He waits

The British and Irish Lions are playing South Africa in the second test of the test series in Pretoria. The Lions lost the first test narrowly and needed a win to take the series to the final game. Ronan ‘O Gara was on the bench for the first test and some had suggested he play in the second, this is a fictional account of his thoughts on the lead up to and during that second test.


We wait. Another hotel. Another sheet, another cushion. The swirling cycle of air-con humming overhead. They don’t see this. Preening, perfect gear. Snapshots. Quotes. Glory and pain. But never the wait. Should I have hope? He didn’t go so well last week. Everyone talking about the fucking scrum but what about those penalties he missed? Would have swung it our way. It’s not just self-belief. I would have nailed them.

Training going well. Haven’t missed a kick. Putting Roberts and the like into space, making those tackles. I can feel Edwards nostrils glaring just before I try and make the hit. He wants me to miss. He can point and say that’s it. There is your reason Rodge, you cant put him down. How would you be if Spies ran at you? Its that game now. Freaks built for car-crashes. Mine are tired of having to strap me in. My world slows when they approach. Two hands on the ball becomes one when they see me, Gum-shield smile with a glint in the eye. Its O’Gara. Smash him. I go high or low and end with studs on my back. No matter, get up, give me the ball. Lets see if the wrecking ball can run sixty yards.

Paulie is under pressure. Hacks waiting in the long grass. What a way to be. You are playing on Saturday. Spending ten years at home, no-one pressuring me but myself. Come Wednesday night, I’ll be back twelve years of age with a knot in my stomach, hoping the name is read out. Twenty-two does not sit easy. Not like ten does.

Jones trained well today. Made his kicks and created space. Even made a couple of breaks. Breaks he made. Beat the tackle, offloaded. I’m hoping Geech still has those pens in his mind. He didn’t bottle it but his technique is wrong. It’s ugly, deformed. He goes straight at the ball. I wince watching him. I line mine up after him. A new source of power. I stab the tip of my right toe into the ground now as I approach, one smooth arm-swing and step and bang. My own gum-shield smile.

We potter around the edge. Gatland calls us in. A group on one side against the other. Short, sharp drills. Ball in hand, I loop one onto Drico’s hand. I hit him with the same one against Argentina in the world cup. He just needs to bend his run an inch and he’s in. Not many can do it. But he can. Not many can fling out the pass like I can. I am purring now, little grubbers, wrap-round’s. They get it and offer nothing. Jones has made his tackles and he figures that is all he needs. Heaslip is carrying, I fade out. Take the gamble and try and stop him, I go low, hold him up before Wally brings him down.

I feel good stepping off. No more could have been done. But their minds are made up. I lay, suspended waiting for the call. Congratulations Ronan you have made it into the test twenty-two. Twenty-two. I hang up and watch the fan go around. I wont ever get my Lions turn.

Game day, guys in the zone. Me trying to blend into the background. Some words for some of the fellas. Nothing for the others. I wish Stephen all the best. I sit and listen to Geech, he can really speak but by the fourth week it starts to sound like what the yanks call a stump speech. Studs clatter, throats gargle. Players embrace. It is going to be a war. And I will be watching.

We start well, Rob goes over early for a try. A brilliant offload from Jones. Burger is in the bin for the boks. Gouging. They, like the All-Blacks don’t sniff at the dark arts at this level. The commitment is ferocious, obscene. The red and green roar, commanding Romans baying for Christian blood. Some moments of class. Du Preez seems to slow the lot down, pop little passes, snipe little runs. We cough up a stupid try. Basic defence from a line-out. Pietersen in for an easy finish. We lead at the break. Geech implores them to keep going. Gatland is leading an inquest into the try and Edwards is just shouting. Paulie is going around to everyone, an arm here, a rollicking there. We could be in Musgrave down by three to Ulster. Nothing changes with him.

The Bok’s begin motoring. Nothing, aside from Du Preez is inventive. There is no grand plan to the world champions. They just run harder and faster than anyone else. Sustain it and they have no answer. Guys are running on empty. Jenkins and Adam Jones are gone because of concussion, Drico follows. He flattens the biggest bok he can find and suffers for it. Some lady boy he is. Edwards starts to look my way. Twenty-two on my back. Your last option. Geech beckons with a nod. My turn?

Twelve minutes, game in the balance. Roberts off for me. Just make your fucking tackles is the Edwards instruction. We are patched up, miss-matches all over field. Forwards in close contact, making yards on backs. Backs hitting props in space. Fourie gets the ball out wide. I fade to meet him. I aim low. Stop him at source. He pumps his legs and batters through me. I feel my right eye squelching against my socket, I turn and look to see him ground it. It takes a minute to confirm but its good. We get a penalty to level. Jones nails it. Ugly but good. My eyesight is reduced to half. Three left and level. This series is there. Give me a chance to win it.

The ball is pumped into our twenty-two. It bobbles towards the try line. I pick it up and evaluate. Tommy is standing right next to me. What the fuck is he doing? A game to be won. I point forward and roar at him to go. Thirty seconds left, one bounce of a ball and we win. I launch it. I am back on my bed watching the fan cut the air, the ball spirals into the sun. This is my turn. It drops towards me in what seems an instant, to Du Preez it takes a lifetime, my good eye sees him seizing it up. He is getting there. No gum-shield. He wants to be sure. By the time I arrive he is in the air. I brush off his legs. He falls. Penalty. I don’t need to see the rest. The script is written. I trudge off. The boys don’t meet my eyes. When they do, try as the might to hide it, they scream, why didn’t you kick it out? I wait. Battered, broken and bowed. It was my turn but it didn’t spin my way.