Star Strength.

"Kenny - are you ready?"

"No Frankie. I ain't. I'm pissing my goddamned pants."

"Seriously dude? Are you okay? Have you pissed yourself?"

"No Frank I haven't! I just can't - can't do this. I'm just, eh, not ready. I can't do it."

"Of course you can! Stop talking through your asshole Kenny. Drop something or take a gulp of that bottle and get out there. You'll be fine once you hear the roar."

"Shut the fuck up Frankie! This is serious! I haven't done this for such a long time. I'm afraid I'll suck eggs and disappoint them all."

"You won't suck - you are Kenny Cheevers. You are a legend. Over twenty million records sold. You are gold goddammit!"

"But I haven't got out there in so, so long. And my voice isn't what it was!"

"It's just like getting back up on a horse. And your voice sounds better now anyhow - far more refined."

"You think?"

"Of course so! You can do this Ken. You're ready. You've prepped for this. There's twelve thousand people out there are waiting for you. Punters wanting you to grace their lives again. This is not twenty three years ago when you played to ten people in your first gig."

"I remember that night like it was yesterday."

"It was a good night. That cage saved you from being beer bottled in the face."

"Yeah that dude with the ugly yellow teeth really didn't like me, did he?"

"No he certainly didn't!"

"I remember that long drive on that windy, greasy road. It was lashing rain that night with leaves falling everywhere."

"Ricky played bass and Chuck wouldn't shut up! That guy was always yapping his mouth off! You enjoyed that night, didn't you?"

"It's still one of my best life memories Frank."

"Seriously?"

"The fact you're still around too means a great deal. You do know that?"

"I know dude."

"I have my lucky pleck."

"Then you've got everything. Ready?"

"I suppose I am."

"Let's go so. The band are waiting for your pep talk in the wings."

"And Frank?"

"Yeah?"

"Sorry for the eh, y'know, freak out."

"Kinda half expected it. Go rock the joint."

"I do remember driving out of there at hi-speed though. Without being paid our money though!"

"We've come some way, eh?"

"That we have dude. Thanks for being there for me Frank - through everything - I mean it."

"Enough emotion - save it for the fans and the show."

The Speech.

“Feck that Matty – we’re flying by on the seat of our pants. The lads are chugging along in second gear. It’s not good enough.”

“I know Tommo. What do we do? Get Frankie on?”

“Nah. It’s a bit early for him yet.”

“What are ya gonna say to them?”

“I’m not sure I know. I’m gonna have to think quickly though. We’re gonna struggle into that wind.”

“Are ya coming in so?”

“Gimme a minute. Go around and see whose carrying knocks from that first half. See what the mood is like – give me thumbs up or down when I come in.”

“Will do boss.”

Tom Moran stood outside against the flaking paint of the blue dressing room door, assessing his options. The flecks of dried paint stuck to his black and red trimmed Bainisteoir t-shirt. A flash of silver caught his eye and mind.

Taking in a deep breath, he cracked open the door. The mood was light and he heard laughter before he glanced upon a face in the room. He closed the door slowly and stood with his back to it. Leaning against it prevented anyone leaving until he was ready.

Tom rubbed his stubbly chin and looked down at the stark grey concrete of the dressing room. Clumps of grass and clay intermittently littered the entire floor. The smell of Deep Heat, Icy Hot, sweat and urine mixed up a cocktail of smells that only exists in dressing rooms.

Tom caught Matt’s eye. Matt shook his head, indicating that the attitude wasn’t right. Usually Tom took his place in the centre of the room, before giving guidance on how best to approach the second half.

This time was different. He was well pissed off.

A hush soon enveloped the crowded space. The players knew Tom wasn’t happy. He waited for complete silence. Then he walked very slowly to the bathroom and went for a piss. The room stayed quiet, awaiting his words.

“I’m glad I have your attention lads. Please take a good look around ye.”

Tom let that hang in the air as twenty five men looked around at each other, unsure of what was coming next.

“I’ve known most of ye for almost five years now. We started off in Division 2 at under-13 level. We were seen as a joke to some people, but I soon knew I had a special bunch of young men. We took a while to get to winning ways, but we got there eventually. Alan Fitz there came onboard as a trainer three years ago and got ye into great shape – all your fitness work over the past few years has been with thanks to him. Ye are easily the fittest team in the county.”

A few heads looked in Alan’s direction, thanking him with imperceptible glances and thankful eyes. Alan got embarrassed, blushing at the mere mention of his name. He had no idea Tom was going to thank him.

“And now I want ye to thank Davie Murph over there for getting many of ye through knocks, niggles and injuries over the past few years. Did any of ye know that Murph looks after ye for nothing?”

It was Dave’s turn to look down at the hard concrete in embarrassment.

“Matty there has been in this club longer than many of ye have been on this planet. He’s the guy who gets your gear right, makes sure we have the right equipment and does most of the organizing prior to games. Without him lads, not much would happen. Ye’d all be sitting at home on yer arses on a Sunday morning if it wasn’t for people like him.”

Tom let that one sink in, pacing around the room. He glanced in the eyes of all twenty two players. He said nothing.

The dressing room was eerily quiet apart from the odd scraping of boot or stud on concrete. A referee’s whistle blew. Three or four players got to their feet, expecting to be called back out to the pitch.

“Sit down te fuck! I’m not finished!”

The normally calm Tom Moran had lost his cool. His audience were captivated and a touch fearful.

“I’m sorry for shouting lads. Sorry.”

Tom seemed completely contrite and apologetic. He held his hand up.

“Okay here’s what I want you to do. Keep the ball in hand second half. Keep any ball into the forwards low. If I see any ball flying high into the sky, I’ll whip ye off the pitch so quick yer fucking head will spin! We are fecking well fitter than these boyos, so let’s get them chasing US lads! That’ll tire the fuck outta them and then we can pick them off. That wind has to be respected lads, so use it to our advantage.”

The referee’s whistle blew twice again, more impatient this time. The opposition took to the pitch. The noise of twenty odd pairs of stud on concrete outside their dressing room made quite a din.

“Everyone get up and stand shoulder to shoulder with the man next to ya. Ignore the noise out there! And now I want ya to glance around and take in every player in this room. I hate to be a killjoy lads, but this could be the last time ye all play together. Ye have to appreciate that next year many of ye will be in college around the country or emigrating to Australia or the USA. That’s life lads! It waits around for no man. Ye have gone to school with each other and played together for nearly five years. This could be your last hurrah.”

The whistle blew again.

“Fuck that ref; he’s just an impatient arsehole.”

Tom’s joke broke the tension.

“One last thing lads – I want to show you all something I was given almost twenty years ago in my minor county final. It’s a silver, losing medal. We were like ye, right now, two points up at half time and should have been out of sight. But we weren’t and we lost by one in the end.”

Tom threw the medal on the floor in between all players and coaches. It made a cheap clunky sound against the quiet of the room.

“I do not want any of ye to regret anything lads. Leave everything you have out on that pitch. Win every 50/50 tackle! Put in that extra effort for your team mate!”

Tom now pointed his yellow stained index finger at the group, in an emotional plea.

“And PLEASE, please don’t walk out of here later, with something like that lump of shite that’s on the floor! I don’t want that torment for ye all! I don’t want ye to regret this next thirty five minutes for the rest of yer lives! ‘Cos I know I have.”

A determined look started to appear on the crowd of faces. Steeled eyes and broad shoulders flexed.

“I want the best fer all ye lads. Ye deserve to be champions, so go leave all the hard work of the past years out on that sod of turf. That’s how ye can repay my unwavering faith in ye.”

Gum shields were placed back in the mouths. Deep inhales and exhales were flying in and out of many of the players chests. Necks were rolled and arms extended.

“So go out there and tear into them. Show them who the boss on the pitch is for the next half hour of your life. Play like you need the ball to survive and to breathe.”

Legs and knees were jostling up and down. The clamp of boots on the hard surface built the level of noise. Words of mumbled internal psyching were growing.

“And remember lads – we have NO finish line. We have NO obstacles in our way. We WILL win this game. Your determination and talent WILL shine through. You WILL be Champions!”

The players exited the dressing room with a cacophony of noise, roars, clapping and staunch support from their management team. The last two to leave the room were Matt and Tom.

“Where the fuck did that type of emotion come from Tommo? I’ve never seen you like that.”

“We all have our secrets Matt.”

“Who did you play for twenty years ago? Was it us?”

“Nope.”

“So was that a runners-up medal from a county final?”

“Nope Matty. But you saw how it jazzed them up. I’m fecking well glad none of them looked too intently at it.”

“What medal was it?”

“My daughter’s second place medal from last Saturday in an under eights’ egg and spoon race. I’d forgotten I was wearing these same pant bottoms then and put it away in here for safekeeping. She obviously forgot about it too. It was effective in there though!"

"Well bloody hell Tom! You're some fecker!"

Welcome Onboard Monsieur.

 “You are very welcome onboard Mr. Clay – are you travelling alone with us today?”

“Yes, eh, unfortunately I am.”

“Juan- right here, will show you to your room.”

“That would be great – thank you.”

“You’re very welcome – enjoy your stay.”

“I do hope I will.”

The walk to Jim Clay’s room was made in silence. Jim wasn’t much for talking – he was tired from the travel of the day. A series of head gestures and hand signs bridged the language gap that existed between a forty-one year old bachelor from Ireland - and a twenty something year old slight Asian man.

Broken English, serial head bowing and white-gloved pointing demonstrated to Jim where everything was in the balcony ocean view room. The cruise liner was the fleets’ finest and his cabin was on the top floor. Jim thought this would do nicely.

The young Asian man moved anxiously as Jim pawed him a ten euro note to thank him for his troubles. He hesitated before exiting the room, as if wanting to tell him something more.

“Are you okay? Juan, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Meester Clay.”

“What is it?”                                                     

“I hope you have very good stay.”

Juan made eye contact for the first time – holding it longer than he should normally.

“Em, okay. Thanks - I’ll try.”

Jim unpacked his scant belongings and lay on the bed. This was supposed to be a trip for two.

He had a forty minute nap and woke to find a note under his door. It tabled the events for that night. Tonight was going to be the “Gala Night under the Stars.”

He was going to dress up anyway for the night. He had brought his tuxedo and dress shoes. Before the note appeared he was going to order a bottle of champagne to his room. Then order some lobster and steak. And then some fine French wine. That would be the final act.

But here he had an opportunity to command the stage once more in front of a large audience. Twenty one years of artistic drama had taught him how to hold the attention of the gathered masses. One final bow.

Jim took his time, taking the two hours to preen himself to the highest degree. His tuxedo was somewhat creased though – this would not do for a performance of such gravitas. Calling room service, Juan appeared back at his door with an iron and a smile. Jim realized he had opened the door in his underwear, and smiled back at the young man.

Almost one hour later, Jim stepped out of his room with a big grin on his face and colour in his cheeks. Maybe there was life in him after all.

Dinner with wine for all the guests at his table soon lead to sparkling conversation and witty banter. Other tables looked on in envy as they all moved onto the show with champagne in hand. Jim had slipped a twenty to Juan to reserve the finest seats in the theatre for him and the four others at his table.

After the show, Jim insisted they visit the casino for further entertainment. Jim was having such a good time that he had forgotten his earlier, dark plans. At 1am, his table friends soon began to filter away to their cabins for the night. But Jim was still full of vigour, and took up a stool at the roulette table. Two other guests sat entranced by the wheel amid the prospect of riches.

Jim watched for a few minutes, gazing into how the ball was falling. Dropping one hundred euro on the table, he took the chip colour of pink – his favourite.

Four spins of the wheel later, Jim had over three hundred chips and counting. His Mum’s age before she died, was seventy six. Numbers 7, 6 and 13 came up. Was his luck changing?

As Jim pondered his possible sudden change of fortune, a tall French man sat on a stool two away from him. Negativity oozed from his every pore. His shoulders sagged, his face grey. He was about the same age as Jim, yet his skin bore the hard edge of someone far older than he. He looked like a man that worked hard his entire life.

Jim’s sudden wealth evaporated rapidly. So did everyone else’s. Only Jim and this sullen Frenchman remained. Jim became intrigued.

“It is a bad night for you?”

“You will have to excuse me – my English is, not good. C’est la vie.”

“I understand. My life has been ‘merde’ over the past while too.”

“That is the word. La vie merde.”

“What has you so ‘merdey’?”

“I was supposed to eh, cruise with mon dame. She die two month ago from eh, canceur.”

“Oh I’m so sorry. Je suis eh, so sorry.”

“Thank you.”

“I was supposed to take this trip with my mother. Mon mere. She died too.”

“Oh! Je suis desole aussi! Le canceur aussi?”

“No! Jaysus no – twas her electric chair. Kinda funny when you think about it really.”

“Her chair? Chaise? Pourquoi ca?”

“She was bleedin’ electrocuted. She was going upstairs to bed in her little chairlift and the bloody water-tank burst right down on top of her through de attic. She fried right there and then until I returned home from work the following morning. Twas a terrible sight to see. She was still smouldering at eight in de morning.”

“I don’t understand – fry? She blood?”

“Sorry I went off on a tangent there, didn’t I? She was electrocuted – no blood. Brown bread in seconds’ dough, according to the doctor that called it.”

“She die quickly then?”

“Yeah – Gawd bless her. We were very close. I was her only son.”

“Electrocution is good way to go. Is quick. Canceur is no.”

“I can only imagine. Can I get you a drink?”

Jim and the Frenchman stopped playing roulette and took seats at the bar. Jim listened while the Frenchman relayed his story in a mixture of French and English. He talked of how his wife walked, talked and loved life. His family was of no help to him and her family was devastated at the loss. He didn’t know what to do. They swapped stories of their lives and work, Jim telling him of his mundane job working in Information Technology Systems. The Frenchman was as Jim expected - a manual labourer.

At 4am, they said their goodbyes and went to their own cabins. They both had rooms on the thirteenth floor. Jim didn’t even know his name. As he entered his room, he saw rose petals from the entry.

The following morning, Jim didn’t feel like breakfast. He had drunk too much, but Juan had fixed him a Thai hangover cure that worked wonders. Reading the material from the ship, he got up to date on what was happening onboard today.

The crazy feelings didn’t even cross his mind for four days. Jim was actually enjoying himself and thinking about the future. Meeting the Frenchman and hearing his life’s story made him feel better about him and feel sorry for him. They never told each other their names.

Two days before the end of the seven night cruise, Jim strangely read the back of his room keycard and onboard ID. The weather outside was raining and not conducive to tanning oneself in the lashing Mediterranean rain.  A weird but legal statement caught his eye.

“By accepting this card, you agree to be responsible for all purchases charged on your account.”

Jim checked his account. He had been living hard over five nights to the tune of E775. He told Juan, who asked him if he had the cash or credit to cover it. He did but he didn’t really want to pay it.

“There may be a way to get around it. On computer.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”        

 Forty minutes later, Jim’s bill was nearly clean. He hacked the cruise-liners’ website and left himself a bill of just E75. Juan was mightily impressed.

“Do my wages!!!”

Juan soon had four hundred more euros in his wage slip for the current month. He wanted more but Jim said that anything exorbitant would draw attention. Juan disagreed, but finally relented.

“If only you could stay one more week!”

“I know Juan. But everything good comes to an end.”

That night was the last of the Gala nights. Jim adorned his tuxedo once again and posed for photographs with the Captain of the Ship. He bumped into the Frenchman again in the casino after midnight. The casino was mad busy. The Frenchman looked even more depressed than usual. Jim caught his eye at the full roulette table. The Frenchman smiled back and got up from his prized stool at the wheel.

They sat and talked again. He was seriously depressed. He had one more week on the boat and just wanted it all to end. He wanted what he couldn’t have.

A thought crossed Jim’s mind.

They were of similar age, similar build. Their complexion was a little different though. Their gait was worlds apart. Their hairstyles were completely different.

Jim didn’t see why not. Hair and make-up could fix those problems.

He would have another week with Juan. On someone else’s account.

He just had to play this right.