Needing 13 - Johnny Kavanagh

WELL, THAT DIDN'T WORK OUT

TARA

Today was game day, and I was exactly where I always was—by Darragh's side, ready to cheer him on. I'd been to every one of his matches since we'd met. It was a non-negotiable clause in our friendship contract. I'd show up at his rugby games, and he'd return the favor at my camogie matches, and later, at my athletics competitions. It was just our way. We always wore each other's numbers—me sporting his number 13, and him proudly donning my number 9.

It was important to him.

Wearing that jersey meant the world to him, though it took me a while to understand why. He wasn't exactly short on support. Darragh had his older brother, Conrad, and his da, Cian. Unlike my own fucked-up family, they seemed genuinely close—tight-knit and loving.

But he told me that, despite all that, the year after his mam passed was hell on earth for them. Conrad buried himself in endless hours of training down at the GAA Pavilion, and Cian threw himself into his Garda job. They each had something to hide behind, but Darragh had nothing.

It was Aisling, his mam, who had sparked his love for rugby. Her whole family was mad into it. His grandda on his mam's side had even made the English senior team, playing in the Six Nations—no small feat. Though Darragh never said it outright, I knew he planned to follow in his grandda's footsteps. He wasn't as obsessed with the game as Jonathan was, but he was easily one of the best players on the team. Disciplined, hardworking, and, unfortunately, his own harshest critic. That last part? It was one of the reasons I wasn't keen on rugby.

Jonathan's adductor injury this year?

Darragh's had it twice in the thirteen years I've known him. He'd torn his ACL three times. He pushed himself to the brink, hell-bent on making his mam and grandda proud, even if it meant risking everything. When he was a kid, he'd train to the point of fainting on the pitch, rain or shine. But the scariest time was when he was thirteen. He was tackled by several lads, and he didn't get up. They rushed him to the emergency room, and I swear, I've never been so terrified. He'd fallen on his head, and when they moved the other players away, his neck was twisted in a sickening way.

It was worse than bad—they had to put him into an induced coma so his body could recover. Luckily, he didn't need spinal surgery, but they said it was a close call. Turned out, he'd fainted before he got tackled due to exhaustion, which is what made it so dangerous.

Afterward, Conrad and Cian gave him a right bollocking. The three of them finally went to family therapy, to talk about Aisling and what her death had done to them. They'd never sat down to face it together, each dealing with it in their own way. Therapy changed things. They came out of it closer, and Darragh swore he'd never put himself at risk like that again—a promise he's kept ever since.

And that's why it mattered so much to him that I wore his number. He said seeing me in his jersey was like seeing his mam in the stands, cheering him on. He'd told me she would've liked me. Since Conrad and Cian couldn't always make it to his games, I'd taken on the role of his personal cheerleader.

"How are you?" I asked, strolling over to where he was stretching. "Feeling nervous?"

"A bit," he replied, shrugging with a sheepish grin. "I'm trying to make the English senior rugby team."

We were at Tommen, and though the air was a bit nippy, the sun was shining, and I wasn't too warm either. I was wearing a grey zip-up sweatshirt over Darragh's red and white striped rugby jersey, paired with straight-leg jeans and my battered black Chucks.

"Will I see ya this summer?"

He had plans to go to London if he passed his Leaving Cert, and I had a feeling Erin would follow him. She'd go wherever he went. What they had was solid, and besides, she'd always dreamed about studying fashion or journalism—or interior design. She changed her mind every other week.