THURSDAY
The call from New York came out of the blue.
It was the Boyos’ prospective agent on the line. In the Big Apple recently for the Roscommon match, the Boyos had mixed pleasure with business.
They had networked. Met one or two influential people. A contact in the New York Times had floated the prospect of an agent, a book deal (details in future columns).
Now, this call, this suggestion of momentum. It was the prospective agent. He was probably wearing a long coat and sunglasses. The call was brief. They agreed to talk again soon, to hammer out an agreement, that’s if an agreement was their destiny.
There was even talk of a contract signing before Christmas. Mystery, intrigue, potential, opportunity, all four co-existed at this moment in time, much like when the Beatles were discovered (or the 2 Johnnies).
Towards the end of the call, Boyo 1 opened up a little, admitting that the Boyos are deeply frustrated because the Editor keeps putting off their contract renewal talks.
The prospective agent was having none of it.
“You march into that guy’s office and DEMAND a new contract, including that pay rise, bonus and chauffeur you’ve been seeking for years! Irrespective of any deal we do over the coming months!”
FRIDAY
Adrenaline pumping after the US agent’s pep talk, Boyo 1 called to the Editor’s office, determined to strike a new deal.
Later, he met Boyo 2.
“How did it go? Did we get the weekly increase, a food allowance, a chauffeur, a bonus, any other perks?”
Boyo 1 shook his head.
“The Editor said to leave it with him, but…”
“LEAVE IT WITH HIM? AGAIN?”
“Let me finish! I think he’s softening. He said if Roscommon beat Mayo, AND Leeds beat Chelsea in the FA Cup semi-final, he’ll buy us a pint on Monday night!”
SUNDAY
The Boyos arrived in Castlebar with hope in their hearts (and sandwiches in the boot).
When they saw Roscommon superfan Paddy Joe taking up position behind one goal, they moved towards the centre of MacHale Park, so as to avoid a media circus, a scrum of photographers.
Joy was in the air, the sun was in the sky, and Roscommon were in touch with Mayo at half-time.
During the break, Boyo 1 went for a walk, to stretch his legs – and to ponder on aspects of the universe.
The second half was five minutes old by the time he returned.
Incredulous, Boyo 2 looked at his friend.
“Where were you? The score…”
Boyo 1 was a picture of contentment.
“I met a health and spiritual guru on my walk around the stadium, a guy with a long beard and a short step.”
“Yeah?”
“He was extolling the virtues of mindfulness.”
“We are at a Connacht semi-final!”
“So he and I did five minutes’ mindfulness in a quiet corner of the stadium. Very peaceful, very calming! Did I miss anything? We were three points down… did it get any worse?”
“Get worse? We’ve scored SIX points in FIVE minutes! You’ve missed some Rossie magic!”
“Oh well! I wondered why the Mayo crowd were giving me looks!”
MONDAY
Thrilled with Roscommon’s performance in Castlebar, the Boyos had a Monday night recap in their local.
The Editor strolled in. Two pints arrived in front of the Boyos.
“But Leeds lost to Chelsea…” Boyo 1 muttered, taken aback at the unexpected gesture.
The Editor smiled down from the far end of the bar.
“Ah, sure the Rossies were mighty… plus, I was barely talking to ye since New York. How did the trip go? All pleasure, I presume? Meet anyone… interesting?”
