian is talking to a ladybird that he picked up off the ground and Leo is walking around in circles, singing Baby Shork to himself.
It's the first principle of rugby – you get the ball to the flair players and let them do their thing
“Okay,” I go, clapping my hands together, “Brian, let the ladybird go! Johnny, the finger buffet is closed! Let’s play some actual rugby!”
“Just before we do,” Morcus goes, “wearing my Covid supervisor hat here, can I ask to see your signed confirmation, Ross, that all of the answers you gave in response to the health questionnaire at the stort of the year are still correct as of today?”
I’m there, “I showed you the screenshot, Morcus.”
“Did you?”
"Er, it was, like, five minutes ago? In the actual cor pork?"
“I remember you showing me a video of an elephant playing cricket.”
“And then afterwards I showed you the confirmation form.”
“Well, I’d like to see it again.”
And I’m there, “But I left my phone in the cor,” because there’s, like, no pockets in the shorts I’m wearing, which is one of the reasons they’re so flattering.
“I’m sorry,” he goes, “it’s for everyone’s safety.”
So I end up having no choice but to head back to the cor to grab my phone. As I’m walking back again, I notice Hugo Blake-Fox play this unbelievable no-look, one-handed pass to one of the other kids in his pod. All of the mums and dads watching stort clapping and I’m thinking about how much Brian, Johnny and Leo could benefit from playing with someone of his ability.
When I arrive back, my three sons are rolling around on the ground, thumping the heads off each other. None of the other parents in our pod is saying a word to them. I flash my phone at Morcus, then I go to break up the fight. It’s like separating frozen sausages – there’s a fair bit of pulling and twisting involved, but I finally manage to get my fingers between them and snap them aport.
“Okay,” Morcus goes, finally satisfied. “Like Ross said, let’s play some rugby. And remember, boys, make sure you pass to everyone – don’t leave anyone out.”
I’m like, “Excuse me?” and I can hear the actual disbelief in my voice. “What did you just say?”
“It’s important,” he goes – and I’m giving you this word for word, “that all of the boys get to hold the ball for an equal amount of time.”
I’m like, “It’s not pass the porcel, Morcus. It’s the first principle of rugby – you get the ball to the flair players and let them do their thing.”
"They never pass the ball to my son," Susan Franks, mother of Henry, suddenly pipes up.
I’m there, “Well, he’s hordly a flair player, is he? He drops the ball every time someone is dumb enough to give it to him.”
“Calm down, Ross,” Morcus goes, trying to make out that I’m one of those pushy rugby dads you hear about. “We don’t want to discourage them by denying them the ball.”
I’m there, “Rugby is not just about having the ball. You can have the game of your life without ever touching it.”
"I think it's fairer," Adam Cotter – one of the other dads – goes, "if everyone gets to have a little hold."
“Sorry,” I suddenly hear myself go, “have any of you ever coached at the highest level?”
The answer in all three cases is an obvious no, but they all just look at each other, mystified as to why that should stop them passing on ideas that could destroy my children’s development as players.
I'm there, "I recently coached Pres Bray to their first Leinster Schools Senior Cup win since 1932 and I also coached at international level with Andorra. I shouldn't have to read out my CV to you people."
"Well, if you've done all the coaching that you say you've done," Susan Franks goes, "then you should know that everyone needs to have a go of the ball."
I hear a cheer behind me and then a round of applause. Hugo is working his magic again. That’s it, I think. I turn on my heel and I morch straight over to James Blake-Fox, his old man.
I’m there, “Would you mind if my boys joined this pod? They’re with a bunch of losers over there.”
He goes, “They’re supposed to stick to their appointed groups – health and safety”, and he won’t even look at me.
I’m like, “What’s your problem? I specifically moved them into the Blue pod so they could play with Hugo, but you moved Hugo into Black. Then I moved my boys to Black and you moved Hugo to Orange. What, do you think they’ll drag his standard down?”
“That had nothing to do with rugby,” he goes.
Then – proud dad – I tip back over and try to pull them aport again
I’m like, “So why are you so determined to keep him away from Brian, Johnny and Leo?”
“Because they’re the most badly behaved children I’ve ever met,” he goes.
I notice one or two other dads nodding in agreement.
He’s like, “They swear, they spit, they’re violent.”
I look over my shoulder and I notice that the three of them are rolling around on the ground again, killing each other.
“So it has absolutely nothing to do with them being shit at rugby?” I go.
He’s like, “No, it’s because they’re little thugs.”
“Thank God for that,” I go, a smile breaking out across my face. “Thank God for that.”
Then – proud dad – I tip back over and try to pull them aport again.