Saving 6: Boys of Tommen #3

Part 2 – SECOND YEAR

OCTOBER 10TH 2000

JOEY

AT HALF PAST NINE, on a Wednesday night, in the middle of October, I could think of better places to be than freezing my bollocks off in a jersey and shorts, battling it out with fifteen less than mediocre opposition players for dominion over a leather ball.

The floodlights surrounding the GAA pitch were so bright they illuminated the rain that was lashing down on us, as we played down the last few minutes of the clock, having long since ran away with the match.

I’d lost count of the score in the first half when we’d gone sixteen points ahead.

At this point, it was uncomfortable to continue playing hard when it was such a landslide.

Still, I pucked the ball around with my teammates, knowing that it would be an even bigger insult to the lads on the opposite team to call the game.

They still had their pride, after all.

“Lynchy, over here, over here,” Paul Rice called out, embarrassing himself by screaming for the ball like we were playing in the All Ireland final. “I’m open, lad.”

What a langer.

Shaking my head, I repressed the urge to tell him to fuck off and dutifully pucked the sliotar towards him, only too willing to relinquish control in this instance.

Wanting to win a competitive match was something I fattened on.

Wanting to annihilate and humiliate an inferior team gave me no pleasure whatsoever.

Catching the ball mid-air, my eejit of a teammate ploughed up the pitch, over-powering and out-skilling his opposition number, before sinking the ball in the back of the net and celebrating like it was going out of fashion.

Ugh.

Biting back a groan, I dropped my head, feeling a huge dollop of second-hand embarrassment for the fool wearing the same-colored jersey as me.

“What’s the story with him, six?” the lad marking me asked, using my jersey number to address me, while looking as unimpressed with Ricey as I felt. “We’re clearly out of the game. No need to rub it in.”

I couldn’t give him an honest answer without revealing the discord between us, so I muttered something unintelligible under my breath and shrugged, deciding to leave it at that for the good of the team.

The final whistle blew a moment later, and I sprinted to the sideline, unwilling to participate in any hole-blowing celebrations that were occurring on the pitch.

Ripping off my helmet, I tossed it on the grass with my hurley and reached for a bottle of water.

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 the legend himself 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 show pity.”

I clenched my jaw. “The game was over.”

“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’m not you.”

“And you never will be if you don’t start being more ruthless on the pitch.”

“Then I guess I never will be.”

“Where’s the killer instinct, boy?”

Saved up for when I’ll need it against you.

He released my shoulder then and gave me quick once-over before shaking his head, his disappointment blatant. “You’re not big enough.”

“I’m the tallest one on the fucking team,” I shot back, hating myself for feeding into his bullshit. “What do you want from me?”

“You’re too fucking skinny,” he snapped. “I was twice as built as you when I was your age. You need to start bulking up, boy. Your sister has bigger muscles than you.”

Lovely.

“Your brother was a good stone heavier than you when he was playing U-16s.”

Of course he was.

“Darren had serious conditioning about him back in the day.”

Furious, I straightened my shoulders and silently seethed, as the insults kept coming.

“Darren didn’t look like the wind could topple him, either – unlike you.”

Obviously.

“You might have the height and speed, boy, but you’re too fucking light.”

Tuning his voice out, I concentrated on what was happening just over his shoulder, on the hilly bank behind him.

From my standpoint, I had a perfect view of Molloy, who was having a heated conversation with Ricey.

She didn’t look happy.

In fact, she looked downright miserable.

Either completely oblivious to his girlfriend’s bad mood, or just plain indifferent,

Ricey waved a hand around as he spoke, turning back to gesture to a car full of our teammates. Shaking his head at something she said, he moved in to kiss her, only to be met with a hand to the chest, and a furious looking Molloy warning him off. Throwing his hands up in frustration, he said something in response before jogging over to the car and climbing into the back seat, leaving her alone.

With her hands folded across her chest, I watched her watch the car drive away and shook my head in frustration. Why she was still with that selfish prick, six months later, was beyond me. He wasn’t even remotely good to her, and he damn sure wasn’t loyal, either. I had it on good authority that there had been least two occasions during the summer where he’d messed around behind her back. In fact, Podge had seen him with his own two eyes mauling the face off some young one from the convent secondary school.

If Molloy didn’t know, she was stupid.

If she did know, and still stayed with him regardless, then she was pathetic.

“Are ya listening to me, boy?” my father barked, dragging my attention away from the blonde and back to him.

“I’m listening,” I bit out, having no clue what he’d just said, as I reluctantly met his gaze head on.

I hated looking at him. I despised his eyes. He had cold, dead eyes that felt nothing and only came to life when he was inflicting harm on someone.

“Grab your shit,” he ordered. “You can shower at home. We can finish this conversation in the car.”

So you can get me alone?

Yeah, fucking right.

Climbing into the car with my father when he was in a mood like this would be the equivalent of following a stranger into the back of their van on the promise of sweets. I knew exactly how he finished conversations and I always came out worse off. I sure as hell wasn’t going to offer myself up like a sacrificial lamb by climbing into his car, with nobody around to stop him.

He could keep his spin home.

I wasn’t that suicidal.

“I can’t,” I heard myself lie, as I stepped around him and moved for the gate. “I have to stop in at work before I go home.”

“Why?” he called after me, sounding impatient. “Have you wages to collect or something? Because I can drive you over.”

Oh, you’d love that, wouldn’t you. “No, I left my school bag at the garage.”

“Then you can walk your hole over there,” he barked. “I’m not your lacky, boy.”

Ignoring him, I kept walking and moved for the changing rooms, needing to put some distance between his fists and my body.

“Hey asshole,” Molloy called out when I stalked past her, letting me know in no uncertain terms that I still wasn’t entirely forgiven for calling her easy back in first year.

I had thrown the word out as a roadblock, a diversion, to send her running in the opposite direction of me.

It didn’t work.

Instead of avoiding me, like I needed her to do, like any normal girl would, she gave me hell. With smart-ass comments, and witty one-liners, Molloy continued to throw her version of shade at me, determined to get me back for offending her.

“Molloy,” I acknowledged with a small nod.

“Nice game.”

“Nice legs.”

“Want to be a gent and walk these nice legs home?”

“Why?” With my hand on the changing room door, I turned back to glare at her. “Is he not coming back for you?”

Red-faced, she shook her head.

Fury erupted inside of me. “He just left you here?”

She nodded.

“He’s an asshole.”

Another embarrassed nod.

“Where’s your father?”

“Gone out with my mam for the night.” She waved her phone at me. “Phone’s off.”

“Jesus.” I released a frustrated growl. “The fuck are you doing with a tool like him, Molloy?”

“Will you walk me home or not?”

No.

No.

Fucking no.

She’s not your problem, lad.

Just walk away.

“Give me ten minutes to shower and get changed,” I heard myself mutter, mentally kicking myself in the balls.

Her eyes flashed with relief. “Thanks, Joey.”

“Hm,” was all I replied before slipping inside the changing room and heading straight for the showers. You’re absolutely not welcome.