I’m perched at the edge of a low stool in a Monivea lounge bar, my left knee pulsing like a fiddler’s elbow.  The lounge is long-dark-narrow, a row of fraying-at-the-seams purple-vinyl lounge seats against bare white walls, shadowy tables dotted with ashtrays bubbling over with thumb-crumpled cigarette butts smushed into heaps of ash.  It’s around elevenish on a cold, February Saturday morning.  The sun slants in the yellow-clouded glass windows jaundicing the faces of the Castlebar Under 17 rugby team.

The barman, a jowly, red-faced fella, about forty-ish, with a huge beer belly, made huger by his blue and white striped shirt, is out the back sweeping out the “vhizitor’s dressin’ room,” which was the old pub’s windowless storeroom until business got so good they glommed on the new lounge bar.

“Hould on there now lads n’ I’ll clane out t’dressin’ room for ye,” he said, pleasantly enough, to us when we straggled in, gear bags dangling from shoulders, lost dog looks on our faces.

“Them shnobs from ‘Wegians left it in an awful state lasht wake.”

Then he stopped, hands whitening as he leaned on the bar, while Bronx strode out of our group, eyes and chin alive with nervous energy.

“Di ye have a jax in this place?” Bronx barks the question, his shoulders tightening back, chest pushing out. 

“I was on the piss last night an’ now I’m fulla it.”

The barman nods toward a completely dark corridor at the end of the lounge.  Then he looks us over again slowly.

“Oh … an’ lads,” he stares at Bronx heading for the jax, his voice hardening as he turns back to us. 

“If any a ye goes a near this baar, I’ll flake him within an inch a his fucken life!”

He aims a pudgy index finger at us, eyes flaring with sudden anger.

Shoulders tighten, gear bags, nearly dropped to the tiled floor, are hoisted up.

“I’ll on’y be a minute now lads, where ye’re coach annaways?”

“Oh he’s …,” I start but don’t want to get into the confused story of grown-ups fighting about the best way to get from Castlebar to Monivea, “comin’ along behind us.”

The barman shuffles off.  A few seconds later the back door slams closed, people relax, drop their bags, start moving around.

“It’s fucken freezin’ in this gaff!” Bronx says loudly as he comes out of the back corridor, rubbing his hands together, striding over to the cold, empty fireplace. 

“Do country buffs not have heat?”

Shoulders tighten; eyes dart around; no sign of the barman.

I hear a match scraping down the side of a big box and bursting into flame.

“There, see now,” Bronx says in a voice that lets you know you’re for sure not going to ‘see now.’

“A bit owa fire for us wouldn’t kill these mangy bastards,” he squats down in front of the dark fireplace and rubs his hands together in front of the flames dancing above the two fire-lighters he just lit.  “Didn’t we play this crowd a coupley a weeks ago, huh?”

“Yeah,” Charlie answers, walking over to the fire.  “D’ya remember, out on t’airport fiel….” 

“Gud, we can give ‘em back the fleas they gave us,” Bronx says with a nod. 

“… an’ that big bollix of a second row,” Charlie continues in his laughing voice, “nearly drown in a ruck down the wet corner!”

“Oho, there’ll be skelpin’ awright taday, fer fucken sure,” Bronx wags his head.  “Jaysys, I’m still freezin’.”

He leans forward and carefully places the box of firelighters on top of the flames. 

The back door of the pub slams closed, and the barman appears, stripey-shirted-beer-belly first, behind the counter, staring for a few seconds at the shelves of pint glasses; then nodding to himself, he looks around at us with a smile.

“Dere ye go now lads, t’dressin’ room’s reddah,” he smiles, nodding a lot. 

“On’y mind, wan a them ‘Wegians pups mushta pissed within in the corner, there’s a ferocious stink in dere altaghether.”

He continues smile-staring out at us.

“I’d a opened t’windaw fer ye …,” he guffaws, “on’y there ishn’t wan!”

We all kinda-sorta nod, not looking up, wondering when he’ll notice the yellow-blue flames shooting up his chimney.

“Ahhhh, sure we might change in here,” Bronx says in the ould-fella voice he uses to fool grown-ups that he’s being serious.

Still squatting in front of the fire, he nods and mushes his lips together to look older, hands held out to the flames.

“‘Tis nice an’ cozy here now.”

Eyes dart from Bronx to the barman to the flames.

The barman’s forced smile melts as his gaze moves past Bronx.

“Ya little … fucken bastard ya!” he slams his hand on the counter, eyes hardening.

“Get the fuck outta here the lotta ye!” he yells.  “Where’s the fella wit’ the weird eye that runs ye?”

His bulk disappears for a second, then bursts out the bar door, jowls and stripey-belly shaking.

“Get out ye bastardin’ pups,” he shoots an arm out, fat finger aimed at the door. 

“Fucken gurriers, t’brand new box a Zips, supposed ta last t’whole wake an’ t’lot within in the fire.  Jaysys, hersell’ll go mad.”

 Bronx stands up slowly off his haunches, stretches, yawns.

“That’s a grand bit a heat off a cold day,” he says in the ould-fella voice, nodding at the fire, but grinning at the barman.

“Was it you done dat?” the barman snaps.

He reaches out to push Bronx aside, but Bronx – ‘a trained man’ as the Travellers call him – brushes the barman’s reaching hand off with a boxer’s easy disdain.

“Ya little pup, I’ll break yer arse with a kick!” the barman’s heft stutter steps backward; his eyes burning mad, arms and fists tightening down by his side.

Bronx immediately adjusts himself into a boxer’s stance and still grinning, he juts chin out at the barman.

“What d’ya say there rollie-pollie?” he asks too calmly to not get respect.  “Ye’re goin’ breakin’ sumptin now, are ya now …?”

The barman takes another step back; glances around quickly; his eyes showing fear.  

A few players make for the door, but a handful don’t move.

“Go on, git outta here bafore I phone fer t’sergeant,” the barman says.

“The sergeant?  Is he a gud boxer?” Bronx askes, voice and face flat but eyes dancing. 

“I suppose like any Gard, he’d be a gud boxer when he had me handcuffed.”

The barman takes a full step back. 

Bronx drops his fists by his side, sighs and reaches down for his bag.

“Thanks, by the way,” he smile-nods at the barman.  “Ya know, for the fire. ‘Twas awful nice, as cold an’ all as it ‘tis outside.”

An hour later, after changing in two shifts in the windowless dressing rooms that Coach called a “fucken henhouse not a clubhouse,” we’re on the side a hill that’s kinda-sorta lined as a rugby field.  We all jog in place trying to keep warm.

“Cum in, cum in,” Coach run-limps onto the field, Barbour jacket blowing in the cold wind, both hands waving like mad.

“Now listen here lads,” he throws his gimpy leg in front of him, leans forward over it, and then turns slowly around the circle aiming his index finger at our faces. 

“I know we missed trainin’ for a cupla weeks now bu….”

“WEEEEKS!” our winger, Wing-nut, screeches.  He spent first and second year in secondary school shuffling up and down the wing for Clongowes’ eighteenth team before left there.  Now, in his own mind, he should be lining out for Ireland not Castlebar. 

“We hauven’t trained since Noh…vember, the team hawsn’t anyhow. I’ve been up at Saint Mary’s sprin….”

“Shut up ya gobeshite,” Coach snaps. “Now lis….”

“Noh!” Mick interrupts.  “‘Member, we had trainin’ back at Christmas, but the ground wuz…,”

“SUPPOSEDLY,” Coach shoots in angrily, “frozen an’ so ye all fuck off on me down the Sunflower drinkin’ before I can even get out ta ye from work.”

“Sure, we were trainin’!” Pa says.  “Trainin’ for the after-match session!”

“LISTEN!” Coach yells.  “Forget about all that shite.  Taday is taday ….”

He tightens his fingers into a small, pale fist and waves it around at our faces, his lips whitening, his one good eye blazing with intensity.

“Ye should bate these fuckin’ sheep shaggers by twenty pints because that’s what Castle….”

“Well we won’t have a left winger or a full back, there’s only the thurteen of us, you can count yoursel…,” Wing-Nut starts.

“SHUT … UP, YA FUCKEN GENNET!” Coach screams, lurching toward Wing-Nut, grabbing the front of his jersey with both hands, pulling him out of the semi-circle.

“Shut…your…fucken trap when I’m talkin’,” he releases one hand from gripping the jersey to aim his index finger in Wing-Nut’s face.  “Or we’ll play we’ll twelve, … do ya hear me?”

There’s an uncomfortable, windy-cold, silence while Wing-Nut seemingly deliberates the ultimation.

“Now …,” Coach lets go of Wing-Nut’s jersey, backs up a couple of steps, his good eye roaming across all our faces. 

“Listen up.  When you pull on the Castlebar jersey, you become a member of a team.  It doesn’t matter how good or bad that team is; it’s a team an’ you stick together, you work together; it’s not about you an’ your skills an’ what went wrong or right for you.  It’s about the FUCKEN TEAM!”

He flicks his good eye from one team member to the next.

“I don’t give a shite if we never trained,” his index finger shoots out toward Wing-Nut.  “This is a group of a lads, from a town, who are a team, who’ve got each other’s back no matter what.  Lookit, whatever happens above on the scoreboard, don’t give two hot-shites about it, awright.  When you cum off that field taday, you have to honestly ask yourself, have you given everythin’ you’ve got to this team?  That’s all you need to ask yourself, don’t worry about all the other shite.”

He stares slowly around at us, the wind burning off our legs.

“Or … or, were just fiftee…, or ‘turteen,’ individuals out there with our fucken heads up our arses?”

He holds out his pale hands. 

“Lookit, I don’t give a fuck if ye win lads; I mean I do!” he wipes his index finger fast across his nose.  “An’ ye will win, or I’ll fucken strangle each a ye, wan by each.”

He looks out over our heads at the halfway line.

“Listen up now.  What I want here is to see ye comin’ together as a team, thirteen lads that’d run inta a burnin’ buildin’ to get their teammates.  Awright?  Awright?”

He stares at each of us, his head givin’ a nod.

“Now I haf ta go talk ta this bollix,” he stands upright, hands on hips, mouth turning down at the edges.

Then he spins suddenly and run-limps off toward the other team, his hand grasping the Barbour jacket closed.

“So, what in the fuck are we goin’ ta do about the fucken missin’ backs?” Pa asks. 

“Well, we have ta have a full back,” Mick says.  “Otherwise they’ll just pin us back all day kickin’ every ball in there.  Maybe give us wan player, an’ we’ll just kinda have two fullbacks-ish an’ they cover the wings too.”

“Awright, but when the fight starts, the backs can’t be standin’ back there tossin’ off like ye always.  Ye haveta pile in too.”

“Fuck you!”  Mick says.  “We’re always balin’ ye outta fights ye start an’ can’t finish!”

We start to warm up.  Some lads run or jump in place, careful to avoid mucky puddles; a few move to dry ground, drop and do slow push-ups; Wing-Nut sprint-jogs half the length of the field, hands slicing through the cold air, navy and sky blue hooped jersey tucked inside gleaming white togs. 

After a few minutes the forwards come together and look to bind up in a practice scrum, but we’re missing a prop and a flanker.  Arms up, hands behind my head, I glance around anxiously.  Sid and Pa are over on the sideline with Mick sharing a cigarette, clouds of blue-grey smoke billowing from their nostrils as the cigarette gets hurriedly passed from hand to hand. 

 Coach lurches back in front of our kinda-sorta scrum.

“CIRCLE UP. Circle up,” he yells, immediately leaning forward, waving everyone in, staring around at us one by one with his good eye. 

“Now list…,” he glances around at us again, and shoots upright, “whare in the fuck is Pa an’ Mick?”

From the sideline the smokers break into a sprint-jog, their breath condensing into blue-gray clouds.  They arrive at the circle bringing with them the smell of a freshly smoked Major.

Coach shakes his head and aims a finger at Pa.

“Ya fucken better be hungover ya bollix ‘cause we’re going to need them fists taday.  This is fucken classic McGann, he has about a hunderd players over there an’ he wouldn’t give me wan them!  Not fucken wan!”

He grits the tips of his teeth together, his good eye flaring.

“‘Ooooh no, I have a syst…hem don’t ya see,’” he makes the other coach sound like a stupid-posh-housewife off the telly. “‘All the boooyz take … their turns.’”

He wipes his index finger fast across his nose. 

“Well, I fucked him gud n’well,” he nods viciously.  “No subs today!  The on’y way a sub gets on the field today is if a player fucken drops dead.  An’ I’ll even check the dead fella has no pulse.”

He nods, grits the tips of his teeth.

“His fucken legions a young fellas can stand on the touchline ‘til their balls freeze off for all I care.  Wudn’t give me even a couple a them, … fucken bollix.”

He shakes his head.

“An’ listen they produced some heap-a-shite of a ref.  Looks like they pulled him outta the back of a cowshed.  He wouldn’t know a fucken knock-on from a wank!”

Suddenly his hand shoots out, index finger darting from Sid to Pa.

“Don’t you two bollixes give this ref any reason to send ye off or we’ll be a fucken cricket team before you know it.”

 He stands upright, gazes slowly around at his players.

“Awright men, this is it.  Remember, if you can’t die for Castlebar, at least help your opposite number ta die for Monivea!”

We run-jog-straggle over toward the middle of the field.

Standing at the edge of mucky puddle on halfway, bulging out of a maroon tracksuit two sizes too small, a silver whistle dangling from his wrist as he tries to set the timer his watch, is the barman.

 Bronx jogs up next to me.

“Jaysys, will ya look who the fucken ref is?  Rollie-pollie!  It’s gonna be a fucker of a day for me.”

“Ah, pay him no heed, just play yer game.  Maybe he won’t remember,” I say, unconvincingly.

“Never estimate how much owa bollix a bollix can be,” Bronx says and spits on the field. 

“An’ lookit, there’s that blondie fucker of an outhalf.  ‘Member him from two weeks ago.  I owe him a rake a clatters!”

We organize ourselves into kinda-sorta exploded scrum, but the missing players add to our usual start-of-match-confusion.

“Cashel…bar … reddah?” the ref yells but doesn’t wait for a response, immediately shrilling his whistle.

The ball comes skittering across the muddy grass toward us.

“NOT TEN, NOT TEN,” Wing-nut screams from way behind us, but the ref, rolling his eyes, waves play on.

The ball skids into Sid’s knee and bounces forward. 

The whistle blows.

“Knock-on Monivea scrum,” the ref mumbles, pushing Sid back a few steps and ceremoniously digging his heel into the muck.

We start to form up a scrum.

The ref’s eyes dart around the Castlebar forwards stopping when they fall on Bronx.

“I’n a watchin’ you pal,” he wags his finger at Bronx’s face. “I know your sort!”

Bronx stares back, hands on hips, shoulders back, chin out.

“Ah now ref,” he starts in his ould-fella voice.  “Sure, we’ll let bygones be bygones.”

“You’ll be gone is what’ll be gone the first chan… thin ya do wrong.”

Bronx purses his lips, cocks his head back a little.

“Form up the scrum Cashel…bar or I’ll give ye a penalty for time awastin’.”

We form up.  The front rows slam into one another with groans and grunts and muttered threats.  The scrum waltzes around a bit, then settles down.

“REF!” I hear Bronx call out from flanker.  “How much time left?”

“Thure’s still seventy minutes for me ta send you off in, an’… an’ have ya barred be the Connacht Branch for bein’ dish…ra…spectful ta the ref.”

“Oh, … oh, okay so, I was just wonderin’ how long before ya go back ta bein’ a regular gobeshite.”