Rugby Flyer (9 page)

 
T
ed was full of praise for the second-half performance and said his team would think carefully about who they would select for the semi-final in two days’ time. He ordered all thirty-three players to take it easy for the rest of the day, with recovery important for the task ahead. The squad met up later at the school swimming pool and spirits were still very high.

‘Still 100 per cent, eh, Eoin?’ laughed Charlie as he jumped into the pool, splashing the out-half.

‘Easy, Charlie,’ answered Eoin, ‘a big oaf like you could cause a tsunami like that.’

The two squads were mixing together more now that they had both ensured Leinster were in the semi-final. Eoin sat on the edge of the pool with John Young, his rival for the No.10 shirt.

‘No matter who gets picked we won’t fall out,’ John laughed. ‘And I have no doubt that it’s going to be you.

Your kicking has been incredible.’

‘Well, kicking isn’t everything,’ replied Eoin. ‘And there are very few players in the team with your turn of pace and power running with the ball.’

‘Maybe, but this next game will be a real grudge match…’

‘Why?’ asked Eoin, ‘Who are we playing?’

‘Didn’t you hear?’ asked John. ‘Ted just came in with the result from group C. There was a bit of a shock in the last game. We’ll be playing Munster.’

Eoin was stunned. Not at the result, because he knew his native province were always capable of pulling out a winning performance, but that his greatest fear coming to London had now come to pass.

‘Oh no, that’ll be a tough one,’ he winced.

His mind raced as he imagined what it would be like to play against Dylan, and Curry Ryan, and the Savage brothers. He could handle the banter, and even the extra attention he was sure he would get from their tacklers, but he knew he would find it hard to regard that red shirt as an enemy.

After dinner he went straight to the dorm and fished the biography out of his bag. He wanted a bit of escapism, so he lay down on his bed to read and drifted off to sleep with his head full of glorious Ireland and
Leinster victories of the past.

Next morning the boys were taken on an excursion into the centre of London. Ted told them he wanted them to forget about rugby until they had a run-around in the Stoop at four o’clock. He ordered them to enjoy the trip and everyone obeyed as they took in the Tower of London and St Paul’s Cathedral before finishing with a trip in the London Eye, a giant wheel that soared slowly above the city and gave the best views short of strapping yourself to a seagull.

The boys picked out all the sights, and were thrilled to see Wembley and the Olympic Stadium and the Oval cricket ground. It was a little misty when they reached the top so they couldn’t see Twickenham, but as Charlie said, ‘We’ve seen enough of that already.’

The trip was a great success in taking the boys’ minds off rugby, but mention of Twickenham brought it all back to them, and the talk all the way back in the bus was of who would be selected for the semi-final against Munster.

Ted put them out of their misery at the meeting in the Stoop. He stressed that everyone had played an
important part in getting the team through the group, and that everyone would still be in the shake-up if they went any further in the competition.

‘But only fifteen boys can start the semi-final against Munster, and they are…’ he said, reading down the list attached to a clipboard.

Eoin twitched as his name was read out, and smiled when he heard that Páidí would be alongside him. Charlie too, was in the fifteen, but Killian was on the bench.

‘I’m delighted to have got this far,’ smiled Killian. ‘I wasn’t even in one of the four teams back at training camp, remember.’

The selectors had taken heed of the greatly improved second-half performance against Cardiff and had called up eleven members of that team. The disappointed players trailed out of the changing room, some nodding congratulations to those who had been picked.

Eoin and his three pals threw themselves into the training session. It didn’t last as long as usual, but Ted and his coaching team worked them hard, bringing in a few moves that they thought would be important.

As they trooped out of the ground, the team who would be their opponents next day were arriving, and the two groups walked past each other in the car park. Eoin spotted Dylan and lifted his hand in salute.

‘Howya, Dyl,’ he called.

Dylan turned his head away and blanked Eoin, but just as he passed him to go into the stadium he turned again to face him, and hissed one word, ‘Traitor’.

E
oin was angry at his friend. Dylan knew more than anyone how he had agonised over accepting the Leinster offer – and there never had been a Munster offer to turn down anyway. Accusing him of being a traitor was stupid, and wrong. He seethed as he remembered the many hours he had spent with Dylan helping him improve his game, of the many nights they had spent discussing rugby on sleepovers, of the lifts his father had given him to Dubl––

‘Stop!’ Eoin shouted at himself as he jogged around the cricket field back at the school. A family of pigeons took flight at the noise, and two Stade Français players chuckled as they pointed at the angry Irishman.

Eoin waved a hand dismissively and jogged on. He decided he wasn’t going to let Dylan’s sneaky remark get to him – he needed to focus on the semi-final and the way he was going he wouldn’t get a moment’s sleep.

But maybe Dylan had done it deliberately to put him off his game? No! He couldn’t go down that road and he didn’t believe his friend could be so devious. Dylan was a hot-head when he knew him first, but had calmed down a lot. One of his team-mates had probably been goading him into some banter which went way over the top. He’d apologise tomorrow, Eoin knew he would.

But there was no sign of an apology when the teams lined up next day at the Adrian Stoop Memorial Ground. Eoin went along the line, shaking hands quickly with each member of the opposition and exchanging nods with a few of the players he knew. But although Dylan put out his hand to shake it was withdrawn quickly and he never attempted to make eye contact with Eoin.

Eoin shrugged his shoulders and strolled over to Charlie.

‘What’s Dylan got into his head?’ he asked. ‘He’s being a total muppet.’

‘Just answer him with your boot,’ said the No.8. ‘And I don’t mean by kicking him – by getting more points on the board than he and his team of turnip-munchers score.’

Eoin grinned, but tapped Charlie on the shoulder. ‘Listen, Chaz, I’m a turnip-muncher too, remember!’

Charlie laughed, ‘You know I didn’t mean it like that. Sure you’re half-civilised since you came to school in Dublin.’

The banter with Charlie meant Eoin was in a better mood when kick-off time came.

The game started in a very cagey fashion, with each team trying to work out the other’s strategy and neither willing to take chances. It took more than ten minutes before the ball even reached one of the twenty-two metre lines, and it was only a silly mistake by Páidí that gave Munster the lead through a penalty.

It was almost half-time when Leinster were awarded a penalty, but it was wide out on the left and more than thirty-five metres from goal. Dylan glowered at the team-mate who had committed the offence.

‘What did you do that for?’ he thundered.

‘Arra, will you stop,’ the Munster centre replied. ‘Sure he’s no chance of kicking it from there.’

‘Wait and see,’ snapped Dylan. ‘I’ve seen him kick harder ones.’

Dylan was right of course. Eoin put the ball on the imaginary whitewash spot just like he did back in Ormondstown. He looked up at the posts and adjusted
his sights before running up and easing the ball precisely halfway between the uprights.

A 3-3 half-time score meant most of the neutral spectators had almost fallen asleep, but Ted was delighted with the way Leinster were controlling possession. ‘They’ve been attacking like tigers and will be exhausted by the last ten minutes. Keep picking off the points, Eoin, and we might be able to get some runs in by the end.’

Word of Eoin’s goal-kicking skill had spread and several of the other teams’ coaches had come along to marvel at the young Irishman. They saw him slot over another penalty from thirty metres out before the decisive moment of the match occurred with seven or eight minutes left.

From just outside the Munster twenty-two, Eoin hoisted a cross-field kick in the air, high above the low-slung grandstands of the Stoop. The Leinster wing, Harry, hared towards the ball, but also charging in its direction was Dylan. Both boys kept their eye on the ball as they leapt to catch it.

Crunch.

Harry beat Dylan to the ball, and his momentum carried him over the smaller boy and the two metres more he needed to cross the line and touch down. The referee signalled that a try had been scored, but also indicated
that the Munster medics needed to attend to their ailing winger.

Eoin collected the ball from Harry and walked across to see how his friend was getting on. The doctors were checking Dylan’s vision and asking him to stand up, which he was able to do.

The referee signalled Eoin to take the conversion and he was able to concentrate enough to send the ball sailing between the posts. But as he jogged back to his position he noticed that two coaches were standing either side of Dylan as he draped his arms across their shoulders. He watched as they encouraged him to move towards the bench, but the youngster suddenly went limp and fell to the ground.

Eoin dashed across to the touchline as the medics called for a stretcher bearer.

‘Are you all right, Dyl?’ he asked, but his friend was silent with his head bowed. A Leinster coach held Eoin back as the doctors attended to Dylan and signalled that the ambulance should be brought onto the field.

Eoin was distraught, and rushed back across to Ted. ‘Please take me off,’ he pleaded with the coach. ‘I have to go to hospital with Dylan, he’s my best friend. We’re winning by ten points and there’s only a couple of minutes left. I have to go.’

Ted chewed his lip and looked at the options on the Leinster bench. ‘Of course,’ he replied. ‘Go. We’ll work it out. Just go.’

E
oin was terrified as the ambulance sped through the busy city. He wasn’t afraid for himself, although he couldn’t remember ever being in a vehicle that travelled quite so fast on such narrow streets.

They soon arrived at a large red-brick hospital and Eoin was able to give the person at the desk all Dylan’s details as the doctors and nurses took him away for treatment.

‘Will he be all right?’ he asked everyone that came near him, and they all smiled down at him and nodded.

After about half an hour a doctor came out to see Eoin and the Munster officials who had also travelled to the hospital. He looked down at Eoin with a puzzled expression.

‘But you are wearing a blue shirt – the patient is on the red team.’

‘We’re still friends,’ replied Eoin, ‘we just play for
different teams.’

The doctor smiled. ‘Well your friend is going to be fine. He took a bad blow, but we’ve done all the tests and he’s OK, except for a big bruise coming up on his cheek and a black eye.’

The doctor explained to the coaches that Dylan would be kept in for a day or two and needed to be monitored and checked by them until he was ready to go home.

‘Can I see him before we go?’ asked Eoin.

‘Of course,’ replied the doctor and showed him into the room where Dylan lay hooked up to several monitors.

Dylan was a bit embarrassed to see Eoin, and his eyes began to fill with tears.

‘Ah, Eoin, I’m so sorry. I was being a bit thick with you. You know I didn’t mean it.’

Eoin smiled and said of course he forgave him.

‘But how did the game finish?’ asked Dylan. Eoin shrugged, but one of the Munster coaches held up his phone.

‘They’re playing extra-time, it’s 13-13.’

Eoin went white, and sat down. ‘Oh, no. They’ll go mad because I left early. I have to get back there.’

‘Sure it will be over before you get to the ground,’
said one of the Munster adults. ‘And the ref probably wouldn’t let you back on anyway. Hang on here and we’ll let Dylan know how it ends up and then we’ll get a taxi back.’

The boys sat and chatted, but their minds were elsewhere. The phone belonging to Aidan, the coach, buzzed. Everyone stared as he swiped open the message.

‘Darn it, it’s 16-13 Leinster. Two minutes left.’

Eoin counted down the seconds from 120, but it seemed like he was counting down from a thousand.

The phone buzzed again, and he could tell from Aidan’s face that the final result wasn’t good news for Munster. He smiled, but didn’t say or do anything triumphant – just in case the Munster men decided to leave him behind in the hospital.

He said goodbye to Dylan and promised to call the hospital next morning to see if he needed anything. He collected the phone numbers from the reception desk and hopped into the back of the taxi which took them back to the Stoop.

Eoin scurried into the dressing room where his team were still singing. They sent up a huge cheer when they saw he had arrived, and he was bombarded with questions about where he had gone and how was the Munster lad.

Ted slapped him on the shoulder and grinned.

‘Don’t you EVER do that again, Madden. We cut it very fine in the end.’

Eoin smiled and apologised, but the coach waved it away.

‘Look, all turned out well in the end. How’s your pal?’

‘He’ll be alright,’ Eoin replied. ‘A few big bruises but he’s a tough little pup – I hope Harry was OK?’

Ted laughed. ‘Yeah, he will have a sore head in the morning, but no harm done. See you back at the school. We’re going to have a small party but an early night. The final is at half past two and we have to be ready to stand up to the Ulster men.’

Eoin smiled. ‘Excellent, they’re a nice bunch. But we’ll have to keep away from them in the dining hall now.’

But there was no question of keeping away from the Ulster boys. When they got back to the school there was a welcoming banner across the doorway reading ‘Congratulations’.

‘We know that nobody has won anything yet,’ said the headmaster, ‘but we just want to thank you all for being such wonderful guests and to congratulate you on
your efforts on the field. We have teams here from Wales, Scotland, England, Italy and France, but it was the two teams from Ireland that got to the final. We have made great friends with you all and we will follow all you careers closely in the future. And maybe one day those Irish boys will be on a team over in the stadium there that gets a good thumping by England!’

The boys laughed and the coaches thanked the school, and then Ted and the Ulster coach invited everyone to a party in the dining hall.

‘I know the competition isn’t over yet,’ Ted announced. ‘But we all leave too soon after the final and this is the last opportunity to get everyone together. Still, I don’t want to see any of my team drinking fizzy cola the night before the final!’