Page 37 of Good Sisters

10. Julie

I was brushing my teeth and watching my phone screen light up and ping over and over and over again. This bloody WhatsApp group was out of control.

I could see Harry sitting on the edge of the bed, furiously typing into his phone. He was taking the whole parents-of-the-captains thing far too seriously. It was a rugby team, not the G7 summit.

He wasn’t the only one, either. Some of the parents were total nut jobs. Every message sent out garnered at least thirty responses. Some were passive-aggressive, others just plain aggressive. Some of the parents whose boys were on the fringes of the team, subs or worried about being dropped, were like Rottweilers and, of course, ‘luckily’ for me, Victoria was one of them. Why, oh, why did her stupid son Sebastian have to be a sub? I would honestly have preferred it if he was the star of the bloody team. At least then Victoria might not be such a wagon towards Harry and me.

I read Harry’s latest message. It said that the coaches were asking parents to give fifty euros per player to pay for a talk from a sports psychologist.

I put down my toothbrush and stood at the bathroom door glaring at him. ‘Is this a joke?’

He looked up and took off his glasses, ‘What?’

‘Are you seriously telling me that the coaches have booked a sports psychologist to speak to a bunch of spotty fifteen-year-olds?’

‘That’s what Coach Long told me. I’m just passing on the message. Don’t shoot the messenger.’

‘But it’s ridiculous, Harry.’

‘Actually, Julie, it’s a great opportunity for the boys to learn life lessons on how to succeed as top-level sportsmen.’

‘It’s a schools rugby tournament, not the sodding Olympics. This is completely over the top. Why can’t Mr Long bloody well talk to them himself? Read a book on how to motivate a team and regurgitate a few good lines? Save us all having to fork out more money to the school.’

‘It’s fifty quid, Julie, not five hundred.’

‘It’s a hundred and fifty quid, Harry, given we have three players to pay for, and that’s a hundred and fifty on top of all the other extra costs. Not everyone is like us and has the money to spend. The rugby kit alone costs two hundred euros each, and that’s before you buy the boots. It’s just a massive amount of money – and most especially for us when we have to multiply it all by three.’

Harry pulled a jumper over his head. ‘I can promise you this. Every parent is only delighted to pay for their kid’s gear. They’re all bursting with pride that their sons have been picked for the squad.’

‘I know that, but it’s non-stop money for this and that, and some of the boys will never even get a minute on the pitch.’

‘That’s sport, Julie. It’s tough.’

‘Who is this sports psychologist anyway? Is he any good?’

Harry pulled on the boots he’d bought especially for watching rugby matches on wet, muddy days. They were waterproof and had a cashmere lining. He thought they were the bomb. I thought they looked absolutely ridiculous, like he was about to climb Mount Everest, not stroll across manicured grounds to stand on the side of a 4G synthetic grass pitch in deepest suburbia.

Harry wrestled with the complex laces on his boots. ‘His name is Dr Ulrich Haddington and he’s supposed to be great. Coach Long told me that –’

‘Harry, can you please just call him Bob? Coach Long sounds ridiculous, like we’re in some cheesy American high-school football movie.’

Harry had a tendency to be impressed by certain people. When he’d first received the inheritance from his aunt, it was investment ‘legend’ Donald McGreegan he’d been obsessed with. Now it was Coach Long.

‘Fine.Bobsaid this guy, Ulrich Haddington, has spoken to the actual Irish rugby team and really helped them.’

For the love of God, they were just kids.

‘Bob reckons Ulrich can give our boys a psychological edge over all their competitors.’

‘Sure. Why doesn’t he fly in Barack Obama to talk to them about leadership? Dream big, you know.’

Harry grinned. ‘Someone suggested trying to get Richard Branson. Even I thought that was a bit much.’

I’d get eye strain from rolling my eyes if people kept on being so insane about all this.

As if on cue, our phones lit up with a message from Victoria:Ulrich is a close family friend. He has spoken to Sebastian many times. I think the other boys will benefit from his wise words. I’ve hired a nutritionist to make Sebastian’s meals for the duration of the campaign. I’m happy to pass on his number to anyone who wants their son to have an elite diet for success.

I almost gagged. What total arse-ology.

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