Rugby Warrior (8 page)

R
ichie Duffy recovered his verve in the second half, and Mr McRae left him on the field. In fact, he scored two of Castlerock’s four tries as the home team sauntered to a 28-16 win. Eoin led the cheers for St Osgur’s as the teams walked off, and again looked over towards the substitutes. Dylan hadn’t returned.

After dinner, Eoin returned to the dormitory, by now very concerned about his friend. He found him lying on his bed, and it was obvious he had been crying.

‘Hi, Dyl, what happened today?’ Eoin asked. ‘Mr McRae was about to bring you on as winger.’

Dylan didn’t reply, but sat up and walked over to the door, checked the corridor outside and closed the door behind him. He walked back to his bed, sat down and looked up at his friend.

‘OK, Eoin, what I’m going to tell you HAS to stay between us. You can’t tell anyone at all.
Anyone
. Do you promise?’

Eoin nodded.

‘It’s about my dad. He’s not a very nice man, to be honest. I haven’t seen him since I was little, and most of my memories are of him being mean to my mother. Mum took Caoimhe and me away a good while ago, but he was, eh, away for a while so he didn’t bother us.

‘We were in Limerick for a few years but Mum got nervous there and so we moved to Ormondstown. We really like it there and she has a nice job too,’ he said.

‘One of her uncles was a rich lawyer in America and he wanted me to come to school here so he’s paying the fees. He was in Castlerock with Mr McCaffrey and explained the situation to him – and asked him to keep an eye out for me.

‘McCaffrey got a call from Mum today saying she had seen one of my dad’s cronies around Ormondstown. She doesn’t think he saw her, but she’s terrified all the same. It’s funny, she was nervous last week but I told her not to worry. Mothers always have an instinct about these things …’

Eoin sat down on the bed opposite Dylan.

‘That’s shocking, Dyl,’ he started. ‘Is she OK? Why did
you have to leave the game?’

‘She’s fine now, but she doesn’t know anyone well enough to trust in Ormondstown so she’s not leaving the house and poor old Caoimhe’s staying home from school. McCaffrey brought me over to talk to her as she was very upset when she rang him. Caoimhe’s in a state too, but she’s tougher than you think …’

Dylan blinked hard and changed the subject. ‘Was McRae going to bring me on? Really?’

‘Yeah, he was going to switch the backs around a bit when Richie got injured. I told him you were a better bet on the wing than Joseph,’ said Eoin.

‘Thanks, buddy,’ said Dylan, suddenly cheered up. ‘I’ll make sure I’m up for it at training on Friday.’

The pair wandered down to the common-room where Chelsea were getting a hammering from
Barcelona
on TV. Eoin chuckled to himself as blues fan Richie Duffy sat grey-faced in front of the screen.

Eoin sat down in a quiet corner and took out
The Complete Rugby Footballer
and the notes for his project. He had lots of good information and a few ideas for how he would approach the project, but he was missing the magic that would give it a chance of winning. He would need to see Dave again soon.

T
he next week was spent writing up the project, and Mr Lawson was very pleased with the way Eoin had put it together. He even called Mr Finn into the classroom to read the first draft.

‘That’s a lovely bit of work, Eoin, and some
marvellous
stories too. How did you come up with that yarn about the priest?’ he asked.

‘My grandfather,’ replied Eoin. ‘He met him a long time ago, just after, just after …’

‘Ah, yes of course. I remember. He had been a
chaplain
in the First World War. Dixie told me the story at the time. It made a great impression on him I recall. And it is interesting that his grandson should have picked up that relay baton, so to speak!’

Eoin smiled, and returned to his work. The deadline
for entries was two days away, and he wasn’t happy with some parts of the project. Mr Lawson had come up with a couple of great pictures off the internet, and the librarian had allowed him to photocopy parts of
The Complete Rugby Footballer
, but he wouldn’t allow him to send the valuable old book into the
competition
. So there was nothing connected to Dave Gallaher from his time that would give the project an edge over the other entries.

After school he packed his bag and sauntered over to the stream where he had previously encountered Gallaher. He sat down on the rock and opened the book. It was already starting to get dark, and the evening was starting to get chilly. He wouldn’t be able to hang around too long.

He stared at the photograph of Gallaher and his
team-mate
and co-author Billy Stead. The former rugby
captain
looked so strong and fit. It was hard to believe that anything could have stopped a man like him, but then he remembered how lethal were the weapons that humans were able to turn on each other, and how it took an eighteen-pound shell packed with high explosive to finally take the life of Segeant-Major David Gallaher of Ramelton and Auckland.

‘How are you, lad,’ came a voice in the now familiar
Kiwi accent. ‘And how’s that pro-ject you’re working on?’

‘Hi, Dave,’ said Eoin, relieved that the ghost had shown up. ‘It’s nearly finished, actually. I just need a couple more questions answered, if you don’t mind.’

Dave was able to fill Eoin in on what he needed to know, and they chatted for a while about the modern world of rugby and how very different a sport it appeared to the old All Black.

‘I watched a bit of that game you played last week. You guys are pretty slick. But I couldn’t work out half the positions you play in – in my day the half backs were in charge of the left or right side of the field, and
whoever
’s area it was in put the ball into the scrum, with the other standing off him. You seem to have one little guy to do that all the time now, and of course you played as the stand-off.’

Eoin was relatively new to rugby, but explained it as best he could and hoped he hadn’t given Dave a wrong steer. He told him when their next home game was and suggested he come along.

As Eoin rose to leave, he remembered that his
project
was still missing any sort of historical artefacts. He explained his problem to Dave.

‘Well now, I can probably help you there, son, but
you’re going to have to promise to look after them for me. They mean more than life itself to me now, and I’ve got all eternity to look at them.’

The old soldier opened the breast pocket of his tunic, and took out two items.

‘This here’s a photo of my wife, Nellie. She’s sitting with my lovely daughter Nora. She was just nine years old when I headed off to Europe.’

He handed the faded, browning piece of stiff card to Eoin, and his eyes misted over. ‘Look after it good,’ he croaked.

And then he opened his fist, which had been closed over a piece of dark cloth.

‘This here has been in my pocket for more than a century. I carried it everywhere after I stopped playing, and it went with me to that last battlefield near Wipers.’

Eoin stared at the treasured piece of material, with a silver fern carefully embroidered on the black cloth.

‘Before it ended up in my pocket I wore it on my chest, on the black jersey of New Zealand,’ the All Black explained. ‘Good luck with the pro-ject, I’m chuffed that people will be hearing about Dave Gallaher all over again – and in Ireland too. Drop back here and let me know how it goes.’

N
ext morning there was another surprise for Eoin, as the school secretary met him on the steps of the school and handed him a letter. The address was written in thin, shaky handwriting, but Eoin recognised the postmark as coming from Ormondstown.

‘Grandad,’ he smiled. ‘And what have you got for me here?’

He opened the letter carefully, and was astonished to find there was just one, yellow piece of paper inside. It was clearly very old, and when he opened it, a poem was printed on it in very old-fashioned script. He read it to himself.

Underneath the poem was written a note in different handwriting.

‘Poem hand-written by the author, Geoffrey Studdert Kennedy, and given by him to Father Edward
Fitzgerald
, the man who gave the last rites to Dave Gallaher.’

Eoin grinned, and kissed the envelope. ‘Thanks,
Grandad
,’ he said to himself. ‘That’s fantastic.’

Mr Lawson was stunned when Eoin produced the folder containing his final project, which he had
coloured
to resemble Dave’s old book, and he was knocked out by the three pieces of history that he produced to accompany his entry.

‘Where on earth did you get these items?’ he asked.

Eoin panicked, realising he couldn’t tell the whole truth without getting into a whole lot more trouble. But he couldn’t tell a lie to the teacher either.

‘My grandad gave me the poem,’ he replied. ‘He met the old priest, Fr Fitzgerald, a long time ago. It was just
a coincidence that I told him I was doing the project on Dave Gallaher.’

‘And the photograph? I gave you a print-out of that from a website. But this looks like the original …’

‘A friend of mine gave it to me,’ Eoin explained. ‘He heard I was doing the project and got it to me. I have to look after it really carefully. Can we just send a copy to the organisers and bring this along to the exhibition? I just can’t lose them.’

‘And the silver fern,’ asked Mr Lawson. ‘Is this …?’ he stared at Eoin. ‘It
can’t
be!’

‘It is,’ said Eoin. ‘The same friend.’

‘But, that’s a truly priceless artefact. I know for certain that the New Zealand National Museum would pay a fortune for such an item, let alone what private
collectors
might. I’m not a huge rugby fan, but this gives me the shivers just holding it. Who is this friend?’ he asked.

‘I would rather not say,’ said Eoin. ‘Security issues, you know.’

Mr Lawson stared at the youngster. ‘Well, I must say I’m seriously impressed, Eoin, this is a brilliant piece of work. No matter how well you do in the competition I’d say you’re a certainty for an A in your next school report. Well done.’

T
he Under-14s won their next two games, and already were being talked of as favourites for the Begley Cup. They had been drawn to play against St Isolde’s Academy in the semi-final and there was a real buzz around the school about the team.

Unfortunately, the team suffered a setback just before the big game.

Mr Lawson had asked Mr McCaffrey could he set up a small soccer club, but the headmaster needed a lot of convincing. Castlerock was a rugby school, and nothing could be allowed deflect from its aim to be the best rugby school in the province. The New
Zealander
pointed out that there were a lot of boys who couldn’t get into the three Under-14 rugby teams and were missing out on healthy activity.

Reluctantly, Mr McCaffrey agreed and Castlerock AFC was granted a small, scruffy pitch in a distant corner of the playing fields.

They played among themselves at first, but the
trouble
came during a friendly against Ligouri College. The team was mostly made up of boys who didn’t play rugby, but there was a handful of rugby players on the team. Just before the final whistle one of them, Joseph Pearse, was through on his own with only the goalkeeper to beat when he suddenly lurched forward and tumbled to the ground. He roared in pain, and Mr Lawson rushed out to where he lay.

‘What’s up, Joseph?’

‘Aaaaah, it’s agony, sir. I went into a pothole and twisted my ankle and went over. It feels like it’s broken sir,’ the boy replied.

Happily for Joseph, his ankle wasn’t broken, but it was seriously sprained and he was told to rest it for a week. Which meant he would miss the Begley Cup semi-final.

Mr McCaffrey and Mr Carey were furious – and ordered Mr Lawson not to use members of the rugby teams any more – but Mr McRae didn’t seem too put out by losing his left winger. He took Eoin aside before the last light training session the following day.

‘All right, skipper, here’s what I’m thinking,’ the coach
began. ‘I’m going to bring Dylan in on the wing. I’ve been looking at him a lot in training and I agree that he has great potential there. He is a bit small, I suppose, but he has a great burst of speed and passes well. What do you think?’

Eoin agreed, and took it on himself to tell Dylan. His room-mate’s grin was as wide as the Ormondstown Gaels goal.

‘Fantastic! Thanks bud,’ he replied. ‘I won’t let you down’.

And Dylan certainly didn’t let Eoin or Mr McRae down. The little winger was unstoppable, and every time he received the ball he caused havoc in the St Isolde’s defence. He nipped in for a try just before half time to give Castlerock a 13-11 lead, but came into his own in the second half as the forwards’ domination started to pay off.

‘Get the ball out to the wings as soon as possible,’ Eoin told the backs when they came together for a huddle mid-way through the half with the score reading 16-14. ‘Shane and Dylan have the legs on them to cause huge damage.’

Eoin proved right, with Dylan running in three more tries as Castlerock strolled into the final. As the referee’s last whistle rang out, the scoreboard showed an emphatic
35-14 win for Mr McRae’s team. The coach shook all their hands as they reached the dressing room.

‘That was a truly splendid display,’ he told them. ‘I’m dead proud of what you did out there today, which is all down to the work you’ve been doing in training. Now get off and enjoy the rest of the evening, because I want you all up early for a session before school tomorrow. We’ll meet in the hall at seven in the morning.’

The boys looked around at each other – this was a serious sacrifice, but they understood that they had a great chance of some more rugby glory and were all prepared to do what was necessary.

‘I don’t know about the rest of you, but I won’t be able to sleep tonight anyway,’ chuckled Dylan as he threw his bag over his shoulder and walked out of the dressing room with his hand above his head showing four fingers.