In Touch (Play On #1) (21 page)

Padraig sat down again and cut into his dessert. “If Andrew was anything like you, I doubt he was stupid. Intelligence and addiction aren’t related. Sure, there’s a long list of genius addicts, and I’m not just talking about the rock stars like Cobain.” He kept his eyes on his food and plowed ahead. “Did you know Freud was a coke addict? And Tchaikovsky was on the drink constantly.” His defense wasn’t just for Andrew, but himself, too. He couldn’t stop. “It’s not easy getting that monkey off your back.”

At this point, his mouth was dry and his throat tight, the last of the crumble barely making it down his gullet. When he went for a drink of wine, it was then he noticed Gillian’s tears. They were barely discernible under her glasses, but the candlelight reflected off the tear tracks, shiny like fish scales. He should have stopped.

She stood abruptly, and his heart stopped with the horror. She was going to leave. “I’m sorry. Forgive me.”

But instead, she walked around the table and climbed into his lap. Hugging him, she said, “I know that now. I’m sorry, too.”

He held her in silence, rubbing her back as she had often done for him. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for things to go this direction. I just wanted you to know I’m here to listen if you need to talk. And then things got a bit personal…”

Still clinging to him, she laughed. “I noticed.”

He drew her away and placed a gentle kiss to her mouth. “Hey, I have a surprise for you.”

“This whole night has been a big surprise.”

He slowly unwrapped her from his body and stood, sliding Gillian off his lap to the floor. “But this one is the best yet. If you’ll help me arrange some of this furniture…”

Padraig had already placed one of the kitchen chairs by the sink when he glanced up to find her still standing there, a bit bemused. “C’mon, get the other side of the table there.”

She did as told and then stood off to the side while Padraig moved the one chair back in front of the table and the other three in a semicircle facing that one, only a couple meters away. He took her hand and led her to the single chair. “Have a seat. I hope you enjoy.” He was so nervous he couldn’t look back at her as he grabbed his tin whistle from the cupboard and went to the sliding door where he knocked three times.

Ah, the lads were there, just like they had said they would be. Del and Rory followed Padraig to the three chairs where they sat down with their musical instruments in hand. Padraig with his whistle that he had actually bought, Del with his Pringle can he had turn into a shaker by adding rice, and Rory with his flattened Weetabix cereal box and wooden spoon that he was going to use as a bodhran, a type of Irish drum also used by the Scots.

With a nod from Padraig and a whistle intro, Del started in on the first verse of “Green Fields of France,” one of the few songs all the Blues players knew for the Dropkick Murphy version, and luckily, one of the few songs Padraig remembered from his youth. Printed musical notes from online, a couple YouTube videos, and a few hours practice, and the song had come back to him.

Rory’s bodhran set a nice slow pace, and at the chorus, he joined his voice with Del’s who added his shaker, a nice addition to the refrain. Padraig’s whistle kept the melody. And so far the boys were taking it seriously, even with their makeshift instruments.

He didn’t dare look at her for nerves, and he didn’t want to miss a note. The best part was coming, and feck, he hoped the lads weren’t drunk. Or maybe hoped they were. Nothing like a pint to get the creative juices flowing.

As practiced, at the beginning of the second stanza, Padraig heard the sliding door open and Jimmy’s voice join the others. And then Shano, Damian, Dave, Mitch, Kevin, Austin, Josh and Champ. Even Dick had agreed, although he was probably doing it for the free beer. Padraig had put a tab behind the bar at the Yacht Club for any of the boys who’d agreed to their little musical. But most of them didn’t need too much convincing and had wanted to anyway since Gillian had helped all of them as much as she had Padraig.

As their numbers grew, the song became rowdier, but Padraig went with it, picking up the tempo on his whistle. The boys filed in behind Padraig, Del, and Rory. Their singing was so loud, it had drowned out the instruments. Some boys were getting into it, swinging their arms and busting out the words.

He let the boys finish the last chorus a capella, left his whistle on his chair, and made his way over to Gillian. She had taken her glasses off and was wiping her tears with a dirty dinner napkin. He pulled her into his arms for a big hug. Her feet came off the ground, and he swung her back and forth.

When the last note finally died away, Padraig asked, “Well, what do you think? Not bad for a bunch of rugby players, eh?”

She kissed him sound on the mouth. “That was fucking fantastic.”

The Blues were down by ten, seventy-seven minutes and forty-six seconds on the clock.

Padraig had played in loads of games where his team came back with less time than what they had. But these boys weren’t used to pushing through to the end, and any one play could change the favor in a minute. As much as Del tried to keep their spirits up, it was almost as if they’d already given up. It was pissing rain and cold, having gone from sunny and warm at the beginning of the week to frigid by the end, a northwest wind coming down off the lake.

In terms of dedication, the Blues were as strong a team as Padraig had ever played with, but today, for some reason, the forwards and backs didn’t click. Passing was sloppy and runs were short and choppy, no fluidity in their movement across the pitch. If they gained any ground, it was through small plays, gutting it out. They were off their groove, and everyone knew it.

Except for Rory. The kid shined in bad weather. He was Scottish, so that explained much of it, but it was more than that. It was as if he reveled in the hope, as if his entire life that’s where he’d been, always looking up.

Del kept yelling at everyone to re-tuck their shirts, pull up their socks. Something was up. Gillian stayed close to Coach’s side. On Coach’s other stood a mature gentleman. There was something about the way he kept asking Coach questions, kept pointing at the pitch that didn’t sit right with Padraig. But somehow he was familiar. He stood with legs spread, arms crossed over his chest like an arrogant bastard. Maybe Coach had brought in a consultant. It was not uncommon over in Europe to bring in a fresh perspective, but they had the money behind them there.

Gusts of wind blew hard across the pitch, hindering their kicking game. So they had to stick to running the ball, which didn’t give them the distance over the pitch they needed for two tries. They were inching along, gaining a measly meter here and there.

Padraig had been in this position so many times, it barely rocked him anymore. When he was younger, he played poorly in close matches until he learned to tame his anxiety…until he understood there was always another game to play.

The Tri-City Barbarians were currently ranked top of their division. The Irish liked to be the underdogs. They played better when they went into a game where they weren’t expected to win. It was as if they played up to the talent they competed against.

At a mad scramble in the mud, Padraig overturned possession for the Blues after stripping the ball one-on-one from the runner before he could release to his team. Instead of passing the ball to the inside centre who had run up beside him, Padraig plowed ahead, gaining a few meters. It took five of their men to bring him down. But too fast, and where was his backup then? No one there to release the ball to.

Under the pile of bodies, he waited for each of them to peel off, his face smashed into the wet earth, the ball still held tightly into the nook of his arm. He grunted when one player’s knee banged his head on the way up.

Above the buzz in his ears, Kevin yelled, “You should have passed, Irish.”

Yeah, he should have. Since he hadn’t released the ball, now it went back to Tri-City’s scrum.

When the last Tri-City player was off, Padraig pushed up with his arms only to smash back down to the ground in pain. “Fuck!” His back was on fire. He could barely move his legs. They had already started setting the scrum, when someone finally noticed he wasn’t getting up. The referee whistled and called the injury timeout.

He had mobility in his arms, but every time he tried to rise, the same searing pain froze his back and hips, a bolt of lightning down his left leg.

Del approached first and squatted next to him. “How ya doin?”

Padraig wiped some dirt away from the corner of his mouth. “Not great.”

When Gillian approached and knelt next to him, Del moved away.

“Your back?” She talked quietly under her breath in the soothing way of hers. Her professional voice, he called it, but right now it was the best sound in the world.

He nodded.

With gentle motion, she rolled him onto his back. Padraig growled in pain. As she’d done before, she performed the AI-joint maneuver, bracing his right leg on her shoulder. He pressed down his left knee into her cupped hands.

“Any better?”

“At least it’s no longer in my leg. Now more the middle of my back.”

“Okay, arch your back up and squeeze it like you mean it.”

There he was tightening his butt cheeks in the middle of the field, every single set of eyes on him. Coach, the Blues, the Tri-City players, the fans and friends on the sideline.
For feck sake.

“It’s not working, Gill. You might have to help me off the pitch.”

“Have faith.”

Faith? He’d enough of that growing up in Catholic Ireland. Now, his only religion was rugby. Or it used to be.

“I want you to get in the cobra position.”

Fucking yoga now? He fancied the knickers off her, but wondered about her sanity at times. When he didn’t budge, she directed his movements, rolling him onto his belly, then pulling his shoulders back so his chest lifted off the ground.

What he wanted to do was get up. He wanted everyone’s eyes off him, out here, struggling with his pain demons, but he was afraid. Afraid everyone would know. Afraid he’d look a loser.

“Now, come up to standing.”

“I don’t think I can.”

“You can.”

Padraig rested there, inhaling the smell of wet grass and earth, trying to build the courage to move.

Gillian smacked him on the bum. “I know what’s missing. The special magic. The music therapy.” She proceeded to hum.

He couldn’t help but laugh. “Stop already. I’m up!” And he was moving, into a squat, and then with a final push, on his feet. He walked back and forth to get the muscles moving again. And sure enough, even though his back still was tight, the pain had mostly gone.

Not the most conventional therapist in the world, but God, he loved her. If there hadn’t been a hundred pair of eyes on them, he would have gladly grabbed her up and kissed her right there. When she caught his eye, he smiled and nodded, as much a thank you as he could give her right now. He’d save his appreciation for bed later. Now that his back was better.

Like with the other players, she waited for him to signal he was good, and she walked off the pitch.

A whistle blew and everyone moved to set for the scrum. Not the best position to start in, but he trusted Gillian. Before Padraig bound with Austin, Del approached, cupping his hand on Padraig’s shoulder. “All right, mate?”

Padraig smiled. “All good, Del, let’s finish this.”

With that, Del rallied the boys, shouting encouragements. And in that moment, Padraig felt the momentum shift. The energy in a game was tangible, in the air and in the movements of the players. Not only on the pitch, but fans could feel it, too. He’d been told that even viewers at home often knew the moment when the change happened, the transfer of the rugby spirits to their side. It was contagious, and each member of the Blues buzzed with the new vigor.

The scrum was the opponent’s but the Blues pushed hard, no one harder than Padraig, and they moved over the ball, winning it back. Mitch fed it off to the center, who again released it to Dick and then on to Rory. And he decided to kick.
Please, let the ball fly.

It was better than Padraig could imagine, out of the wind, a low ground kick like you’d see in soccer, and out of play at the twenty-two meter line. The lineout was the other team’s, but the boys around him strutted now with a different purpose, and along with Del, Padraig rallied them with calls and swats on the backside. “C’mon, boys, get in there!”

A few of the lads eyed him like he’d gone mad, like Captain Ahab in Moby Dick. He probably looked it, his hair wild in the wind, walking with a slight limp as though he had a peg leg. And like the man on that ship, his passion—no his obsession—had been his undoing.

The clock had counted up to thirty-seven minutes. Plenty of time until they reached the horn at forty, plus a bit of spare for injury time. He shouted again to the team. “C’mon, lads, rally up!” The last couple of months had been moping and half-arsed efforts. But he’d make it up to them now. Like he used to do with his squad back in Munster, he joked, he laughed, and pounded his chest like a gorilla. And with the wind in their sails now, the boys latched on. They could feel the victory, too.

The Tri-City hooker threw short, and the other team tucked the ball into a rolling maul, surging forward, inching away at the green. Exactly what the Blues would have done to burn the seconds on the clock.

Padraig latched onto the ball carrier, pushing with everything he had. Dell communicated their need with the look of an eye, which Padraig understood and shoved harder, yelling for the boys to do the same.

When the whistle came, the Blues celebrated. The call? The Tri-City’s maul had failed to move forward. No motion ahead and they had the scrum just past the twenty meter line.

Padraig tapped each of the forwards, a finger to their shoulder or back as they set in their huddle. Like he did back home. It was a ritual he performed with his pack in Ireland. It was a sign to them.
Together now, lads.

Mitch fed the ball into the middle. The groans of the first three rows were finally, again, music to his ears. They moved in one motion, a unit as strong as anyone would find, pushing forward to move over the ball.

When it was clear, Champ passed out to Del, lucky number thirteen, and that’s the last Padraig witnessed. His job was to support the runner, be there and ready for a pass if needed. And he did his job, as good or better than for Munster or the Irish squad. With the rain pelting down, he could have stepped back onto the field at Aviva Stadium. The cloudy skies and wind, the hush of the play, because when he was in the zone, those sixty-five thousand fans didn’t exist. Only the play.

The whistle sounded and the roars went up. Del had scored a try.

After celebrating with the boys, he looked to the sidelines for Gillian. She, too, was jumping up and down, hugging Coach. Then she did a little dance, like an Irish jig, and Padraig ached to walk off the pitch, drag her behind him, and leave it all behind. Because now he knew, there was so much more to life.

Rory sent the kick off long and high. Not bad for thirty-mile per hour winds. Padraig made a mental note to make the boy breakfast. Even with the wind behind them, it was still a damn good kick. The Tri-City full back took it in goal beyond the try line and kicked instead of running it out, but the wind was at the Blues’ back, and the ball hung high, suspended in the air. The Blues rushed forward, once again feeling the potential hanging like the ball, that this game could still be theirs.

It was a collision of bodies, each man’s goal the same—get the fucking ball. But Tri-City won, their left wing grabbing it out of the sky. As if they shared the same gut, Padraig could feel the disappointment in each man around him. But in mere seconds, their pack stormed down on the left wing, and the inexperienced young man ran the ball out of touch.

The lineout was theirs. Time on the clock. Thirty-eight minutes, fifty-two seconds.

Shano wiped the ball, then passed the towel to Gillian. For a second, her gaze met Padraig’s, and he read the same excitement in her eyes. Like she’d told him, she believed in the club. And so should he.

Del stepped up to Shano and gave him the play, but it was lost in the wind to Padraig. Jimmy leaned forward and whispered into his ear, “The cabin.”

What the fuck did that mean?

Shano launched the ball. It gave them only seconds to react, but Padraig was on it. He was the jumper. Like in the river, Jimmy and Dave hoisted him in the air. At first, Padraig struggled against their hold, so foreign from what he knew, what he understood to be right. He was leaning too far to center, but with a pinch at his leg, he straightened, and the ball came true.

As expected, the Tri-City’s line contested the throw, but the boys still held him suspended, and with a push and a war cry, Padraig was launched over the top of the opposing team, ball still in hand. He rolled down the bodies, head over heels and landed on his feet.

Whether it was surprise or uncertainty, men stilled in their spots. Time moved in measured frames around him. But he was on his feet and moving. Not fast for his size, but few in front of him, and he could see the line. Bold and beautiful, the sacred and intangible force drew him toward the goal.

Out of the corner of his eye, forms approached from both sides. He searched for streaks of blue, but all was a haze. The decision, whether he understood it on a conscious level or not, had already been made. Blood lust surged, and beyond anything else, he believed he would get over the line.

Just before the try line, an opposing player latched onto his left arm, dragging him down, and then another at his back. But he still pounded forward and nothing else mattered at that moment but the line. And the ball over the line.

A body hit him hard in the gut, and he lost his wind, doubling over. Stretching, he used all of his frame and launched himself, ball in the lead hand, toward the line. Like Superman.

He landed with an
umph
and had barely caught his breath before a hand tugged hard on his jersey, yanking him to his feet.