Creative Writing – 'Do What You Need to Do'

This is a continuation of the Derek-and-Emma narrative that I am gradually putting together here on Steemit. For some context around Do What You Need to Do, check out I Will, another instalment of Derek's story which chronologically precedes this one.

The atmosphere at Hillyard Park cannot compete with the glorious buzz of Lansdowne Road on a match day, when the stands are thronged with supporters and Derek can barely hear his own thoughts over the shouts, chants and songs coming at him from all sides. Still, there are few things he enjoys more than the sight of the late afternoon sun shining down on the Hillyard pitch, as it is doing now.

A few groups of his teammates cluster nearby – some of them chatting, others performing stretches – as Derek stands in the light for a few moments, arms outstretched. This is something he does before every training session: imagining that the field before him is not the empty stretch of immaculately tended ground that is Hillyard Park, but Lansdowne Road on the day of a big game, filled with cheering people and colourful flags and tumultuous roars from the crowd every time the team gains a point.

Fitzy! Fitzy! Fitzy!

The slightly overwhelming feeling of being feted like some sort of god by those fans. The knowledge that from the moment the match begins, he and his teammates will bear all of the fans’ hopes and dreams on their shoulders. The chorus of kids shouting his name. The face of the young boy at Price Watchers, full of glowing approval … and then comes the memory of himself falling to pieces in the sauces aisle. No. He can’t think about that right now. He needs to focus on the game. He needs to be mentally psyched up for it during this training session: needs to recall that feeling of certain victory, of sheer strength and power surging through his every muscle, vein, tendon, nerve. His entire body in peak condition, primed to do exactly what he has so meticulously trained it to do. The strategic eye he casts over the field at all times. The feeling of single-minded, unbreakable focus. Not Anne-Marie. Not her face, not her eyes, and certainly not the way she looked at him on that terrible day when –

‘Fitzy! Get your arse in gear. We’re on!’

Dwyer’s hoarse tones cut through his thoughts. Derek opens his eyes and drops his arms, frustrated that he couldn’t fully concentrate.

‘All right lads, come on now,’ the manager calls out, beckoning the players impatiently to the side of the pitch, where he and a few coaches are standing by waiting for them. Sean Dwyer is a wiry Corkman who rules over his squad with a determination and force that belies his small stature. He earned his chops by coaching Munster for fifteen years, before leading them to victory as a manager on many occasions. As the squad gathers into a semi-circle around him, his gaze darts around, sharp and shrewd, to alight on each one of them.

‘Right. We all know what’s at stake in a few weeks’ time. The championship isn’t going to be won without a fight – and by God, we’ll have to put up the fight of a lifetime, every single step of the way. Not just against Italy, but against every single fecker we come across in this battle. Don’t let the guard down. Don’t underestimate anybody. Don’t ye let up for a minute, lads, or they’ll be on us like a pile of bricks. Fintan! You got the all clear from the medics?’

‘Yes, Dwyer.’

‘Good, good,’ Dwyer replies curtly. ‘Now, Carey and Smith – I’m putting the two of ye together at the back because I have a feeling it’s right. I’m taking a gamble … Declan O’Regan will have kittens when he finds out, of course, but sure when has he ever been happy with a thing I’ve done?’ He snorts derisively at this mention of the famous sports journalist with whom he has had a long-running feud, then points in a warning manner at Carey and Smith, his eyes darting back and forth between the two. ‘I’ll be trusting ye to make it work. Don’t give them an inch, no matter what. And Fitzy – eh, will you hang on a minute and have a word while the others get to work?’

Derek nods.

‘Right then, drills! Drills! Get to it, lads, come on.’ Dwyer claps his hands together and ushers them out onto the field.

Derek stands by as the squad run past – slightly surprised that Dwyer has asked him to hang back, but knowing, somehow, exactly what the manager wants to say.

‘Now, c’mere, Fitzy,’ Dwyer barks, pulling him aside once everyone else is out on the pitch. ‘Listen…’ he begins more softly, then trails off, scratching his chin. ‘I know this is your first session back since … well … you’ve had a terrible time of it lately.’

‘You could say that,’ Derek replies reluctantly. His manager’s clear blue eyes see right through him – stern, but sympathetic.

‘I’ve had a long career, Fitzy,’ Dwyer goes on grimly. ‘Do you know many lads I’ve seen crack up under the pressure when things like this happen? It doesn’t matter if it’s a big international qualifier or an under-eighteens’ schools cup game. Either way, the strain can really get to players who are … not at their best, mentally. Do you … do you understand what I’m saying, now? Talk to somebody, Fitzy. Do what you need to do.’

Derek smiles a little ruefully. Dwyer is the second person this week to tell him he should go to counselling. For a moment, he is tempted to ask him whether he and Moira have been conspiring in secret.

‘It won’t be long now until you retire, and I know you want to go out on a high. So take care of yourself, alright?’

Derek nods again: he seems to have lost the ability to speak. Dwyer clears his throat and claps him on the shoulder. ‘Anyway! We’ll let that be that, alright? Let’s concentrate on the game.’

‘Thanks Dwyer.’

‘Ah, no problem, Fitzy. Right, lads, what’re ye at? McCarthy! I want to see you moving a lot faster than that against the Italians, mark my words. And Fintan … ah, Fintan. Get your arse up off that ground, come on!’

Image sources:

Rugby field – iStock
Man with rugby ball – Shutterstock