W2F-010 Derby Day-0.txt
DERBY DAY

There were two nights in the year Hughes never slept, the night before the away match with Shanroe Dreadnoughts, and the night after. The match was a personal Gethsemane that he endured for love of the Longfield Slashers, but he longed for the chalice to pass. It was the local derby, highlight of the sporting year, a virility test for the young bulls of the parish. It was no place for an old bull with tampered mileage. He did not train for love of the game because he was not in love any more. There was no profit in the final lap of the field but he gritted his teeth over the last half acre, refused the last pint and no drink lapping against his tonsils. Each year Hughes pawed the ground and was proud. The real question emerged on the dreaded morning with the journey to Shanroe before him.

The light slithered across a greasy sky in the direction of the enemy, luring him towards a personal Calvary. Soaked in sweat, he tested his body in the hope of sickness but his slack carcass glowed with health. Jim Hughes groaned softly and eased his legs over the side of the bed. More than life at stake. The last game of the league and a pennant to be won. A pennant for a penance if the run of the ball was kind. They shared the top of the table and the laughing had to stop. The moment of truth for an old bull. It was winner take all or derision for years. It was hard to escape the pain or forego the pleasure when you share a parish.

The meeting with McGovern was a bad omen. He confronted him at the edge of enemy territory, the kesh that separated the two farms and their sporting outlook. McGovern looked at him sideways, like a duck looking into a milk bottle.

"Brady's in quare fettle this weather.."

"Is that a fact... "

Peter Hugh Brady. Full back. Crag upon crag. Dour as a coven of Ballymena men. He avoided pubs during the happy hour. He played on the Dreadnoughts team the year they won the title. His opponent on final day reared a family of walking sticks. He chewed staples for breakfast on a good day.

"... never saw him so contrary since he was a gasun.."

The Dreadnoughts were suspended after that. Barred for life by the Gaelic Athletic Association for foul play. They reformed as Saint Judes but it was no good. Once a Dreadnought, always a Dreadnought. So they disbanded and waited for heads to roll at county board level. In the meantime, they lingered over their ale and blamed the Slashers for their misfortune. The Slashers were in a different football league at the time. Brady raised the Dreadnoughts when the ban was lifted.

".. Brady played tig with hatchets in 'dem days... "

"May the best team win... "

McGovern fixed him with his good eye and leaned across the shaft of his spade, foot planted deep in Hughes territory.

"Not so simple, Jim.. not so simple... Brady hasn't forgiven of forgotten the sousin' ye dished out to him in Longfield last year.. he took it sore.. manes te straighten ye on the sabbath.."

Hughes felt agitation, a sliver of fear.

"But I met him at the dance later on... not a word spoken in anger... we lowered a rake of pints... langled the devil before the night was out.."

McGovern forced a laugh and grabbed another foot of land in his excitement.

"That was the stumbler.. ye boy ye.. thought ye could buy him for a pint in his paw... well.. ye thought wrong.. ye can't hit a man who won't let ye put ye'r hand in ye'r pocket can ye.. besides... Brady is a quiet class of a creatur.. not easy riz off the field... ye wouldn't hear his word at a dummies convention when times are normal.. but he roars on the Lords day... like the rest of yis... house angels.. street divils... mass going six days a week and a pagan for an hour of a Sunday.. don't get me wrong.. fair play to ye.. got to hand it to Longfield.. well worth the win last year.. can't take it away from ye.. but your supporters are hard to take.. a hateful shower of bastards.. don't get me wrong.. ye won well.. apart from the sousin' of Brady... still if ye'r sorry.. if ye want me te warn him off... "

Hughes measured the distance and leaned forward. The foot of McGovern returned to the land of McGovern. The retreat caused a rush of blood to the head.

"That cuts both ways, McGovern... what happened before can happen again... I mane te get me retaliation in first...."

Hughes heard the words and looked around, convinced that a stranger had arrived and heckled over his shoulder. The landscape was still, save for the rustling trees alive with rumours of indiscretion and the gulps of McGovern swallowing his excitement.

"Ye don't say Jim... boys a dear.. ye don't say.. Brady won't be plaised if he hears.. but he won't hear it from me.. no way.."

McGovern looked at his watch and stiffened.

"Christ.. is that the time.. have to go, Jim... got to chase the pork through the cabbage... me belly thinks me throat is cut.. good luck te ye an all hard cases like ye... though if Brady is right.."

Hughes watched him scuttle across the meadow moving faster than he ever did goalwards, where the pain was. He cursed softly. The bacon and cabbage would wait if the speed of McGovern was the key. And he sped in the direction of Brady. Caesar sent his legates into Gaul to the camp of Vercengetorix. And in Gaul they swore in a Shanroe accent.

Hughes drank sparingly on the eve of the contest, a small sacrifice to make and the honour of the Slashers in the balance. The pub was awash with anticipation. They fired his memory with tales of past deeds and laid drink before his desert eyes, but he stayed sober. A hangover would not keep him at home and sobriety would not save him. Hughes could stand anything, except the charge of treason. They hung men for treason in more enlightened times, now they killed them with words. It was a slow death in Shanroe. He said goodbye and walked home, drunk on rumour, groggy with fear. He breakfasted on cotton wool and sheep-dip and washed his teeth afterwards. He rubbed moodily at the gums, memorising their contours. An man needed a gumshield to go within a mile of Brady. He put his teeth away and smiled sourly. No need to show the white feather. You feared the worst if you wore a gumshield. Better to grin and bare them.

His iron resolve evaporated as he entered the football field. Twenty minutes to matchtime and the hallions were present. They parted at the approach of Parlour Tongs Powell. Hughes grunted in the direction of the gaunt man plodding towards the Slashers dressing room, with an oxterful of jerseys trailing behind him. Powell grunted back, lost in communion with the daisies and the ragweeds.

The dressing room was crowded. He loved the smell of wintergreen and the smell of stale socks. It reassured him because it amounted to normality in his frayed mind. Gawky gusts of body odour went with the territory and the dull rumble of aggression hit him where he lived. Well being stirred in his cotton wool stomach as adrenaline tangled with the pain. He fashioned a knot with sausage fingers and frowned at the mound of frazzled lace. He patted impatiently at the mound as Parlour Tongs shuftied into view. It was a bad omen. A mountain of material between shooting boot and ball.

"No a good story.. the lace broke... maybe ye better play someone else up front... I might miss a sitter... and the match in the balance.. ye don't want that.."

The jersey caught him in the face.

""Say no more, Jim.. the only man in seven townlands that can put the clamps on 'don ballox Brady.. an' that's fact of life... "

"I don't know... last year.. are you sure... "

""Certainly I 'm sure... wish I was as sure of Christmas.. no better man... cook the chicken... "

"Well.. ye might be right at that... that's one whingein' skitter... and a false whore.."

"Number fourteen it is then... "

"Sound as a bell... I made it hard for ye.. I know a few young bucks who trained hard and will sit on the line today.. they won't like it.. they train and they don't play.."

"Don't worry about it.. it's a well known fact.. the tubes always turn up for trainin'... "

"Still.."

"Trainin'.. I ask ye.. new fangled ideas, Jim.. I don't like it.. in my day trainin' was somethin' ye did for a job.. the game is not the same.. contraception is killing it... a far cry from the old days.. there is one thing missin' from the modern game that I regret.."

"What's that, Parlour Tongs.."

"Blood.."

Parlour Tangs moved down the line. He doled out penance and absolution with the swirl of a jersey, a man in love with blood sports and the freedom of small nations. Number seven allocated by Parlour Tongs and the anointed remembered a novice. White togs and a college accent, a flying machine with a faulty gearbox who remained in neutral when he saw the cold steel. Made for the elbow in the mouth, the heavy deadener. Hughes watched as small boy changed into macho with seven on his back. The face crumpled in relief and clay hands caressed the life jacket. Suddenly the day was brighter and the fear was gone. Macho checked the number again to be sure. The hump disappeared. He flexed his fingers, did a few exercises and thought of a quiet corner of the parochial hall and Mary.

"You were mighty out there today, Paul... "

"Lucky, Mary... pure lucky... the ball ran for me.. 'don drummer is heavy on the snare drum tonight.. still.. glad ye were plaised... "

"Proud is the word.. proud.. ye played ye'r part.. unlike 'don yellow dawkin Hughes... "

Hughes buried his head in the jersey.

"A great pity--a great pity.. there was a time.. never took Hughes for a quitter but somethin' has softened his cough.. Brady sucked him in and blew him out in bubbles.. he will never live it down.."

"I don't want him sniffin' round our dunkel.. can't stand a coward... I had a strong weakness for him once.. as ye know.. meant to give him the sign.. but I work with Brady's sister and it won't do... "

"They should have moved me up.. I know what Brady is lost for.. and it isn't religion... "

"No bother to ye, Paul...."

"Care for a mineral.. or anythin' else... "

The voice of Parlour Tongs sawed through his daymare.

".... pride of the Slashers at stake... ye should have no problem with 'don shower of pansies.. big girls blouses.. the lot of them.. the Slashers team I played on rimracked them for years.. teachers and bank officials... most of them went to school till they were man big... and what do they think of us.. cloggers.. that's what they call... pig ignorant hallions... they say we play football because the civil war is over... they except us to hack.. cripple.. and gouge them.. they say we are bad men to fall in front of.. they say we kick our mothers on a good d day and they expect us to kick them up in the air to watch them bounce... well.. don't disappoint them.."

Hughes pulled the jersey over his head and faced the door. He stopped as he passed Parlour Tongs.

"Ye might have mentioned somethin' in the pep talk that was legal... "

"The pep talk was not about football, Jim.. it was about sinkin' the Dreadnoughts.."

He noticed blood on the grass as he ran on to the pitch. Brady was in position when he arrived. Sunreddened. Scarred. Socks at half mast and broken fingernails. He trained on his own in winter months, a tin can tied to the rafters of the byre. He rose to reach it when the cows were milked, shortening the string as the weeks went by. He was fit when the tin clanged tight against the metal frame. The can was tight as a ducks arse for months if Mc Govern was correct, and that was watertight. Hughes shook hands reluctantly, counting his fingers when they were free. He examined Brady for signs of decline. No consolation there. The small eyes were a foot back in the head. Brady was short on sleep and McGovern had called, Hughes felt it in his water. The beast patted him on the back, looking for a hard place to stand.

"It won't be long now, Jim.. ye boy ye... "

Hughes moved closer. He met him eyeball to eyeball, save the depth of the sockets. Hughes gagged on the foul breath that escaped through a gap in the teeth, a legacy of past attrition. The cowards blow over a fumbled ball.

"Let me know where to send the flowers, Peter Hugh... "

It had to be a stranger or he was breaking his mouth in for an idiot. Brady spat into square hands and turned to face the ball.

"Ye'r in our house now, Hughes... let's see if ye have the cheek to criticise the wallpaper.."

The first half was agony. An armpit of nudges and cheap body checks, sliding tackles and the fair hard toe. Raw sousing for a league game. It was the leather cogs he resented. Stone age footwear Brady brought as booty from another bear-pit. He was a noted exponent of the heels, a backward rake of the crude cogs across the shin as the ball was cleared from defence and the guard was down. Parlour Tongs warned him at will and he heeded the warning as the half drew to a close. But the ball danced before him on the edge of the Shanroe square and caution evaporated. He reached down for the ball and the heels arrived, raking across the back of his hands.

"Take ye'r paws away.. ye pup ye... "

The crowd roared their approval.

"Fair dues til' ye, Peter Hugh.. now ye'r playin football."

The ball was cleared downfield and the Dreadnoughts came again. The forward danced through the tangled defence and struck the ball cleanly. It crashed off the underside of the crossbar and bounced on the goal line. A defender collared the ball and hoofed it into the next field. The referee blew his whistle and signalled a goal. The defender ran to the referee. Hughes saw the strain on the set features.

"It wasn't a goal.. ref.. the ball didn't cross the line.. it wasn't a goal I tell ye.."

"Read the papers tomorrow, sonny.."

The referee blew the long blast and pointed downfield. Hughes sucked at the weals and glowered at Brady. The gap in the teeth seemed wider and blood stained the field as the half time whistle blew. He was the red hand of Ulster during the interval. Parlour Tongs was redder than blood.

"Seven points down.. where did we get yis.. the Dreadnoughts will take catching.. wind or no wind.. show us somethin'.. try to show us somethin'... he might be better than you but make him prove it.. can ye hear me.. Jim.."

Hughes sucked at the livid weals and spat out blood and spittle.

"The wind.. we have the wind.. the Slashers will go through them like a flute band through Longfield... "
