Chapter 45

After my shower, I made a coffee and then made some notes about the training sessions. I googled the James Joyce bar and it was only a twenty-minute walk from my hotel. I got dressed, splashed on some aftershave, and headed out to walk to the bar.

It was a nice evening and I enjoyed the walk. I stopped off to watch a busker for five minutes and tossed a couple of Loonies into his guitar case. I had heard some of the lads at the rugby club talk about the Loonie and I had found some in my change. It had a picture of a bird that I was told was a common loon.

Then I carried on to the bar. It was fairly busy when I got there. I got to the bar and ordered a pint of the black stuff. Let’s face it if you are in a bar named after one of the greatest Irish writers you have to have a Guinness, don’t you?

I looked around as my pint was poured in the slow traditional Irish style. I had drunk Guinness all over the world, and I was more than happy to wait for a slow-poured pint.

Once my beer was poured and handed over with a shamrock shape in the head, I made my way over to some bar stools and took a seat. The bar was decorated with Irish posters and memorabilia.

I had been there for ten minutes when Esse walked in, she looked amazing. She had faded jeans on and a purple blouse. I stood up and waved but she had already seen me and she walked over. I was not sure of the protocol here, should we shake hands, or should we just say high or what?

Esse took the lead and kissed me on the cheek. OMG, she smelt divine.

“You look amazing!” I blurted out.

“You don’t look so bad yourself!” she said and bit her bottom lip.

She glanced at my pint.

“I have never tried Guinness, may I?” she asked.

“Oh course, please be my guest,” I said.

She picked up the glass and took a sip. The bartender was watching and smiled before coming over.

“SO, tell me, fella, are you not Zak Robinson?” he asked. His accent was pure Dublin Irish.

“Yes, that’s me,” I said. He thrust his hand out and we shook.

“I was in Dublin the day you scored twice in the last ten minutes to put Leinster out of the European cup, you played a game and a half that day,” he said. He was obviously a true rugby fan. I remember the day; I had played the full 80 minutes and was knackered.

We had been fifteen points down in the last quarter. The scrum had collapsed, and both sets of forwards had done what forwards do (or did back in those days) and the scuffle started.

I was face to face with an Irish international player, we had traded a few punches but were now holding each other’s shirts and looking to see where it would go.

And he told me I would never make the England team, that I was nothing more than a club player. it was typical sledging. The scuffle ended as the French referee blew his whistle for the hundredth time. That sledging spurred something in me. we had the penalty and our flyhalf kicked the ball to the corner. Our line out. Our line out caller called the ball to himself. The hooker hit him with a sweet throw, he palmed the ball to our scrum half.

I backed away from the lineout and joined the offensive line. The scrumhalf passed to the fly-half, he made three steps forward and passed to the inside centre. He made three steps and threw a miss pass past me to the outside centre. The winger and the fullback were in the offensive line and the defenders all thought the ball would go wide.

The inside centre popped a little inside pass to me and I cantered in under the posts. Our fans went wild. Our kicker made easy work of the kick and the deficit was now only eight points down.

They kicked off and our full back caught the ball and found a gap in the defence and he was followed through the hole by one of the wingers. The rest of our team hared up the pitch and when the Irish lads tackled our winger we cleared out with such power and ferocity two of their lads were left on the floor clutching their ribs.

The ball was sent wide and our outside centre was brought to the floor only a few feet from the try line. Our scrum half was caught up in the ruck and there was no one else near the base. I ran in picked up the ball and dummied a pass to the winger who had made a great arcing run with the fullback on his shirt tails. A gap opened up and I jogged in for my second try.

The Irish lads were fucked, they were blowing out of their arses. I glanced at the clock as the kick went between the uprights. We had less than ninety seconds on the clock.

The Irish lads kicked off and I was the catcher. The prop behind me held me high and I took the pass and popped it down to our hooker who stormed off like a rhino on gas. He was taken to the ground and we cleared the Irish lads off the ruck.

The ball was trucked on by our number eight. He made good ground, and as he was tackled, he popped the ball off the ground to me and I made a few yards. I was hit hard and only just managed to get the ball away. One of our props made two yards and was hit hard and taken to the ground.

I got to my feet and glanced at the stadium clock. Sixty seconds. We had practised this on the training ground a few times. How to work our way up the middle of the field. The idea was to use up time and get our kicker into a good position.

The scrumhalf passed the ball to me. I saw space and ran at it. It was not space for long. I was tackled and a ruck formed over me. I smuggled the ball back and by the time I was back on my feet, the ball was another ten yards up the pitch.

I glanced at the clock and there were thirty seconds left. I ran back into the attacking line. The scrumhalf passed the ball to one of our props he made three yards before two of the Irish lads hit him hard but as he dropped he pop passed the ball to me and I made two yards before I was tackled and again I managed to get the ball back and by the time I got back to my feet the referee was blowing his whistle and our fans were going wild as the penalty was for us. One of the Irish lads had used his boot in the ruck too close to my head. I had not felt it but I was not the referee and I was not going to argue with him.

Our Physio ran onto the pitch at the same time as the water boy with the kicking tee. I glanced at the clock as our flyhalf got his kick lined up and the physio washed blood off my ear. Fifteen seconds.

The referee told the Irish captain we would restart the game no matter how long our kicker took. I heard the Irish captain telling his team they could still win the game.

The kick was good and we were in the lead. Our physio told me she wanted to come off the pitch I told her there was no way. She wrapped a bandage and tape around my head as I gulped down some water. my lungs were burning and my throat was dry.

I made my way up the pitch, I could hear our fans, our coaches, and our subs bench all screaming at us.

The ref told us that the next time the ball went dead, the game was over. I got to my pod, the lads who would lift me should the ball come my way.

It did come my way, I took the ball and my lifters dropped me to the ground I dummied a pass, swivelled, and kicked the ball into row thirty of the stand and the ref blew his whistle to end the game.

I got man of the match and we made the final. We won the final beating one of the best French teams. I had a bang-average game in the final but we won, I still have the medal and the memories.

Anyway, back to the current day...

“Would you mind us taking a picture for our famous visitor wall?” the bartender asked.

I looked at Esse and she smiled at me. so, I had my picture taken with the bartender, who told me his name was Ryan and the Duty manager who was a lad from Cork called Declan.

By the time I had come back, Esse had ordered two pints of Guinness. We took a seat away from the bar and we got chatting.

Esse asked me about my life and rugby and why I was in Canada. I gave her the potted history. Then I asked her about her life. She was originally from Toronto but had moved to Calgary when her then-boyfriend, a soccer player, had moved teams.

They had only been in the city for three months when he left her for another girl.

She had been to university to learn social media marketing and had taken the job with the Bears a few months earlier. She said she enjoyed it and the work was challenging which she said was good. She also told me that all the players and staff were worried about the fact they might get relegated as they knew that staff would get laid off as the money, they got from sponsors would not be there anymore.

We drank our beers and talked for a good hour, then I heard my stomach rumble.

“Sorry about that,” I said, apologetically.

“Sounds like it’s time to eat?” Esse said.

“And you still fancy the Cactus Club café?” I asked.

“It’s my favourite!” Esse said.

So, I went up to the bar, paid my tab and shook hands with Ryan and Declan. They made me promise to come back and see them.

We walked up to the restaurant. It was a great evening, still sunny and warm.

The Cactus Club café was a great restaurant, vibrant and with a great buzz about it. We ordered a jug of water and a bottle of chardonnay. The waiter left us with the menus, there were lots of great dishes to choose from and I was at a loss when it came to ordering.

for starters, Esse went for the Wagyu beef carpaccio and I went for the crab cakes. For mains, I opted for the Rigatoni Bolognese and Esse had the Thai green curry. We ate and we chatted, we chatted about music, books, and life in Canada. The only thing we didn’t agree on was her choice of music. She told me she was into country and western, plus she loved a good old-fashioned barn dance.

Then we got onto rugby, she was new to the sport but she said she was enjoying the game and the club. We finished the food, which was delicious by the way, and both refused desserts.

I paid the bill, even though Esse said we should go Dutch. She insisted on leaving the tip.

Then we walked out into the evening sky, she said she fancied a cocktail and she knew a place that did cheap ones. She took my arm and led me down the road. The cocktail bar was great, we ordered two mojitos. There was a dance floor and the DJ was playing old-school Motown.