I cannot understand Maurice’s love for the game of rugby. Heads stuck into arses in the depth of an Irish winter and the rest of it. Guys knocking back pints of Guinness and lager. Their women covered in excess foundation, the hue a touch too dark. Wrapped in knee-length cashmere coats to keep out the elements. Apart from anything else, the game as a whole is too violent for me. I find it difficult at times to drive past the National Rehabilitation Centre, on the way to the children’s swimming lessons, without flinching in my seat, thinking of rugby injuries behind those closed doors. A grand old Saturday or Sunday morning out training with the lads in a stadium. The sheer glory of the blue sky interspersed with soft cirrus. All crisp, the low morning sun. Perfect conditions and you are in this for the love of the game and then your world collapses around you. A spinal injury and the immediate knowledge that you may never feel again the things that you once felt. Your lover’s embrace, the heat of a hot water bottle against your legs on a winter’s night, being able to run. Mere memories.

We’re up against a nasty bunch today. I can measure their enmity because their manager is already complaining about the referee being a couple of minutes late and his lads are becoming cold. We are all volunteers, and this is kids’ football – I say this aloud and Maurice gives me a wink. The opposition’s manager flaps his arms, rotates them as if he is a human helicopter about to take off, then he jumps up and down with small rapid leaps as if to prove his point about the cold. We start the warm-up and Maurice is as ever ready with a story for me.

Did you hear about that little girl in Bray, Des? he says.

What’s that, Maurice? I line the lads up and get them ready placed one behind another to begin their target practice.

It was a bouncy castle that did it. Birthday party. A gust of wind, she fell and broke her neck.

And?

And kaput. No more. She’s a goner.

What were the parents thinking of in this weather? I ask.

If I say so myself, he says. The weather hadn’t anything to do with it. Pure negligence, that’s all it was.

Maurice is forever at the notion of saying something himself. I am used to this by now but at times it can all be a bit much.

That’s a tad heavy, I don’t know about you, Maurice, but that story is a bit rough for a Sunday morning match. Will you lay off the sad songs?