Simon had only a vague idea of social protocol in the sauna. It was just one of those things that never crossed your mind until you were sitting there, sweating profusely in neon orange swimming trunks and awkwardly moving your eyes from side to side.
On the only other occasion Simon had been in the sauna – he had just started coming in his first year of university – he had been by himself. It had been shortly after six in the morning and ‘The Beginning of a New Him 7.0’.
Except of course it hadn’t been. His first semester had dissolved into half assing a social life of sorts, and quarter-assing his assignments. On the other hand, he had completed Dark Space, Far Cry 3 and Skyrim.
Now, on the complete other side of the clock from his first expedition and well past 7.0’s new found enthusiasm, Simon found himself face to face with a stranger. It was a public leisure centre right on the grounds of the university and he couldn’t help but feel the sauna was much too small. Or perhaps it was just badly designed – did all sweat boxes sit their attendees face to face? The attendee in question was a man in his late 60s. At first Simon thought the man’s eyes were closed, which might have solved the whole situation, but he soon realised they were just squinted against the heat. Or were they? It was hard to tell, in part because the man’s pudgy cheeks squeezed right the way up to his eyebrows nearly. Hair that had likely once been blonde sagged damply across his forehead.
Simon tried to ignore it, and with an affected sigh sat back gently against the wooden back of the next tier behind him. It was mostly to give himself something to do. He had, after all, only been in for a few minutes, and didn’t feel ready to get out yet.
“Hehhh!” The wooden wall against which he’d leaned was scorching hot. That made sense, he supposed, desperately adjusting himself into another position. The older man’s eyes startled open to an alarming degree. (‘Ah they Were closed’) Now he was very much watching Simon, undoubtedly wondering what that bizarre high pitched noise had been.
‘Say something’. His brain urged. ‘Say what?’ The practical side of his brain demanded. ‘Football. The weather. Exercise.; But was it appropriate to speak? The silence, while uncomfortable, seemed like it would be more bearable than starting a conversation only to have it then trail off. And by and large, Simon considered it a grave insult when people spoke to him about the weather. It was a conversation, he felt, for people who couldn’t be bothered to find out something else about you. Yes, he decided there and then, that was how he felt about that.
“C’werematchonSundaytherewasn’tit?”
The word – because that’s no doubt what it sounded like; a singular sound attempting to encompass several words – was out before he knew it. His brain had slipped a message to his mouth without his consent. ‘Traitor!’
“Sorry?”
Simon’s Northern accent didn’t help either. He knew the feeling. Cork folk spoke like one of those rattlers people swing around and around on match days.
“The All Ireland final? It was harsh for Cork to lose in the end. But they were… ah… poor enough?” The man stared at him hard for a moment before responding. His eyes, a sky blue, were penetrating.
“Yeah.” The big man eventually shook his head. “Bad loss.”
It wasn’t exactly an encouraging response. Obviously speaking was off the cards now; only as he’d started, he didn’t feel like he could stop until one of them had left. If he did, there would be that awful silence. Keep calm and continue chatting shite.
“Mullryan was where things went wrong I think. Should never have been taken off. It completely wrecked the momentum, I think.” Simon of course, did not think. He was a Northern Protestant that had barely a passing knowledge of the rules. The commentary tumbling out of his mouth now was an admittedly not bad reproduction of something a friend from halls had narrated to him.
“Yeah.” The big man contributed. “Well, that would probably be a fair enough summation. I’m getting out now here.”
And with a slight grimace, he left. The cool air rolled in briefly to caress Simon’s face, before retreating quickly when the glass door closed again.
Had he won? Or had that exchange gone exactly as horrifically as it had seemed? The later seemed the more likely, but maybe that was just how such things normally went. At the very least, Simon thought, the older man will come away appreciating that there had been an attempt. Right?
“How’s it goin’?” The glass door had opened again almost immediately. A teenager, maybe fourteen or fifteen strutted casually in and sat down exactly where the big man had sat, comfortably swinging his legs up on to the first bench.
“Hi.” Simon replied. He had to get out. He couldn’t do it again. He braced his hands against the wood and made to push himself up when the young fellow spoke again.
“Did ye see Kenny there?” Simon replied with a blank stare and half opened mouth. The young fellow didn’t seem to take any notice.
“Man looks rough.” He continued. “Can’t blame him – I don’t think I’d show my face for a month if I’d lost my county the All Ireland. Should never have taken off Mullryan though.”
“Duncan Kenny? The Cork manager?” Simon could hear a faint ringing in his ears.
“Aye – did he not come out of here?” The young fellow turned to look at him, confused.
“Yes. Yes he did.” The newcomer laughed.
“Didn’t recognise him, did ya?”
“No.” Simon said. “No I did not.”
By Ethan D. Loughrey
