CALLUM
As I sprint the final lap of the track, I overhear two teenage boys, tormenting a smaller third boy. ‘Keep dreaming, fatty. You haven’t got a hope in hell of getting that green jersey.’
The younger boy is a little heavy in truth, but sometimes in rugby, weight can prove advantageous.
Carton House has been our training ground for four years. We always attract spectators; it’s not every day you get to see the Irish rugby team training in the grounds of the hotel you’re residing in. Most of the time I smile and move quickly on to the showers, but something about the defeated acceptance in the young boy’s eyes reminds me of myself at his age, under the constant scrutiny of my brothers. It strikes a chord buried deep within, resonating so much so that I’m unable to ignore it.
I wasn’t born a professional rugby player. I spent my childhood questioning my self-worth, hoping I’d make it.
The boy looks up to what I assume is his older brother, deflated by his words.
‘The only thing you’ll be good for is flipping burgers in Supermac’s. Even then you’ll probably eat more than you sell.’ The torment continues. Tears well in his eyes, and he turns his back to the grounds slinking away, like a dog with his tail between his legs.
Instinctively, I jog towards him and pat him on the back. ‘Hey, buddy. How are you?’
‘Callum Connolly?’ Surprised eyes light up in recognition.
‘That’s me.’ I grin, delighted to be able to make a difference to this kid’s day.
‘You were awesome in the Scotland game last month! What a try! You’re my absolute favourite player.’ The boy scrambles around in his coat pocket, searching for his mobile phone and the bravery to ask for a photo.
The two teenagers watch from five feet away, debating on whether to approach. I beckon them over.
‘Lads, do me a favour? Take a photo of me and my friend here.’ It’s an order rather than a question. I extract my mobile from my kitbag and throw it to the boy who spoke the cruellest words. He drops it, but that’s my intention.
‘You’d want to work on your game.’ A discreet reminder of what it feels like to be found lacking.
The boy stoops to lift the phone and mumbles an apology.
‘What’s your name?’ I whisper to my new young friend, staring at me like I’m some sort of hero.
‘Martin McAndrew,’ he stutters. I wrap my arm around him and pose for the picture.
‘Are you on Facebook, Martin?’ I ask him. He nods shyly in a starstruck response.
I thank the teenager, simultaneously imparting a warning look and share the picture on my social media, tagging Martin in the post.
‘Thank you so much. You honestly are my favourite player.’ His sincerity would melt the coldest of hearts, mine included.
‘One more thing…’ I call to him as he waves goodbye.
I remove my training jersey and throw it to him. ‘It’s yours.’
Martin whoops in delight. I hit the showers with the rest of my teammates feeling unusually good about myself for once. The warm fuzzy feeling is one I don’t often get to avail myself of. The boys are mid-conversation, discussing a kick that had been missed from the halfway line. I listen, peeling off my muddy shorts from my sweaty thighs.
‘You were a tank out there today, Callum. Great work. Keep it up.’ Coach slaps me encouragingly on the back as he passes.
‘Thanks, Coach.’ I don’t elaborate that my aggression stems from the fact that I’m overflowing with frustration, desperate for a release, and not one that I’ll find on the pitch.
After a quick shower, I dry myself off in the locker room. My legs burn, a combination of fatigue and a dirty tackle from my best friend and fellow prop, James. The Six Nations may be behind us, but training stops for no man. It wasn’t our best year, and I’m reluctant to admit that it might also be my last.
Tucking the plush white towel around my waist, I scrape my fingers through my wet hair and glance around at my teammates in various states of undress. We’d be lucky if we manage to escape this afternoon without Eddie demonstrating his ‘helicopter’ impression for the thousandth time.
‘Who’s up for a pint on Friday night?’ We don’t drink during tours or championships, but the odd night out’s well-warranted off-season.
I need to pull more than just a pint; it’s been ages since I’ve shared a woman’s bed, and I’m getting irritable.
‘I can’t, man,’ Marcus answers first. He’s our team captain and the best fly half this country’s ever seen. ‘I promised the girls I’d take them away for the weekend.’ He shrugs, blissfully content in his role as father and husband. His wife Shelly almost died during the birth of their second daughter. She arrived six weeks early, and we were playing France in Paris. I thought he’d swim the Channel himself in his rush to get home to her. In all the rugby tours we’ve embarked on in the last seven years, he’s never even glanced at another woman. And there has been ample opportunity, there always is. Despite his admirable loyalty to his family, he’s a pain in my ass most of the time.
