Anyone who follows the Letters to the Editor page in this newspaper will be aware of my old man’s thoughts on the subject of girls slash women playing rugby. According to him, it’s one of those activities from which they should be not only excluded but banned by law, along with driving cars, playing golf, flying airplanes, working out, drinking spirits, going to saunas and handling cash amounts over €100. Which is why it’s a pretty much miracle that I’ve turned out to be such an open-minded dude – except when it comes to the one about airplanes.
When it comes to rugby and the old deadlier of the species, I bought into the idea very early on. But the First Year girls I’ve ended up coaching at Castlerock College have got me suddenly asking myself did I do the right thing in being so encouraging of it?
Yeah, no, we’ve just lost our second match on the trot, this time to – I can barely even type the words – Newpork Comprehensive. Obviously, I don’t need to point out that Newpork is not a rugby school, yet they managed to beat us by 30-something points.
The following day, I gather the girls together on the main pitch and I let them have it – we’re talking, like, both barrels?
I’m like, “Newpork is famous for, I don’t know, kids with pierced lips and eyebrows who call their parents by their first names. They don’t even care about rugby. I don’t think it’s going too far to say that you’ve disgraced not only yourselves but the name of this great school.”
Oh, that grabs their attention. I hear one or two of them mutter that I’m a knob, but I can live with that – I’ve got a teenage daughter at home – as long as I get the reaction I’m looking for out of them.
I’m there, “We are not playing any more rugby matches until I think we’ve got a chance of winning one.”
A voice suddenly pipes up: “Er, I thought that rugby was supposed to be, like, fun?”
I’m like, “Who said that?”
“I did,” a girl goes, putting her hand up – no shame at all.
I’m like, “Get lost. Right now. I don’t want you here – not with that attitude.”
Off she goes, which is a genuine shame, because she was our best player against Newpork – the only decent one we had, in fact. But I’m laying down a definite, definite morker here.
‘There’s no room for vegetarianism in schools rugby. End of conversation’
I’m there, “If you want to play for this school, you will do things my way,” and as I’m talking, I stort handing out the exercise and diet sheets that I paid Honor five hundred snots to type up and print out.
“What the fock is this?” one of the girls goes – honestly, their attitude stinks.
I’m there, “Page one is your rugby workout plan. It’s the exact same strength and conditioning programme that made me the player I could so easily have been. It contains exercises that resemble the movement patterns in rugby with an emphasis on improving your strength and power. For strength, you’ll see, I’ve put down squats, deadlifts, bench presses, sled sprinting, lunges and step-ups. For power, we’re talking medicine ball squat throws, explosive press-ups, box jumps and borbell curls.”
They’re just, like, staring at their sheets with their mouths wide open. Serves them right. I mean, Newpork? Give me a focking break.
I’m there, “We also need to get your diet right,” and I’m genuinely loving the way my voice sounds as I’m talking. “Go home and tell your old dears that this is what you eat now – a high protein, moderate fat and moderate-to-high corbohydrate diet that will give you the strength and energy to deal with the training volume required to achieve your performance goals.”
“I hate eggs,” one of the girls goes.
I’m there, “Well, you better learn to like them.”
“I can’t eat chicken,” another one of them goes. “We’re vegetarians in our house.”
I’m like, “You can get lost as well then. Go on – beat it,” and off she pops too. “There’s no room for vegetarianism in schools rugby. End of conversation.”
The girls are muttering among themselves again, no doubt taken aback by my hord words and I daresay the number of corbs I’ve recommended on the diet sheet. And that’s when Fionn just so happens to walk over to where we’re standing in a huddle. It turns out that he’s been listening to everything.
“Ross, can I have a word?” he goes, pulling me to one side.
I’m like, “Dude, call me Coach in front of the team, will you? I’m not comfortable with this first names thing. People get too familiar and they stort taking the piss.”
“I think you’re being a little hord on them.”
“Then you can fock off as well.”
“You can’t tell me to fock off. I’m the principal.”
“So what’s your point?”
“Meal plans? Workout programmes? I mean, what’s next, are you going to put them on creatine?”
“Oh, that’s not a bad idea. Would that be expensable?”
“Ross, I’m saying it’s all a bit over the top. These girls are only 12 and 13 years old.”
“Dude, we lost to Newpork. And to Sion Hill.”
“Sion Hill have a very good team this year.”
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”
He’s there, “Ross, it’s my job to ensure that the students of this school–”
“They’re not students,” I go. “They’re athletes,” and he has no answer to that because I’m quoting Father Fehily, his mentor and mine.
I’m there, “Dude, you asked me to be the coach and director of rugby at this school, didn’t you?”
He’s like, “Yes, I did.”
“Then let me do my job.”
“I’m just saying that rugby is supposed to be–”
“Do not say the word fun, Dude, because I don’t think it would be good for these girls to see their principal being decked in front of their eyes.”
“Ross, there’s going to be trouble over this.”
“Dude, I’m a proven winner, everywhere I’ve been.”
“I’m saying the parents aren’t going to be happy.”
“Tell them to come and talk to me.”
“Oh, I will, Ross. I definitely will.”
