by Gerry Adams
By late afternoon on the following day it was obvious that these tactics were the right ones. The morning match against Louth was tough, but St Pat’s won through in the end. They were victorious also in their second game, against Kilkenny.
It was the same story early on Sunday morning at the semifinal. The St Pat’s supporters were nursing hangovers after a late-night session but were rewarded for their early morning sacrifices with a narrow, hard-won victory over Limerick. By now the Ballymurphy lads had won a sizable following from supporters of the other counties. They and the Belfast contingent were ecstatic. Mickey, Leo and wee Eoin were overjoyed also, but their main concern now was to rest the team. It had been a hard weekend, and the hardest part was still to come. They shepherded the boys off the pitch and into the bus.
“We’re going off somewhere for something light to eat after youse get a shower. We’re all staying together until the game,” Mickey told them.
The match was at half-three, but first there was open-air mass in the grounds of a local college and a parade from there along a route of a few hundred yards to the college pitch for the final. The parade was to be led by the finalists, so while the boys showered Leo sorted out the parade arrangements and loaded a clean set of jerseys on to the bus. They spent the next few hours at a small hotel about ten miles outside the town. Every one of them was nervous, but as time passed there was a collective settling of tension and Mickey entertained them with stories, with punchlines which told mostly against himself. They talked about everything except the match until finally the time came for the team to tog out in their clean strips. Packy and Seamus were selected to carry the club banner. Before they boarded the bus again, a little subdued this time, Mickey, Leo and wee Eoin offered their last few words of encouragement. Mickey, as was the custom, had the last word.
“Youse know youse can win this match. I’m not going to talk too much about that. Youse are tired, but so’s the other team. I only want to say that win or lose youse have done us all proud.”
He looked around at the boys.
“Youse are the best squad I’ve ever coached, so just go out there and do your best and the three of us’ll be happy.”
Mickey’s team talks were usually fairly long, so this brevity caught everyone by surprise, and for a minute after he had finished the entire group stood in silence. It was big Charlie who broke the spell by grasping and shaking Mickey’s hand. Then as each boy boarded the bus, Leo, Mickey and wee Eoin embraced or shook hands with them. For years afterwards everyone who was there said that the few hours at the hotel was a special experience. After that the waiting seemed unbearably long, and even the honour of leading the parade seemed of less significance.
The parade itself was a colourful affair. There were about twenty-five teams resplendent in their colours and headed by their club banners, and about 2,000 local and visiting spectators and half a dozen bands. The president of Ireland was there waiting on the back of a huge covered lorry which had been transformed into an altar and a reviewing stand. Wee Eoin counted five bishops, each bedecked in purple robes. Before the mass started the president came down off the lorry to inspect an honour guard of soldiers in ceremonial uniform while the Garda band played martial airs. The St Patrick’s supporters were greatly impressed by the pomp and ceremony of the occasion. Old Jimmy Conlon from Andersonstown, whose grandson was a St Pat’s sub, was moved to tears as he turned to wee Eoin and whispered, “It’s great to be free, Eoin, isn’t it?” Wee Eoin thought the scene was a bit like something out of Franco’s Spain but he said nothing. There was no harm in old Jimmy, and he would get endless satisfaction recounting the day to his cronies back in the club.
Eoin was only happy when he, Mickey and Leo were finally in the dressing room with the team. The dressing rooms were contained in a single-storeyed pavilion-type structure made of concrete blocks. The room allocated to St Pat’s was divided from their opponents’ quarters by a movable partition which was pulled across in sections on rollers on the floor and ceiling.
The boys were ready for action. They stood in a semi-circle around Leo, who repeated once again the instructions for play. Earlier he had watched their opponents playing; now he passed on the intelligence he had gathered, giving each of the players specific instructions for the match. When Leo was finished, Eoin said his few words, and Mickey concluded the briefing.
“This Waterford team is good but youse are better. Remember that. They can’t beat youse. Youse might be nervous of them. That’s all right. That’s natural. But don’t forget they’re even more nervous of youse. And youse know why! ’Cos youse are from the North. Nothing can beat youse. So get out there, get settled as quickly as possible and play hurley!”
The Waterford team was good. Within five minutes the St Pat’s lads knew they were in trouble. The Waterford squad, with a few exceptions, were bigger than them and they played to suit their height, a fast, mobile, hand-passing, high-fielding game. St Pat’s never gave an inch, but for all their efforts Waterford scored a goal after about twenty minutes. From then on the Waterford forwards hunted in packs so that for most of the remainder of the first half the sliotar† was rarely out of their possession. Had it not been for the dogged determination of the St Patrick’s back line, the score would have been in cricket figures. As it was, the half-time scoreboard read Waterford one goal and two points to Antrim nil.
Mickey, Leo and wee Eoin had spent the first half roaming endlessly up and down the sideline shouting and coaxing, cajoling and cursing. Now as they walked off the pitch to join the youngsters in the dressing room, they knew what was wrong. Their team was knackered. They had played their hearts out to get to the final and now they had nothing else to give. When the men reached the dressing room they were met with a depressed silence. The boys sat dejectedly on the benches, while from the Waterford side of the partition came a happy hum of noise and a buzz of laughter and high spirits.
“Come on, lads, let’s be having youse,” Leo began. “Heads up, come on.”
Seamus was lying on his back. As he obediently and automatically sat up, Mickey saw the tearmarks on his cheeks.
“Jesus, boys!” Leo exploded. “It’s only a bloody game. It’s not the end of the world.”
The rest of the boys pulled themselves dispiritedly into sitting positions, but even then their attention was elsewhere. Beyond the partition there was an outburst of loud clapping and chanting: “Waterford, Waterford, Waterford!” followed by a low murmur of talk.
Wee Eoin went to the partition and put his eye to the gap between one of the joints. The Waterford team were sitting upright and alert, hurling sticks in hand as they listened to their manager. He was addressing them in a low, intense staccato, emphasising his instructions by jabbing his finger in the air. Eoin couldn’t hear what he was saying, but as he watched there was another outburst of chanting and laughing. He turned to face his own team.
Mickey was looking at him. He had a little smile on his face. “What’s that they’re saying next door, Eoin?” he asked.
Eoin looked at him, puzzled.
“I thought I heard them say something about Belfast dickheads,” Mickey continued.
“Oh, aye,” Eoin agreed. “They’re in quare form. They think we’re a crowd of tubes. Wait till I hear what your man’s saying now.”
Some of the boys looked up as he put his ear to the gap in the partition.
“Shit!” Eoin hissed.
“What was that?” Mickey asked.
“Nawh,” Eoin replied, “I’ll tell you later.”
The entire team looked up at him expectantly.
“Tell us what they’re saying,”Mickey commanded. “The boys deserve to know.”
“He’s saying that the game’s over. It’s in the bag. All the talk about teams from the North is spoof, especially Belfast. They’re talking about whitewashing us.”
Mickey eyed his squad.
“Is that right, Charlie? Eh? What about you, Seamus? And Gearóid? Have yous
e lost your tongues? C’mon, Jimmy? Seamus?”
His interrogation was interrupted by a loud burst of applause from across the partition.
“Some boy made a crack about Yella Murphy,” Eoin told them.
Mickey reached over and grabbed big Charlie’s hurley. He rattled it on the bench. His tone was urgent as he spoke.
“That’s it, lads. Where are youse from? Ballymurphy, Ballymurphy, Ballymurphy!” he chanted.
The din in the Waterford quarters intensified in retaliation. Big Charlie grabbed his stick back. He joined in Mickey’s war chant, rattling his studded boots on the floor and beating his hurley on the bench. The rest of the team joined him so that from each side of the partition the noise rose to a crescendo. As they yelled and bawled and drummed out their defiance, the St Pat’s mood changed completely. When Mickey began to speak again they quietened immediately and listened eagerly to his instructions.
“Now, boys, we’re going to change tactics. They want to play their brand of hurling: we’re going to stop them! We’re going to harass and spoil and harry and block. They want us to play their game. We can’t; we’re too tired. So don’t try any fancy stuff; let the ball do the running. Don’t play across the field or waste energy with short passes; play long balls up and down the wings. Backs!”
He addressed the backs.
“Stick to your men like glue, like their shadows—only closer! Get inside them. Get your sticks up and get to every ball first and hit it first time. Don’t even try to lift it, just get it away down the wings into their half! And no fouling. We can’t afford to give away any frees.”
The boys nodded in unison.
“Forwards, keep moving. Spread their defences. The midfield will feed you the ball. Take your points. No fancy stuff! Just steady sniping over the bar. Don’t try to run in or they’ll destroy youse. Get the ball; look up; get it over the crossbar. That’s it! Can youse do that?”
“Yes,” they nodded determinedly, and now they were on their feet, hurleys in hand, tiredness and sore limbs forgotten. Across the partition all was quiet. Their opponents were already out on the pitch.
Mickey faced them again, but it was Leo who spoke, his Dublin twang thicker than ever with the emotion.
“Where are we from?” he shouted.
“From Dirty Dublin,” wee Eoin laughed.
“From Ballybleedingmurphy,” Leo corrected him.
“From where?” he challenged the team.
“From Ballybleedingmurphy,” they mimicked.
“And youse can’t be beaten,” Mickey reminded them.
The next thirty-five minutes saw the most exciting and courageous exhibition of close-quarter hurling that most of the spectators had seen or ever would see again. The Waterford team were thwarted at every turn, but they kept their nerve, so that the play surged back and forth without a score for the first twenty minutes. Then Jimmy sent a long high shot in towards the Waterford goalmouth. It struck the upright and bounced back into play just outside the square. As the Waterford fullback moved to clear it, wee Packie was in before him and on to the ball like a cat on a mouse. He never even broke his stride as he sent the sliotar rocketing into the back of the net.
The spectators went wild. Wee Packy was like a banty cock as he strutted about, shouting his team on. The Waterford goalie and the fullback were arguing.
“Where did he come from?” the Waterford fullback exclaimed.
Packie looked up at him.
“I came from Ballymurphy,” he snarled. “We eat dogs!”
That score was quickly followed by a point and then another one so that with only minutes to go the teams were level. Mickey was like a dervish on the sideline; Leo had lost his voice. Wee Eoin was up behind the goals willing dangerous balls away. Then at midfield big Charlie picked up a loose ball and passed it to wee Gerry McKeown. Gerry stopped, looked up and sent a perfect long puck over the crossbar to put St Patrick’s and Antrim into the lead.
Bedlam reigned. The referee looked at his watch. A chorus of whistles rang out from the Belfast spectators. But play continued, and then, seconds later, just in the dying minute of the game, Waterford made another valiant, desperate surge towards the St Patrick’s goal. A low shot was miraculously saved on the line by Gary, the St Pat’s keeper; there was a frenzied scramble for the sliotar as it bounced out from the goal. A Waterford player got to it first but was robbed almost immediately by Gary who had followed the ball out. As he moved to clear his lines for the second time, while wee Eoin screamed from behind the posts, “Help him, help him, somebody help him!” his shot was expertly blocked down.
The loose ball bounced back towards the goal and dribbled slowly—almost in slow motion—into the back of the net. For a split second there was silence. Then as the ball settled in the dust the long piercing scream of the final whistle brought the game to an end.
Mickey embraced each of the exhausted youngsters as they came off the field to the cheers of the spectators still ringing from the sidelines. Big Charlie began to sob when Mickey grabbed him. He shook himself free and stood facing the three team mentors. He was covered in sweat, smeared with mud and his hair was plastered to his forehead. His hurling stick jutted defiantly from his clenched fist.
“They won,” he blubbered, “but they never beat us.”
Mickey grabbed him again. Leo and wee Eoin patted them both on the back.
“They’ll never beat youse, son,” Leo said. “Never.”
* Our day will come
† hurling ball
A Safe Bet
In the afternoon of the day, and particularly on a Saturday, in most towns in most parts of Ireland a procession of people can be seen making their hurried way back and forth between public house and bookmaker’s shop. For all I know this pedestrian perambulation, or a variation of it, may occur also in foreign parts. I make no claims in this regard. Indeed, if I am honest—and, of course, like most people, even if I wasn’t I would pretend that I was—I would have to admit that my experience of this ritual to-ing and fro-ing betwixt pub and bookies is confined to Belfast town. Nitpicking readers may therefore wish to challenge the empirical evidence of my opening sentence.
Let them do so if they must. I am undismayed by such pettiness, especially because I know that the more discerning reader like yourself will have no time for such distracting trifles. And anyway, do we have to provide scientific research or documentary proof to support everything we say? Of course not; not unless we are totally lacking in imagination. And that not being the case, neither you nor I need worry. Meanwhile, in their never-ending scurrying after facts, the mindless drones will never read stories such as this. They are lost to the real world and beyond temptation or redemption. They will certainly never be found in that jostling, animated, nervous, hopeful, optimistic collection of humanity which spends its Saturday afternoons and, depending on individual circumstances, the afternoons of other days, rushing back and forth between public house and bookmaker’s shop in Belfast, and—dare I say it?—most towns in most parts of Ireland.
Belfast is not much different from Derry or Dublin or Cork or Waterford or Limerick. These cities also have their optimists, their sporting gentlemen, their lovers of life, so I include them all in that great fraternity which is the main subject of our story. You may have noticed that I use the term sporting gentlemen. Lest the more feminist among you jump to conclusions, let me reassure you: this is no sexist slip. No! I am as liberated as any Irish mother’s son can be. I am also zealously aware of the pitfalls of stereotyping. I know, too, how deeply sexist a language the English language is. I choose my words carefully and make no apologies for my use of the masculine noun. The term gentlemen instead of gentlepersons or gentle people or even gentlemen and gentlewomen is employed because the female sex is hardly ever, and in my experience never, represented in the mobile, male and motley multitude of public-house punters which it is my intention to tell you about, eventually.
This is not to say that women don’
t drink. That would be unthinkable. Or that they don’t gamble! Of course they do! Well, at least some of them do, and as you are no doubt aware and hopefully in favour of, these days some females are also seen in public bars, though not as frequently as the male of the species and never, as I have remarked above, as part of the mobile gambling clientèle. Women, I suppose, in many ways are much too sensible for that. Or maybe, I hear you mutter under your breath, maybe they simply don’t have the time?
Or maybe it’s just the way we are. I mean, can you recall, even among the drinking and gambling women of your acquaintance, any who spent all their Saturdays between the bookies and the pub? Can you think of the last time a mother or wife pulled on her coat on a Saturday afternoon and informed her family and partner that she was away off for a few pints and a wee bet? Or do you know any husband who answers a query about his wife’s whereabouts with the cheerful information, as he tidies the house, does the shopping and prepares the dinner, that she’s only away out with her mates for a few jars and a wager? No, of course you don’t; such men don’t exist. Not yet. And not in Belfast. Which is why, more than any other reason, I suppose, that the traffic ’twixt pub and bookies is so completely male-dominated.
Some of the more naïve among you may think that money is the cause of this imbalance. You may think that money, or more specifically the lack of it, may be a big problem for many women. This could well be true. Money, or more specifically the lack of it, is a problem for most of us, and as women in Ireland are the most of us I’m sure it’s a big problem for the most of them also.
Be that as it may, let me say without fear of contradiction—and there may well be some begrudgers among you who will say I have sufficient experience not to be contradicted—a lack of cash is never an insurmountable problem for the man who wants a drink. Thus it is that without a penny to his name a Belfast male can cheerfully contemplate an afternoon of craic and diversion. He requires only a few cronies and a Belfast location or alternatively a few Belfast cronies and any location, provided prohibition isn’t the order of the day. Prohibition, as you probably know, isn’t on order day or night in Belfast. Unemployment is, though. So it is that some Belfast males have plenty of time and little money. It’s a safe bet that these are the main men, in Belfast or anywhere else for that matter, plying their optimists’ trade in the bookies. It is also a non-sectarian, secular occupation, undisturbed by our current constitutional crisis and practiced on the Shankill as diligently as it is on the Falls.