Читать книгу Barefoot in Mullyneeny: A Boy’s Journey Towards Belonging - Bryan Gallagher - Страница 10

When our new parish priest went to see his first local football match he let it be known to anyone who would listen that he was disgusted at the low standard of play. This was bad enough, but then he made a terrible mistake. He announced at Sunday Mass that he was going to bring a team of college boys and ex-college boys to play a special challenge match against the local Harps team.

‘They will demonstrate the finer skills of Gaelic football,’ he said.

The following Sunday the college boys arrived by bus, a thing unheard of in the Forties. They were immaculately togged out in proper football kit. Tall and lithe, they ran down the stony lane to the field fisting the ball to each other, taking great athletic leaps in the air and solo running with insolent ease.

Awaiting them were the men of the Harps. They had arrived on bicycles, still dressed in their Sunday suits. Many wore caps, and they were now togging out behind the whins that grew on the bank of the small river that flowed round the foot of the field. Off came the caps, then the upper-body clothing, coat, waistcoat, tie, detachable collar, shirt, vest. Some of them looked curiously like pandas, with sunburnt arms and necks contrasting with their fish-white bodies. Then it was on with the jersey, and immediately back on with the cap as if it were a protective talisman.

Legs that had not seen daylight since the previous match were revealed as the long johns came off, and behind the knees there was frequently a rich delta of alluvial dirt. Many wore their everyday socks supported below the knee by suspenders. These were men slowed by years of hard physical work but underneath the white skin, corded muscles rippled and they exuded an air of silent menace.

They didn’t run on to the field. They walked, with the air of men who have an important parochial duty to perform, like taking up the Sunday collection. The crowd was the biggest ever seen at a local football match. They welcomed their heroes with wild yells. The excitement was tremendous. It was clear to all except the priest what was going to happen.

At the throw-in one of the college boys leaped like a salmon to catch the ball and was immediately pole-axed by a tremendous punch to the jaw. The team-mate who went to his assistance was kneed in the back. The referee, a local man, saw nothing wrong, and that in brief, was the story of the match. Flying solo runners would be tripped, they were hacked, kicked, bruised, battered.

Eventually the college boys could take it no longer. Many were country boys themselves and they retaliated. Fights broke out all over the field. Men turned their caps back to front and rushed to battle uttering heroic warcries.

‘Don’t bother takin’ off that jersey. I’ll bate it off you!’

‘I’ll toss you where you stand!’

‘I’ve knocked better men than you out of me way to get at a good man!’

The match was abandoned. The parish priest was given to dramatics. He rushed on to the soggy pitch, his galoshes splashing the pools of water. Standing amidst the carnage he raised his arms to heaven: ‘My God! My God!’ he said. ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph, what am I to say to the fathers and to the mothers of these young men I have brought here today?’

But one of the Harps, standing nearby, would have none of it. ‘Ah for J-----s’ sake what are you talkin’ about, Father?’ he said. ‘Isn’t there two of our men lyin’ dead in the river!’