I watch your body position as you close down the space created by the movements of McMahon and the other Clare forwards. You’ve been coached well – Joe Ryan and Dinny Young did a great job with you. Today is really all about temperament and I think yours is just fine. I don’t think you’re a great loser but as Vince Lombardi said: ‘Show me a good loser and I’ll show you a loser.’ You got that from me.
You probably wouldn’t even remember the one and only time we met, in Páirc Uí Rinn, after you had played your first senior game with Sars and we beat ye in the county quarter-final. You just about deigned to shake hands with me when I commiserated with you, coming off the pitch. It was all I had been thinking about that whole day, and for several days before. I do remember that, though I have no recollection of the match itself.
I was in bits afterwards. When I got into my car, my hand shook so much that I could barely put the key in the ignition. I drove straight home, past more than twenty pubs, being talked down by my sponsor, Tom O’Neill. He stayed on the phone for two hours with me – he’s a great man. You know, I never told your mother about that. I couldn’t.
On the way up here this morning in the car I had a crazy idea. I daydreamed that I’d congratulate you after the match, if we win. That I’d seek you out, walk straight up to you and shake your hand. That I’d hug you, even. That I’d grab you by the shoulders and look into your eyes. As a father should look into his son’s eyes, on winning glory. What did I think I’d see there? Or what did I think you’d see? And what would I say? I don’t know. I just don’t know. I’m not sure what I was thinking. Crazy thoughts. I was thinking crazy thoughts, Sean.
The game is lacklustre, low scoring. The back lines are dominating, not that I care. Two points to one would do me. You are more than holding your own. You haven’t conceded a free and McMahon has only one forced shot, which goes wide.
‘He’s doing fine,’ Pat says.
I nod. ‘So far. I think they’ll move McMahon.’
As if the Clare coach had heard me, Cillian McMahon, his star player, immediately switches with the right corner-forward. You stay at left half-back. That must have been your instruction.
Pat is a man of few words, but they are carefully chosen. He knows about you. I told him in the horrors one night when he drove me home from the garda station. Old Sergeant Morris was very good to me, I must say. He never charged me and he used to phone Pat when I was sober enough to go home. He was great friends with my mother, maybe that’s why.
We draw breath at half-time, the game still in the balance. Clare 1–6; Cork 0–7.
‘They’re holding their own,’ Pat says.
‘If they can keep out the goals they’re in with a right shout,’ I say.
‘Very low scoring.’
‘’Tis, then.’
‘Crilly is weak under the high ball.’
‘Lynch is some handful, he’s a monster of a man.’
‘Still. Midfield are going well.’
‘Yes.’
‘Winning a lot of loose ball.’
‘They are.’
Clare come out onto the pitch after half-time as if they mean business, building a momentum that gathers power as it flows. They tack on point after point, while Cork manage only a couple of paltry replies. Now the spirit is draining from the Cork fans and I can see it in some of the players’ body language too. A tetchiness rising in them. The Clare supporters approach ecstasy, with the end in sight.
You turn the tide, Sean, when you block Mick Lynch, the colossal full-forward, as he seems certain to score a goal. But on the follow-through, when Lynch’s hurley catches you full on the side of the head, there is a pained gasp from the crowd. My eyes are drawn to a chocolate sweet wrapper on the ground beneath my feet. It is a dark, bruised shade of purple on the outside and silver on the inside. It is wrinkled at the edges, the way that sweet wrappers are. It isn’t Pat’s or mine; I don’t know who dropped it there.
Three moments wrestle in my mind. Your mother weeping, Roisín lifeless in her arms, the helpless nurses hovering by the bed and me standing there, useless – a useless piece of shit. At the grave as they put the tiny little white box into the ground. Father Cotter splashing holy water over it and me holding up your mother, all the time planning and scheming where I’d get my next drink. That horrible sight a few weeks ago in The Mass Path field, when magpies killed a young rabbit, the little quaking thing squealing under the onslaught of the talons and the beaks, and me standing there watching them tear it to scraps.
Christ Almighty, don’t ever put a hurley into your son’s hand, Sean. Just don’t.
There is a strained stillness, a momentary hush. Only when the Cork supporters stir and roar and rise to salute their captain can I look up. The doctor and physio help you to your feet and you take your position for the puck out.
My eyes prick for the first time this day – and I want so badly to stand up and point to you and point to my chest and shout to the whole wide world: that’s my son, that’s my son. Pat lets out a huge sigh and puts his head in his hands. ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph,’ he says.
Now, as if some great light-switch has been turned on, the Cork players can see their way to winning. Mark Goggin catches the puck out and three passes later Ray Clarke points. The next puck-out is won again and Darren O’Sullivan stabs home a rebounded save. Cork are level, and the tide cannot be stemmed. Another two points followed by another O’Sullivan goal bring the last few minutes to a frenzied climax.
And we win.
We win, Sean. Our hopes and dreams are risen. We win.
Pat is crying beside me, and laughing. Wiping his eyes with a big old handkerchief. He hugs me – for the first time, I might add. He’s not the most tactile.
‘Oh, Jesus, oh, sweet Jesus, Tim,’ he says, convulsing, into my ear. I hold him tight and avoid meeting his eyes.
So now you know. What it’s like to win an All-Ireland. I’ll never forget my first – it seemed like all the light of the world shone right down on us that day. That’s what you’re feeling now. And that’s what I’m feeling again now, too. I thank you for that. What I said earlier, about not putting a hurley into your son’s hand – I take it back. We need our sons to hurl, Sean, and their sons too.
I watch you jump around the pitch with your comrades. I know you’d have died for them out there today and they for you. That’s precious, kid, that’s a rare and priceless thing – to feel that bond with other men. Soldiers speak of it in hushed tones. I shake hands with Cork and Clare people as we try to gather our composure. Time means nothing. I feel myself breathe again. I don’t think I’ll need a meeting after all today but I’ll go tomorrow night, in Ballincollig.
I think of Evelyn but I know I won’t have reception to phone her for a while. I think of Roisín, how proud she would have been of you and you of her, if you ever did meet. I see her as a musician, somehow, with fine delicate hands and pale skin, in a conservatory in London. I think of my own father and his pride and joy when he lived long enough to see me win my first medal. I’ll go to their graves tomorrow.
Your mother has had it tough. Her lowest point was when you were about ten. I was sober at the time, thankfully; otherwise I dread to think what would have happened. I was at work one day when I received a phone call from the guards in Glanmire. She’d been detained there, outside your school. A parent had called them because Evelyn was asking boys your age their names. This led to a long stay in St Patrick’s Hospital in Dublin, but she was very lucky to be put into the care of a young psychiatrist from Cavan, Mary Hannon, who did wonders with her. She’s good now, I have to say, but I do know that she still wakes up every morning hoping for a letter from Tusla with a tracing request from you. This is her Limbo, Sean, and it’s a hard place to live.
After a time, after most of the Clare fans have left the stadium and our euphoria has subsided, a giddy sense of order descends over the place. I watch you and your teammates gather and walk up the hallowed steps to receive
the cup.
When you are about halfway there, I notice Michael force his way through the ecstatic Cork fans. He pulls you to him. He kisses you on the cheek. You press your foreheads together. He draws you into his arms and I see all the joy that one man can ever possibly know right there in his tearful eyes.
I turn and begin my walk down through the stadium. At the bar just below our section two Clare men have begun to drown their sorrows and are taking their first greedy sups out of pints of porter. My feet bring me onwards in the stream of people flooding away towards home.
A Corkman tries to engage me in conversation with a comment about how lucky Cork were. I blank him and watch my feet on the concrete steps. A Clare man and his son pass me, moving swiftly. The boy is about eighteen and has the number seven on his jersey. He has the look of a wing-back too, though he’s a bit skinny. That’s easily fixed. His father turns his head as they pass; he glances at me and I at him and something passes between us.
I imagine you skipping up the last steps to the podium. Grinning. Turning and seeing your teammates in a line below you, Cork fans all around the stadium. I picture Michael, glowing, looking up at you, the touch of your cheek still warm on his lips, the press of your forehead on his forehead. His hands still tingling from the sweat on the short hairs at the nape of your neck.
At the large blue exit gate I look to my left, towards the tunnel entrance where the dressing rooms are, under The Davin Stand. A bored official stands at the opening with a walkie-talkie. It wouldn’t be hard to get in there, I’ve done it before. You and the other players will come out into that tunnel to get on to the bus. People course down Jones’ Road outside. John Lynch, from Fermoy, salutes me.
I hear the president of the GAA finish his long meaningless speech over the tannoy before he hands you the cup. I pause. The roars rise to a crescendo as you take it from him and raise it to the sky.
As I fumble for my phone with trembling hands, I hear your exclamation burst through the speakers.
‘A Chairde Gael, A Chairde Chorcaíoch!’ you shout, but the voice I hear is my own.
Five Seconds
One
Cash is going to hit it long, but you know that, don’t you, Sully boy, he’s under too much pressure and at this stage with only a few minutes left, he just wants to get the ball away to fuck out of danger, and it will probably go high and wide, and it probably doesn’t matter anyway, a wide’s as good as a score now, the game’s as good as over, you’re out the gap, but just in case, you rise up a little on your toes and pivot, because there’s some space inside – even after the first goal and even with the end of everything in sight you still want more, fuck yeah, you really want more with a lip-licking want, an eye-widening want, a panting, cock-hardening want, more goals, more points, more punishment for that bullock Quinn and those Clare fuckers who trolled you on Twitter, who jeered you in the first half when you missed that pick; more glory, more fame, more mischief, more knickers being pulled down, more pussies opening up under you soft and wet, more tits, more ass, more women grinning teeth and tongues and lips, more blondes, more brunettes, more redheads, more dark ones, more life, more, more, more moments like this one when the whole world is following your tune, your beat, you’re the lead singer, you’re the lead guitarist too, you’re the whole fucken band and you want more of this, this magic, this top doggery, this ownership – you own this whole team: Malone; Coughlan, Crilly, O’Callaghan; Culloty, Goggin, Cashman; Keane, Murphy; McCarthy, Shaughnessy, Clifford; O’Shea, O’Sullivan, Clarke, you own every Cork hurler, you own those 82,000 people around you, you own the million people watching, all the Clare losers who hate you in their half-arsed mountainy county, all the people watching, in pubs in Dublin, in pubs in London, on the net in Melbourne, in bars in New York and Chicago, you own them all, you own all the hurlers watching, all the hurlers of the past, of the present, of the future, watching, their eyes all on you, you own the Cork people who love you all over the city in Blackpool and Farranree, and Knocknaheeny and Sundays Well and Bishopstown and Blackrock and Togher and Douglas and Mayfield, you own Cork people all over the county and the world, you own the fucken world now and that ball, that ball, that ball when it gets to you in five seconds you own that ball, it’s yours to do whatever you want with it, it’s yours and yours alone, that ball, so you get ready to hit the bullock, just a quick sneaky nudge, just as he’s turning in case he sees it coming, he’s thick but he’s not that thick, so instead of getting away from him inside and up to the edge of the square where the action will be, you know it’s gonna be there, you know it, instead you turn into him and hit him a shoulder and the bullock isn’t expecting it and he’s off balance on one foot, so he’s gonna land on his arse and the ref is too thick to look ahead, he’s still watching Cash who’s just hit the ball but you know it’s coming, it’s coming, and it’s yours now for sure and the umpires might or might not have seen it but they won’t have the nerve to call it, and they can’t stop you, nobody can stop you, and now, now that ball is yours, you own that ball, you fucking own it – that ball, that ball.
Two
That ball still has eighty-five metres to come but it won’t take long, it won’t be a long four seconds, really, and if you had paid attention to Mr Cuthbert in maths class you’d probably be able to calculate how long exactly, if it travels at 100 or 200kmph and it has 80 or 85m to come or what-the-fuck-ever, but you didn’t and you’re not sorry, who the fuck cares, because whatever the speed and whatever the distance, it doesn’t matter, it’s yours as sure as that job in Seamie’s bar in Chicago is yours when you head over there in a couple of weeks and as sure as you’ll make it your own and become the manager there, and you’ll head to New York city because Seamie will feel threatened when you’re around his girlfriend, and you’ll manage a bar in The Bronx and then two and then three and you’ll buy shares in that place on 115th and Broadway and in a couple of year’s time who’ll walk in only Kim, yes Kim, this rich, hot, half-Asian chick from California taking classes in Columbia, but you don’t know how rich and you won’t for a while but here she comes, strolling into your bar like she owns it, all cheeky smile and dark hair, and punk T-shirt and she gives you the look and you know you’re in there, so what, like, it wouldn’t be the first time, but she comes back on her own a few nights later and this time it’s not just banging her brains out, bed hopping all over the floor, you both talk to each other this time, really talk, and she’s funny and smart, you don’t know how smart yet, and something happens that doesn’t ever happen to you, does it, you miss her after a few weeks when she has to go back to Stanford and you look forward to the FaceTimes and when she asks you out there, you jump at the chance and you don’t like this feeling of not having control, you’re not used to it, but you do like it too and what do you know, you go and fall in love with her and that’s that, you’re hooked now and that wasn’t the plan but there was no plan and everyone has a plan until they get a punch in the face, so ye set up shop and would you believe it, you go and get married – you! married! – and ye have two kids, Mia and Sonny, and nobody is more shocked than you are, you of all people a proper dad, but it seems to work, you keep your shit together and you keep your dick in your pants, which is some achievement running a bar in Oakland, but that job doesn’t last long when you learn that Kim isn’t just rich, but super-rich, and maybe that had something to do with the wedding and the baby and maybe it didn’t but it’s going to happen and then it’s all a nice tan by the pool, and a nice golf swing and a nice couple of mojitos in the country club after a nice eighteen holes, served by a nice Puerto Rican girl you don’t look twice at but, hey, that ball’s coming and you better keep your fucken eye on it, so you do, you do, and now that it’s gone from Cash’s hurley and on its way, you know for sure it’s not going to be long and high but on the money and you’re not even thinking now, it’s all instinct, it’s all muscle memory, it’s what all the training sessions were for, all the sacrifices, all the nights in watchi
ng box sets instead of on the beer with your pals, all the girls you missed out on, all the body fat tests, all the interval workouts, all the fucking whey, all the wet nights in Páirc Uí Rinn getting dog’s abuse from Jimmy Mac, all the injuries and recoveries, all the prehab, all the belts from Liam Óg in training, all the boring yoga, all the lectures from Dinny Young, all the chicken and pasta, all the chicken and pasta, all the, Jesus Christ not again, chicken and pasta, all the S&C reps: press ups, sit ups, squats, tucks, weights, stretches, lunges, planks, burpees, this is what it was all for, and there’s a hundred and one things going on at the same time in your whip-crack-smart mind and they all lead to one thing – the catch, the catch, the all-mighty catch.
Three
You pity them, don’t ya kid, those poor cunts who never caught a sliotar, and most people haven’t, most people have never felt the sting of the rim on their fingers, never judged the heft of its speed, never heard the slap of the leather on their palms, never squeezed their knowing fingers around its smooth-rough skin, you pity them because they haven’t lived, not one single day, and they know nothing, absolutely nothing, they haven’t lived and they don’t even know that, but there’s one thing catching a sliotar up in the high field having a puck around with your brother or your dad or your pal and there’s another thing doing it in a winter challenge match against The Barrs, but to do it when there’s ash flying and hands grasping and bodies shoving and 82,000 people shouting and a million people watching and the fate of the Liam MacCarthy Cup in the balance, when history is being written, and destinies are being fulfilled, and legends are being hammered, cast, forged with an everlasting rigour, and lives are on the cusp, when immortality is literally within reach, where the past and the present and the future meet, just there, right there, well, to do it then or not to do it then, never do it then, never, never – if they don’t know that, what do they know? They don’t know notten, boy, nor ever will, and they need to face up to it, but you know this, don’t ya kid, you know this, and yet what you don’t know as the ball is on its way down now, it’s coming down now, nearly there, what you don’t know is that when you strike this ball this ball this ball to the back of the net, what you don’t know is that it will be the last time in your life that you’ll ever hit a sliotar with a hurley, imagine that – the very last time, and nobody else knows it either, nobody, not one single person, not your mother watching this moment unfurl at her sister’s house in Ballincollig because she was too nervous to come to the game, good old Mam, saying ‘catch it, Darren, catch it’ between her fingers, surrounded by your screeching cousins and their screeching neighbours, or your father, drunk now, in his local, in The Rock Bar on the Falls Road, drunk now and telling all the disbelieving drinkers around him that’s my son, there, aye, that’s my Darren, scoring goals for the Rebel County, that’s my wee boy, so it is, and Deirdre Cummins in the Hogan Stand doesn’t know it’s your last puck, Deirdre Cummins, who worships the ground you walk upon, who’s pregnant with your son, Gavin, she doesn’t know either that you’re planning to run away to the US and leave her in the lurch, no, nobody knows it’s your last puck, nobody knows, nobody, and so what: it doesn’t matter.
The First Sunday in September Page 6