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Thankfully, several of my teammates felt the same and, after a few handshakes, headed off to the changing rooms to tog off.
“Good sportsmanship, six,” the coach from the other team said, coming over to clap my shoulder. “Fantastic bit of hurling out there, boy.”
“Thanks.” Repressing the urge to rip his hand off my shoulder, I forced a nod and swallowed down several mouthfuls of water before adding, “Appreciate it.”
“You’re Teddy Lynch’s young fella, aren’t ya?”
Now I did shrug his hand off. “That’s right.”
“Pure class was your father, back in the day,” the man said with a wistful sigh. “A true legend. Played against him myself a few times. Cork lost one of their finest hurlers when he did his knee in.”
“Yeah,” I bit out, knowing full well that my father’s dependency on alcohol, not to mention his inability to keep his dick in his pants, had a lot more to do with his demise from hurling than any knee injury.
“I can tell that he trained you up,” the man continued to piss me off by saying. “You’re a lucky young fella to have a father like that.”
“Yeah,” I deadpanned, giving him my back to let him know that I was done with this conversation.I’m so fucking lucky.
Thankfully, he seemed to get my drift and fucked off to back to his own team, leaving me alone to stew in my resentment.
Knowing there was no point in following the rest of my team off the pitch until thelegendhimself got his pound of flesh, I waited on the sideline, knowing that he would eventually rear his ugly head.
If tonight’s match had been held on a Thursday or Friday, I wouldn’t have to suffer his presence. He was paid his social welfare every Thursday and would be too busy getting hammered in his local to bother me.
In a sick way, I preferred it like that.
Having him here, sober and broke to the ropes, with only my performance to focus on until he got his next fix, only made everything ten times worse.
“Joey!”
The familiar sound of his voice drilled through my ears, and I flinched, feeling every muscle in my body lock tight in panicked anticipation.
Reluctantly turning around to face the crowds on the hilly green at the side of the pitch, I channeled in on my father, who was heading straight for me.
It was hard to miss him, I begrudgingly conceded, when everyone knew who he was, and stopped to shake his hand and salute him.
“What was that?” he demanded, swinging the gate open and stalking onto the pitch towards me.
“What was what?” I asked flatly.
“That was your ball,” Dad growled, closing the space between us. “That was your fucking goal, and you passed it off to that eejit in the forwards.”
“I scored three goals, Dad,” I reminded him, tone hard and laced with bitterness. “And twelve points.” Shrugging, I added, “It was enough.”
“Enough?” He looked at me like I was insane. “Enough?”
“Yes, enough,” I snapped. “Jesus Christ, you were watching the game. Tadhg and the under-6s would’ve given us a harder challenge.”
“You listen to me, boy,” my father barked, planting his beefy hand on my shoulder. “This is no place for consciences. When you’re on that pitch, you keep going, do ya hear me?” His fingers dug into flesh as he spoke. “You run those legs into the ground. You don’t stop until your body gives up. Until you’re puking and bleeding and your legs can’t hold ya any longer.” He narrowed his eyes when he said, “And you sure as hell don’t showpity.”
I clenched my jaw. “The game wasover.”
“It’s not over until the final whistle blows,” he snapped. “If you want to make a name for yourself in this sport, then you need to heed my warning, boy. I know what I’m talking about.”
“I’mnotyou.”
“And you never will be if you don’t start being more ruthless on the pitch.”
“Then I guess I never will be.”
