The First Session

Conor arrived twenty-three minutes early because being early gave him time to leave.

He parked at the far end of the community-centre car park, facing the gate. Beyond it, six people in rain jackets were moving portable goals across a strip of grass silvered by drizzle. Nobody looked especially athletic. This helped, though not enough.

On the passenger seat sat a pair of football boots borrowed from his cousin and a gumshield still in its packet. The message on his phone said: Come for seven. Ask for Dara. Beginners are genuinely beginners.

Conor had read that last sentence at least fifteen times.

At six fifty, a man in a green beanie knocked on the window. Conor jumped hard enough to hit the horn.

The man raised both hands. “Sorry. Conor?”

There was no sensible reason to pretend otherwise. Conor opened the door.

“I'm Dara. You emailed.”

“I did, yeah.”

“Good. We weren't sure if the rain had frightened you off.”

“It nearly did.”

“That's fair. It nearly frightened me off and I'm holding the cones.” Dara pointed at Conor's boots. “What size are they?”

“Nine. I think.”

“And what size are you?”

“Ten.”

Dara nodded gravely. “A bold tactical choice. Come inside. There are spares.”

The changing room contained eleven adults, two footballs and the concentrated smell of wet coats. Introductions came too quickly. A nurse from Roscommon. A graphic designer from Dublin. A barman who had not played since primary school. A woman called Aisling who said she was there to get fit and then immediately opened a bag of jellies.

Nobody asked Conor what he was. Nobody seemed to be checking whether he belonged.

Dara found him boots that fitted and showed him how tight to pull the laces. It was such an ordinary kindness that Conor had to look down while he thanked him.

Outside, the rain sharpened. They jogged one slow lap and then passed in pairs. Conor's first kick travelled sideways. His second barely travelled. His third reached Aisling at knee height and she caught it cleanly.

“Perfect,” she said.

“It absolutely wasn't.”

“No, but now you have a baseline.”

By the small-sided game, Conor's lungs were issuing formal complaints. The rules had been simplified: four steps, pass, move, call a name. He understood each instruction separately. Together they became weather.

Then the ball landed in his hands.

He froze.

“Conor!” someone called to his left.

He turned and kicked. The pass looped over one defender and dropped into Dara's chest. Dara laid it off to Aisling, who punched it over the crossbar.

Everyone shouted as if the point mattered.

Conor laughed. It escaped him before he could decide whether to.

Afterwards they stood under the shallow shelter beside the centre, steaming gently and drinking tea from paper cups. Conor's borrowed boots were caked in mud. His legs felt detached at the hip.

“Same time Thursday,” Dara said.

It was not a question. Conor liked that.

“I might need different boots.”

“Those are yours until you get some. Club policy.”

“Is that written down?”

“No. Most of our policies are somebody saying something confidently near a kettle.”

Conor looked across the car park at his car, still pointed towards the gate. For the first time all evening, leaving did not feel like rescue.

“Thursday,” he said.

“Grand.” Dara lifted his cup. “Next week we'll teach you to hand-pass.”

“Was I not doing that tonight?”

“We agreed not to discuss it.”

Conor drove home slowly, heater on full, the spare boots in the passenger footwell. At the first red light his phone lit up with a message from the group chat he had been added to without ceremony.

Good session. Welcome Conor. Thursday at seven.

Under it, Aisling had posted a photograph of the scoreboard showing one white point.

Assist: new lad.

Conor saved the picture. Then the light changed, and he drove on.

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