“Okay,” I go, “today we’re going to work on one or two moves from this sacred text,” and I show the players my famous Rugby Tactics Book.
There are no gasps from the kids, even though there are a lot of rugby coaches out there who would kill to get their hands on it.
Yeah, no, they all just roll their eyes, probably pissed off at being asked to train in Herbert Pork on New Year’s Day.
“We’re supposed to be on our Christmas holidays,” one kids goes – and I’m ashamed to say that it’s one of mine.
“Christmas holidays?” I go. “Do you think Johnny Sexton ever took Christmas holidays? I can tell you for a fact that he used to practise his kicking even on Christmas morning. Will I tell you how I know? Because I used to retrieve the balls for him – back in the days when he used to call me Guru.”
Again, there’s little or no response from the kids, so I go, “Okay, let’s stort the warm-up, then I’ll talk you through some of these famous moves that I came up with.”
Most of them have been in the book for years. I’ve had one or two AIL clubs sniffing around me recently and I was planning to use them to blow them away at the interview stage. But then I just think, why am I saving them for clubs that have overlooked me time and time again? Fock them.
The players are, like, warming up and I’m giving it, “Come on, goys, let’s work off some of that Christmas pudding!” and I’m loving the way my voice sounds.
I really am a loss to the game.
You don’t know? We’re playing you in a friendly on Paddy’s Day
— Christian
That’s when I spot Christian making his way across the pork, walking – wouldn’t you know it – the labradoodle that his kids pestered him to buy them for Christmas.
I shout at him. I’m like, “You’re some mug!” because I’ve been pissed off with him ever since I offered him a job as my assistant coach and he knocked me back because he’s – get this – coaching the first years in – I can barely bring myself to say the words – Blackrock College.
He’s there, “What are you doing?” because he’s obviously forgotten about my world-famous intensity and killer temperament.
I’m like, “It’s called training, Christian. Just because your goys are too soft to work on New Year’s Day–”
“On the contrary,” he goes, “we trained this morning.”
I’m like, “What?” because this comes as a genuine surprise to me? “When? Where?”
He’s there, “We did strength and conditioning work. We actually ran up and then down the Sugar Loaf.”
I’m like, “What?” in genuine shock. “I wouldn’t say they were happy about that. Quite a few winter skiing holidays cancelled, I’m guessing.”
He goes, “They didn’t mind. They know they’ve got a match on their hands in March.”
I’m there, “What match?”
He’s like, “You don’t know? We’re playing you in a friendly on Paddy’s Day.”
I’m there, “This is the first I’m hearing about it.”
He goes, “Hey, if you don’t feel your goys are ready for it, that’s cool. A bad defeat at this age could put them off rugby forever.”
He has balls like Gallia melons.
I’m there, “Hey, they’re ready for it – don’t you worry about that.”
Christian focks off then with the dog. The second he’s gone, I whip out my phone and I order a fleet of Ubers.
All of the kids are like, “Where are we going?” as they climb into the cors.
I’m there, “We’re going to do some altitude training.”
Half-an-hour later, we’re pulling into the Sugar Loaf cor pork and all of the kids are looking at me, wondering what genius idea is this.
“The fock are we doing here?” Leo goes.
I’m there, “We’re going to run up the Sugar Loaf.”
They’re all like, “What?”
And I’m there, “Goys, this is what our main rivals are doing. If we want to compete with them, then we have to match them. As a matter of fact, we have to, like, up the ante?” and that’s when I spot a pile of rocks in the corner of the cor pork.
I go, “Here, grab one of these each. We’re going to run up the Sugar Loaf carrying rocks in our orms.”
Brian’s like, “Er, why?”
And I’m there, “Because Blackrock College aren’t doing it – that’s why.”
I’d love to say that this gets a reaction from the players, except it doesn’t?
They all go, “Fock’s sake,” and, “It’s New Year’s focking Day,” as they pick up their rocks and I end up having to tell one or two of them that the ones they’ve chosen are too light.
You’re going to kill those poor kids
— Christian
Eventually, we’re all good to go. I even grab a rock, a heavy one, just to show them that I’m not the kind of coach who would ask them to do something that I wasn’t prepared to do myself.
Halfway up the mountain, though, I end up getting a twinge in my lower back, a recurrence of an injury I originally picked up in the course of saving Seapoint from relegation to Division 2C of the AIL.
I end up dropping the rock and having to sit down on the side of the path while the kids continue on without me – pissing and moaning, of course, giving it, “I’m tired” and “I think I’m going to vomit”.
I’m there, “Work through the pain barrier,” channelling the late, great Fr Fehily, who made us train on not only New Year’s Day, but on Christmas Eve as well.
That’s when my phone suddenly rings. I answer it and – yeah, no – it ends up being Christian.
I’m like, “What do you want?”
And he’s there, “Where are you, Ross? You’re breaking up.”
I’m like, “Still in Herbert Pork,” because information is power.
He goes, “So that’s not you I’m looking at halfway up the Sugar Loaf, no?”
The focker is looking straight at me.
He goes, “You’re going to kill those poor kids.”
I’m there, “You told me you did the same thing this morning.”
He’s like, “You don’t want to listen to me, Ross. I’m the enemy now, remember?”
And I go, “Dude, this is focking war.”