Chapter 9
Nine
As far as Fin was concerned, the second night of training was even worse than the first. It had been a long time since he’d doubted himself and his abilities, but it was as though his time away from Ballyshannon had reset the clock on his relationship with the town and he was back to being the skinny nerdy kid, feeling completely inept and out of his depth.
And he hated it.
The worst part was, he felt like he was letting his father down. The town was doing this to honour Michael Murphy and Fin had come to think of it as his way to atone for the way things had ended between him and his father. And he was fucking that up, too.
The only bright spot was that Winnie had turned up again. Even though he’d invited her to join the training and Tori and Nellie had introduced themselves with some basic but very cute signing, she declined, shaking her head as she clung to her grandfather’s leg.
Still, Fin was encouraged that she’d returned.
As a kid who had been chronically shy, he related to the little girl.
Not that he was comparing. His had been a run-of-the-mill childhood thing whereas he suspected, from the way her grandfather was so protective, hers was related to something much more serious.
Whatever the source, he didn’t want to exacerbate it by rushing in with gusto. It was clear she needed a gentle approach, and the fact she’d come back boded well—he hoped.
Who knew, maybe she’d be at the grounds again today and feel a little less shy?
At least it was something to look forward to as he motored to the ground with Sweeney riding shotgun.
Neither of them had said anything since he’d started the car and he couldn’t shake the sense of impending doom.
And not just because he had no clue how to turn his little rabble of overexcited players into some semblance of order where the team took precedence over individual glory.
But also because after training he and Sweeney were having dinner with the mothers one last time, then he was driving her to Melbourne to catch her plane.
It was a good thing she was going as far as the engagement charade went but, perversely, he wished she wasn’t. Despite the circumstances it had been fabulous to see her again. He hadn’t realised just how much he’d missed her, and he’d forgotten how easy she was to be around.
And god knew when he’d see her again. At their mothers’ seventieth birthdays, maybe? The thought made his blood itch.
‘You look like you lost a shilling and found a penny.’
Fin smiled as he flicked a glance at Sweeney. ‘God, I haven’t heard that in years.’
‘Your grandfather made it sound much more romantic in his lovely Kerry accent.’
His grandfather had always been quick with an Irish expression. Fin’s favourite had always been the tide wouldn’t take him out.
‘Okay, let’s have it.’ She tugged on the seatbelt and turned in her seat to face him. ‘What’s on your mind?’
Fin didn’t bother pretending he didn’t know what she was talking about. Sweeney always had known him best. ‘I guess I never thought I’d suck as a coach.’
She laughed. ‘You don’t suck.’
‘They don’t listen to me.’
‘They’re five and six. I don’t know much about kids but I think that’s pretty typical.’
Except every single kid on a Michael Murphy team had listened to him like he was fucking Moses coming down from the mount. He shook his head. ‘I should never have let my mother talk me into this.’
‘Fin …’ She laughed again. ‘It’s been two days. Stop putting so much pressure on yourself.’
His fingers tightened around the wheel. ‘My dad knew how to do this.’
‘Your dad was used to hanging around with kids. He had eight siblings. And dozens and dozens of cousins. And you. And Gaelic football was his thing.’
‘It’s my thing, too.’
‘No.’ Sweeney shook her head. ‘Not like it was for your father.’
Okay, Fin would give her that. He loved playing and watching the sport, but his father had been obsessed. His mother had often joked about being a footy widow during the season.
‘Is this about winning, because I don’t think—’
‘Absolutely not,’ he interrupted with a vehement shake of his head.
His father had liked to win, of course, but what he’d cared most about was that every single person on the team had tried their hardest. ‘It’s …
’ He searched around for the right words but it really just came down to three. ‘It’s for Dad.’
She nodded slowly then, as though she finally realised how deeply personal coaching this team was to Fin, even if she didn’t fully understand all the demons chasing him.
‘Okay. I get that. You don’t want to let Michael down.’
Yeah, that was part of it, too.
‘But you know the secret to your father’s coaching success?’
Fin frowned. Of course he did, but … how did she? Sweeney might have seen a lot of games but she’d hardly been a footy fan. ‘Because he was a brilliant strategist and knew how to break it down in a way that kids understood.’
‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘I mean, I’m sure it was some of that as well, but the biggest reason he was a great coach was because the kids liked him. They liked him so much they would have done anything for him.’
Fin blinked at the insight. ‘How do you know that?’
‘Because it was the same with me. And others. He was generous and caring and giving, and he always had time to listen to people. After my dad died he’d often drop by and we’d go out into the back yard and he’d water the grass—because he knew how much my dad prided himself on a well-kept lawn and that my mum wasn’t up to much at that point in time—and we’d chat about Dad.
So many people went out of their way to not talk about Dad in front of me, but Michael always had a story about him that I didn’t know and I loved hearing them and I loved your dad for that. ’
Stupidly, a lump rose and lodged in Fin’s throat.
He knew this story. Sweeney had told him back in the day that his father dropped by every now and then, but he hadn’t realised they’d talked that much during his father’s visits or that it had obviously meant so much to Sweeney.
The achy, guilt-ridden love he felt for his father surged in his chest.
‘People liked your father,’ she reiterated.
Swallowing the lump, Fin attempted to lighten the mood. ‘So, you’re saying that bunch of little kids doesn’t like me?’
She shook her head. ‘They don’t know you.
Fin. Maybe if you stopped trying to be your dad and just be you.
And also maybe … loosen up a little? You’re so uptight about getting it right you’ve forgotten how much you love this game.
Show them that. And have some fun with them.
Tell them poo jokes. Make them laugh. They’re kids.
And this isn’t a grand final at Croke Park.
It’s an Easter gymkhana at the Gold Coast playing against other five- and six-year-olds. Take a breath.’
Fin shot her a quick look before he put his eyes back on the road.
She was right. He’d never felt going onto the footy field was a chore until three days ago.
That day by the lake, everyone from his family had looked at him as though he was going to step into his father’s shoes, and the pressure had been building ever since.
But the truth was, it wasn’t coming from them. It was coming from inside. From a much darker place where his unresolved guilt roiled and simmered. ‘You’re right.’ His shoulders slumped a little as he sucked in a ragged breath.
Fun. He knew fun. He was a fun guy, damn it!
‘I’m sorry, Murph,’ she said, a smile in her voice at the old nickname, ‘can you say that a little louder?’ She cupped a hand around her ear. ‘I didn’t hear you?’
Fin laughed. It felt good to laugh after the unexpectedly heavy conversation. ‘You heard me perfectly fine, Bailes.’
‘No, no.’ She shook her head. ‘I didn’t hear you over the radio.’
He rolled his eyes. The music was background at best. ‘You’re right,’ he repeated.
Her grin was pure damn right but she sobered quickly. ‘If it’s any consolation, I kinda know how you feel.’
‘The photography thing?’
‘Yup.’ She nodded. ‘I honestly thought I’d pick it up pretty quickly and I expected last night’s pictures would be much better than the first night, but they weren’t.’
Fin shook his head. They made a fine pair. ‘Sweeney … They were great.’ The photos had been popular locally and the GoFundMe had received a bit of a boost.
‘No. They weren’t.’ She looked out her window.
‘They were … fine, but they were, I don’t know …
missing something. When I look at them I feel …
removed from them. Like they could have been taken from a drone.
Like an adult taking pictures of children instead of being right in the action. If that makes sense.’
‘Well, what about … getting down lower? Crouching or even lying on the ground. So you’re more at their level?’
It took a beat or two but her head slowly turned to look at him. ‘You know what?’ She tapped her index finger absently against her closed mouth and stared at a point beyond him somewhere, her brow furrowed in concentration. ‘That’s a good idea.’
Her gaze came back into focus as Fin cocked an eyebrow and cupped his ear. ‘I’m sorry, what did you say, Bailes?’ His mouth twitched. ‘A little louder, please. I didn’t hear you.’
‘Yeah, yeah.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Touché.’
*
Fin was invigorated as the training session drew to a close.
Sweeney’s advice had been just what he’d needed, and for the first time in three days he felt like he was swimming instead of sinking.
He’d started the hour with a getting-to-know-you game with the ball.
He’d made his team all stand in a circle then, when he lobbed the ball to each player—fifty per cent of whom didn’t manage to catch it, but that was an issue for another day—he asked them to tell him their name, how old they were, whether they had any brothers and sisters, and one silly thing about themselves.