Flanagan's Run

by Tom McNab

  The old man played the situation beautifully. Slowly, painfully, he pulled in the leaders, groaning on every stride, passing man after man. Men shouted him on, women begged him to stop. The arena was in a turmoil. With only a lap to go, Doc was a full ten yards behind the two leaders, Martinez and Bouin, and looking bad. “Cole – Cole – Cole!” screamed the crowd. Somehow Doc dragged himself to just a yard behind the leaders with a furlong to go. To the crowd it was clear that Doc was finished, for he was now making no further impression on the runners ahead of him. But with a hundred yards to the finish Doc sprinted forward again, and snapped the tape five yards ahead of Martinez, with Bouin third.

  Outside the athletes’ tent Morgan was besieged by miners, desperate to relieve themselves of two dollars for the privilege of purchasing Chickamauga’s magic draught. Within half an hour he had sold out.

  Things were going well for the Trans-Americans. In fact, Peter Thurleigh, starting from scratch in the mile and giving away starts of up to two hundred yards, caught the front markers after three-quarters of a mile, only to fight a battle with Mike Morgan, to whom he had given a start of twenty yards, over the final lap. The twenty thousand crowd roared the two leg-weary Trans-Americans round the last lap, with Thurleigh winning at the tape by less than a yard. At the afternoon interval, Kate Sheridan, benefiting from her previous evening’s coaching at Highland dancing, gave a burlesque display of the art, entitled “Caledonian Capers”, which went down well with her American audience, if not with Scottish Highland Games purists. The Trans-Americans were less happy with the jumps, where McPhee had declined to offer normal sand pits, and they gained only a comprehensive range of bruises. The hitch-and-kick event, involving kicking a suspended sheep’s bladder with one’s jumping foot, almost resulted in a victory for the lanky Kane. The Texan, alas, though touching the bladder with his foot, forgot that the same foot had to touch the ground first, landed on his backside, and had to be taken by stretcher to the refreshment tent.

  The final event of the meeting was the caber. For this event McPhee had found Flanagan a Royal Stewart kilt. But it had obviously been intended for a much larger man, and Flanagan was forced to wrap it round his waist twice. Beneath it his white, skinny legs hung like vines from a garden wall. The entrepreneur emerged from the darkness of the dressing tent blinking in the bright sunshine and was led to the massive log and to the other competitors, seated elbows on knees on a bench beside the caber.

  The caber itself weighed about a hundred and twenty pounds and was about sixteen feet long. The two largest competitors, the Scots McCluskey and Anderson, stood over it, looking down at the log.

  “Too big,” growled McCluskey, a massive chunky man, hands on hips.

  “Right, Angus. Too big for the length,” said his compatriot.

  Flanagan, mystified, was inclined to agree.

  McCluskey lifted the caber by its thick end and let it drop with a thud to the ground.

  “Never get this beast over to twelve o’clock. Not in a million years.”

  “Right, Angus. Absolutely impossible,” agreed Anderson, standing, massive arms folded.

  McPhee was summoned to the spot.

  “What’s the problem, lads?” he asked genially.

  The two Scotsmen explained.

  “What d’ye mean, too big?” said McPhee, indignantly. “Back in Scotland, they throw cabers twice this size.”

  “Perhaps, but not here,” replied McCluskey.

  “And exactly what do you expect me to do?” asked McPhee, still straining to be polite.

  “Only one thing we can do,” said Anderson, looking around the other throwers. “Saw a lump off.”

  McPhee almost danced with impotent rage.

  “You know your problem?” he hissed, looking up at McCluskey.

  “No,” growled the giant, arms folded.

  “You’re a damn weakling!” said McPhee, stamping off towards the judges’ tent for further sustenance.

  Twenty minutes later, after a sizeable chunk had been sawn from the offending caber, the competition began. There were twelve competitors and Flanagan, sitting on a bench with the others in the middle of the sun-baked arena, was not surprised to see that Anderson and McCluskey, far from being weaklings, looked like the only really proficient caber-tossers there. The other competitors were lean miners or local farm-boys and looked just as apprehensive as Flanagan. McCluskey, the first to throw, easily hoisted the caber to his left shoulder, balanced it there for a moment, then commenced on his run, followed from behind by the chief judge. Then McCluskey stopped suddenly, both feet in line, and drove down hard with legs and back as the caber tilted forward, finishing with a high flourish with both hands as the caber finally left his grasp.

  It was not a perfect “twelve o’clock” throw, the caber falling slightly to the left at “five to twelve”, but McClusky strutted back to the bench, evidently satisfied. His fellow Scot, Anderson, achieved a similar result, his caber falling to the right, at five past twelve, so the two Scots shared the lead.

  Flanagan had difficulty in keeping his face straight as he watched the other competitors. Some did not know which end of the caber to lift and had to be directed to the thin end. Even then, their problems had only begun, as they had no idea how to set the caber up on to their shoulders. When they did manage to lift the caber to the correct throwing position, having been allowed help from other competitors, they either allowed it to fall back behind them, or performed a desperate bandy-legged dance before dropping the caber and leaving it to its own devices. The arena was a sea of laughter and little McPhee scowled from the gloom of the judges’ tent as he watched.

  Flanagan’s first throw maintained the carnival spirit. With help, he got the caber into the throwing position on his first attempt but found that the bark of the tree trunk grated on his left collar-bone and he felt his knees buckle under the caber’s weight. By the time he had balanced himself and it, his energies had been totally exhausted, and all he could do was to drop the caber and run, to hoots of derision from the crowd.

  The second round of the competition saw perfect twelve o’clock throws from Anderson and McCluskey, but Flanagan’s second round attempt was as disastrous as his first, and he only narrowly avoided decapitating the following caber judge. He returned to the bench flushed and sullen, his blood slowly coming to the boil.

  “Flanagan, last throw!” shouted the recorder, a few moments later. Centuries of Irish bile and resentment were pouring through Flanagan’s thin frame. This time he needed no help to raise the caber to the throwing position, and McCluskey and Anderson looked at each other in surprise. He moved off quickly, suddenly possessed by a surge of strength. The caber threatened to fall sideways. As he tried to maintain balance he started to zig-zag, and in front of him other competitors began to move hurriedly to one side. First, Flanagan staggered towards the dancing platform: the dancers leapt off in alarm. Then he changed direction and teetered drunkenly towards the wrestlers who, glancing up, hurriedly broke their holds and fled for safety.

  Flanagan felt himself weaken. He was totally out of control and now thought only of survival. All pride gone, he summoned one last desperate burst of energy and launched the hated caber. It was the third twelve o’clock toss of the day – and went straight through the side of the judges’ tent, stripping it of its canvas to reveal Chieftain McPhee standing alone drinking whiskey straight from the bottle.

  The Highland Games of Scotland were first called “gatherings” because they were occasions when country people, who had through the winter lived remote from each other, came together in spring or summer for a day of sport and social communion. When the gatherings were over there were no real losers, and thus it was at the conclusion of the 1931 McPhee Games held far from Scotland in a dry, dusty bowl north of Cedar City, Utah.

  There were over three thousand people in the vast sweaty refreshment tents. Most of them were not Scots, and yet the main tent was ablaze with tartan and filled with piping a
nd Scots songs. Somehow everyone within a hundred miles of McPhee had found in his family some trace of Scots ancestry, and from lofts and cupboards the ancient garb of Gaul had been extracted.

  “I’ve got to give credit where credit is due,” said Mayor McPhee, beckoning the barman to him. “Ye brought some bonny lads with ye, Flanagan. That Doc Cole’s a wonder – he sold me ten bottles of his remedy.”

  “Thanks, Mr Mayor,” said Flanagan. “Yes, I think my boys did do themselves proud. Now, about the ten thousand dollars we agreed on the telephone . . .”

  “Plenty of time for business,” said McPhee. “Here, just you have a half and a half.”

  Flanagan was nonplussed.

  “A half and a half, man,” repeated McPhee, pouring out a generous half-tumbler of whiskey and beckoning the barman to pour out Flanagan a half-pint of beer.

  McPhee dropped his head back and slipped down his own “half” of whiskey and lifted his half-pint of beer.

  “The beer’s the chaser,” he explained, gulping it down. He slapped Flanagan on the back. “Get it down ye, man. It’s the real Mackay, all the way from Scotland. None of yer bootleg rubbish.”

  Flanagan did as he was bid.

  “Set them up again, Angus,” said McPhee. McCluskey the caber-tosser was now acting as barman, his customary role in the town. “Mr Flanagan here’s just warming up.”

  “About our fee . . .” started Flanagan.

  “Fee?” snorted McPhee. “Man, this is no time to talk of money. Get that whiskey down!”

  On a wooden platform in the centre of the tent a ceilidh was beginning, and a young woman was singing a Gaelic song. In one corner the Finns, Eskola and Maki, were being introduced to the rudiments of sword dancing. In another Bouin and Dasriaux were making their first tentative attempts to master the bagpipes. At the bar Carl Liebnitz was deep in discussion with a weary Peter Thurleigh, while behind them agent Ernest Bullard was recovering some of the liquid lost during the afternoon. Bullard had finally surrendered his amateur status at the age of thirty-eight, though he felt no regret at the loss. He had run in the half-mile handicap, receiving a twenty-eight-yard start from Peter Thurleigh. Though he had not competed for fifteen years Bullard was still in good condition, and had clocked just over two minutes five seconds in finishing second to the Texan, Kane, picking up seventy-five dollars in the process.

  A few yards away, Flanagan’s world was becoming increasingly blurred, as McPhee continued to ply him with “half and halves”. He had already consumed six, and his legs had the rubbery quality which the Trans-Americans, for different reasons, knew only too well.

  He began to realize that McPhee was dragging him towards the centre of the crowded tent.

  “Look,” said Hugh, pointing. “It looks as though Flanagan’s going to make a speech.”

  And so it appeared. Even the German team, who had for most of the evening stayed aloof from the surrounding revelry, looked up as McPhee dragged Flanagan towards the platform in the centre of the tent.

  “My lords, ladies and gentlemen,” said the little Scot, pulling the microphone down. “This has truly been a great day for McPhee, a great day of manly sport and endeavour. Your Games committee has been delighted by the attendance of twenty-one thousand three hundred and twenty spectators” – there was cheering and applause – “and the Games’ takings which must exceed forty thousand dollars.

  “It has indeed been an honour to welcome Mr Flanagan’s famous Trans-Americans, men who have become household names in the last few weeks. If I may mention one athlete in particular it must be our own Powderhall champion, Hugh McPhail, a true son of old Gaul, who won the handicap sprint, against great odds. Less successful, but more spectacular, was Mr Flanagan’s performance in the caber.”

  There were cheers and laughter.

  “The Trans-Americans will, alas, be on their way east tomorrow, but I think that everyone here will agree that each one of them will be welcome back here again at any time.”

  There were cheers, applause, shouts of assent.

  “I therefore think it appropriate,” he continued, “that at this stage in the proceedings Mr Flanagan himself should say a few words.”

  Flanagan gathered himself, loosened his tie and bent down to the microphone.

  “On behalf of the Trans-America foot-race,” he began, “I thank the people of McPhee for their truly generous hospitality. When I was asked last week to have my men compete at your Games I had little idea of what I was getting them into. I now realize that what you have here in McPhee is a sports festival unpolluted by modern times: a small part of America that is forever Scotland.”

  His head swam.

  “Stop blethering, Flanagan, and give us a song,” came a voice from deep in the throng.

  “A song, yes, a song.” Flanagan fumbled in the mists of his mind. Even in his stupor he could think of songs, but none suitable for a mixed audience. “A song,” he said again. Suddenly it came to him.

  “I have great pleasure in inviting to the microphone our star performer of today, our Powderhall champion, Hugh McPhail, to sing a traditional Scottish ballad,” he blurted.

  Hugh’s name was immediately taken up and, before he knew what was happening, the day’s hero was pushed and nudged forward towards the microphone.

  He stood on the platform and the tent gradually became silent. Hugh flushed. They were waiting for him. He cleared his throat. Only one song seemed appropriate.

  Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled,

  Scots, wham Bruce has aften led,

  Welcome to your gory bed,

  Or to victory.

  Now’s the day, and now’s the hour:

  See the front o’ battle lour!

  See approach proud Edward’s power –

  Chains and slaverie!

  Wha will be a traitor knave?

  Wha can fill a coward’s grave?

  Wha sae base as be a slave?

  Let him turn and flee!

  The tent was still, not even the clink of a glass. Hugh surged on through the last verse, his voice strengthening as he was joined by Scots all over the tent.

  Lay the proud usurpers low!

  Tyrants fall in every foe!

  Liberty’s in every blow,

  Let us do or die!

  When Hugh had ended the tent erupted with Scots, would-be Scots, and plain old Americans. “Lovely voice, lovely voice,” said McPhee, drawing Flanagan with him to the crowded bar. “Same again, Angus,” said the mayor to Flanagan’s massive tormentor of the afternoon. Flanagan made to refuse, but McPhee ignored him.

  “Flanagan,” he said, eyeing him up and down, “I reckon you for a gambling man. Am I right?”

  The mayor gulped down a massive measure of whiskey and pushed his empty glass towards Angus with a nod. Flanagan did not reply and McPhee went on. “I see you as a gentleman willing to take a chance. Know what I mean?” McPhee opened his sporran and withdrew a thick wad of money.

  “Here’s your ten thousand dollars,” he said, placing the bundle on the wet surface of the bar. “It’s yours. You’ve earned it.”

  Flanagan, his cash-reflex still intact, put his hand on the money, but McPhee placed his own hand on top of Flanagan’s.

  “So how do you fancy a gamble?” he said. “A wee flutter? Double or quits?”

  Willard Clay had now joined Flanagan at the bar and looked anxiously at his employer. “Boss,” he hissed, pulling at Flanagan’s sleeve.

  Flanagan shrugged him off. “Double or quits?” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean a little side bet. Nothing for you if you lose, twenty thousand dollars in your hand if you win.”

  “A side bet?” said Flanagan. “What the hell do we bet on? The Games are over.”

  “The Games are over when I say so,” said McPhee firmly.

  “So what d’ye say?”

  “What’s the deal?” said Flanagan.

  “Tug-o’-war,” said McPhee.


  “Tug-o’-war?” exploded Flanagan. “My boys are runners, not goddam weight-lifters.”

  “Tug-o’-war,” repeated the mayor patiently. “Best of three pulls. Against a team of lassies.”

  “Lassies?” said Flanagan.

  “Gurlls, ladies,” explained McPhee. “A team of young lassies from Powder Valley against your strapping lads.”

  Flanagan’s mind, though blurred, sensed danger, though he knew not why. He tried to remove his money from the bar, but the mayor kept his hand firmly on top of his.

  “Double or quits,” he repeated. “And, win or lose, we’ll forget about payment for the damage you did to the judges’ tent. So what d’ye say?”

  “Boss, can I have a word with you?” interrupted Willard.

  “Angus,” said McPhee, sensing danger. “Give Mr Clay here a drink, will you?” The big barman was immediately with Willard, sliding a glass along the bar towards him.

  “Double or quits, you say?” said Flanagan slowly.

  “That’s the bet,” said McPhee. “The best of three straight pulls wins.”

  “When?” said Flanagan.

  “Now,” said McPhee, looking out into the gloom outside the tent. “We’ll get some cars to put on their headlights so that we get some light.” For the first time he took his hand from on top of Flanagan’s and held it out towards Flanagan.

  “Well?”

  Flanagan hesitated for a moment, then clasped the mayor’s hand. “You got yourself a deal,” he said.

  Willard groaned.

  McPhee made his way quickly to the platform in the middle of the tent, interrupting the Gaelic chant of an elderly Scot.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he bellowed. “Here is a special announcement. The committee is pleased to announce a final challenge competition. Mr Flanagan’s Trans-America team have decided to challenge the ladies of Powder Valley to a three-pull tug-of-war competition.”