“Do Imake myself clear?” Coach shouts again, making me break my stare. Shit, am I staring?
“Yes, Coach!” the chorus rings out, mostly in fear. Those of us from last year know Coach doesn’t like being ignored, and everyone else has either heard or picked up on it already.
“Wonderful. Let’s begin. Line up, lads!”
??` ?? ?´?
“AGIRL ONthe Saints? It’s a joke, lads. We’re going to be the laughingstock of the league.”
I’d like to punch Seamus O’Malley in the face, but unfortunately I don’t think that’d be very good for my reputation. Punching your teammates doesn’t build respect, because I don’t consider respect built on fear as real respect. You have to earn that type of thing.
That being said, if Fitzy wants to do it, I’m not going to stop him or anything—which is communicated between us by a single look and a nod.
I’ve known Joey Fitzpatrick since before he moved here when we were ten, and that’s because his father (the ever famous footballer Patrick Fitzpatrick, who played for Ireland in the World Cup in ‘94) grew up with mine. When his oldest sister Shannon got cancer, their family (which included their mom, Fitzy and his other sister) moved back from Dublin, right into a place on Alderbank a few houses from JJ, the Marshalls and I.
Finn Marshall was my other best mate, the oldest of four (and a half) kids. His house has been right across the street from mine for my entire childhood, and both his parents grew up with mine too.
This is just one of those towns that no one ever really leaves.
“How d’ya think Maxie did?” Finn asks me, pulling a shirt over his head. Maxwell is Finn’s younger brother, who’s in second year and tried out for the first time today.
“Lad’s doing killer,” I say. “I really think he’s got a chance on the starting line next year. But Coach’ll definitely make him a sub.”
Finn grins, patting me on the shoulder and going over to talk to his brother.
Maxwell wasn’t the only one who did great at practice—I saw plenty of potential in quite a few of the returning third years. But Molly Lockhart had been something else.
She’d excelled in all the drills O’Shea put everyone through, blowing me and the rest of the lads out of the water. Her only hangup was during the scrimmage, when no one except for JJ and I (Fitzy and Finn were on the other team) seemed to be playing footie with her, while everyone else was playing a game of Don’t Pass To The Girl.
“What’s going to be the deal with the locker rooms?” Gary, who’d done shit in the trials himself and is probably getting cut, goes on. The lad’s never had a proper thought to himself, so I’mnot surprised to hear him piggy-backing off of O’Malley’s rant. “We’ll have to keep our towels wrapped tight, eh?”
“Keep my towel wrapped? I’d enjoy giving a free show.”
“I’d rather get a show, mate.”
I’m just about ready to open my mouth, but JJ beats me to it. He’s standing completely starkers, no care in the world for who does and doesn’t see his goods. He just rolls his eyes with his hands on his hips. “Oh, yeah, lads. Because I’m sure that girl is just dying to see your tiny little pricks flopping around. Better hand her a magnifying glass so she can actually find yours, huh, O’Malley?”
The room explodes into raucous laughter, Seamus turning an impressive shade of tomato red.
“What, am I wrong?”
“Fuck off, JJ. No one wants to know what the virgin thinks about girls.”
JJ clutches his chest as if he’d been shot. Always melodramatic, that one. “Virgin? Oh no, I’m so offended. Whatever will I do now that you’ve insulted me in this way? I’m saving myself for your mother, lad.”
Most people can’t out-talk JJ. It takes a lot of skill, one that even Finn and I—knowing him since nappies—haven’t fully mastered. The only ones who have ever been fully proficient in the task were Fitzy and my dad.
So it’s no surprise Seamus just scowls. “Whatever, lad. Truth stands, she won’t last. One hard tackle and she’ll be crying for her Mammy.”
I slam my locker shut with an echoing bang that makes all the first time lads hugging the wall jump. “She’s not going to be crying, O’Malley, because you’re not going to be a prick to her. If she gets on the team, she’s a Saint. Treat her like one, or you can go play for Ballymore. I’m sure they need a new water boy.”
“You going to stop me from doing something, Blue?”
I am already slinging my gear bag over my shoulder. “You going to make me have to?”
I don’t wait for him to answer before I walk out. I reach the parking lot, where Claire is waiting for me, playing with one of Da’s old cameras that she’d dragged out of the attic the other day. She looks so much like him in that light—taking pictures of the pitch, leaning on the bonnet of my car—that it hurts to look at her.
Claire has Mam’s looks but is Dad through and through. His sunny side up attitude, hearts on their sleeves, and never thinking twice about someone’s intentions. I’ve gotten a few of his bad habits, but I am much more like Mam in the long run.
