The Legends

by Robert E. Connolly

  Throughout his grade school days, unless Brian had some activity that required his presence elsewhere, Margaret’s home was always a stop on the way home. In the course of those visits, the old woman came to understand the difficulties faced by the young boy and she came to admire the way in which dealt with his unique situation. She hoped that, in some small way, she helped Brian work things out.

  Extracts from the Local Newspaper:

  Drogheda News: The members of the St. Faolán GAA Club are shaking their heads in amazement these days, and all because of a six-year old boy. “I have been involved in hurling since I was in short pants,” said octogenarian Tommy Boyle, “and I have never seen the likes of that young fellow.” “Puts me in mind of that Tiger Woods fellow when he was on the television hitting the golf ball two hundred yards at about the same age,” added a slightly younger Liam Casey.

  The boy, Brian, son of Dr. Cathal and Mrs. Evelyn O’Sullivan, can only be described as a hurling phenomenon. At a time when most boys his age are barely shuffling the ball along the ground, Brian has no difficulty lifting, carrying and accurately striking the ball over the bar from thirty or forty yards. He does use a child’s size hurley but this makes his ability to strike the ball long distances even more surprising.

  When asked about the boy’s amazing coordination and talent, Dr. O’Sullivan could shed little light, “He certainly didn’t get it from my side of the family. I enjoy watching the hurling but would have difficulty even hitting a ball. Brian’s Uncle Paddy Rice gave him a hurley before he could even walk and it seems that it never left his hands.”

  Unfortunately, there seems to be no place for young Brian on any of the many St. Faolán’s team rosters. He is entirely too good to play at his own age level and because he is no bigger than most six year olds, it would be too dangerous for him to play at a level that reflects his skill. Come to think of it, that might be our Inter County Team.

  Ger McEvoy, who coordinates the underage teams at the club, told this paper that he hopes young Brian will continue to train at St. Faolán’s because the boy has obviously been blessed with remarkable talent. McEvoy said that he was looking forward to the day when Brian is big enough to safely compete in the higher age groups. Meanwhile, Brian Boru O’Sullivan is a name to remember.

  Drogheda News: After several weeks of national, and indeed international, publicity after this newspaper first published the story about Brian O’Sullivan, the six year old with remarkable hurling talent, Dr. Cathal O’Sullivan has withdrawn his son from the club at Brian’s request. The reason, in the boy’s own words, was: “all the other boys and girls love hurling just as much as I do. It isn’t fair that everyone thinks I am so good and no one likes them as much.”

  Dr. O’Sullivan told this newspaper that he saw no purpose in continuing to subject his son to what amounted to a circus atmosphere, particularly when the boy wasn’t having any fun. “I’m not sure how much you can read into Brian’s own statement,” O’Sullivan said, “but making friends with children his own age is just as important to him, and to my wife and I, as the game itself but it seems his skill and the attention he is receiving, are making that impossible.” When asked whether the boy would be giving up the game entirely, Dr. O’Sullivan replied, “Not a chance in the world. We will just give him a chance to be a boy and when he gets a bit older, I suspect he will be back.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “There is something very strange about that child,” Millicent Blessington, reported to her husband as she stared out her living room window on a sunny Saturday morning.

  “And which child might that be?” her husband Nigel queried barely lifting his head from the ‘Financial Times.’

  “The O’Sullivan child, of course,” she replied. “What other child would I be talking about? This town land isn’t exactly crawling with children now is it?”

  “Yes, yes,” Nigel muttered, well accustomed as he was to his wife’s habit of keeping an eye on everything around her. “And what is it that makes the child so strange?”

  “Well for one thing he spends every waking moment running around like some wild animal with that stick and ball. Isn’t that some Irish Sport? Curling or something?”

  “Hurling actually,” Nigel said under his breath now regretting that this conversation would take him away from his reading.

  “And then there is that massive animal,” she continued. “I never see him with any other children, only that great beast of a dog. He talks with the dog as if it were human. Come on, come on, and look at him.”

  Nigel sighed, carefully folded his paper and reluctantly joined his wife at the sitting room window. “I wouldn’t be an expert at such things,” he commented as he pushed the curtain aside, “but it seems to me that little boys spend a great deal of time running around, burning off energy or whatever, and boys do love their dogs. I would hardly find that strange.”

  As he looked down into the field across the laneway at the front of his house, Nigel saw the boy and his dog, obviously a massive Irish wolfhound. The boy could not have been more than six or seven but there was no question that he was much quicker and certainly more coordinated than any child Nigel had ever seen. He was remarkable actually. The boy would flick the ball off the end of his stick and then whack it to an incredible height. While the ball was in flight he would dash off to where it would eventually land and jumping high he would pluck the ball out of the air with his free hand. The dog, meanwhile, would run after the boy and compete for the ball. Despite the fact that the dog was taller, the little fellow’s jumping ability overcame his height disadvantage and although they crashed into each other on nearly every occasion, it had little effect on the boy’s ability to catch the ball. After each catch the boy would laugh and reach around the dog’s great neck giving him a big hug as if to encourage the animal to do better the next time. On occasion the boy would drive the ball at the remnants of a stone wall far down the field striking it with amazing consistency and power and the dog would chase down the ball and return it to her master.”

  Nigel stood mesmerized by the scene before him. “You see what I mean?” Millicent said as if she was daring her husband to disagree.

  “I do,” Nigel replied, “but the child is not strange at all, just remarkably talented. Don’t you remember the television coverage on him some time back?”

  “Vaguely,” Millicent replied, her elegant arms crossed over her expensive sweater.

  “He looks like he is having so much fun, I think I may join him.” Nigel said enthusiastically.

  “Humph,” his wife replied as she marched off to the kitchen.

  Nigel meanwhile reached into the basket behind the door and retrieved a soccer ball that he kept more as a reminder of his past than for any active use. In his younger days, Nigel has been quite a decent soccer player. He had a short run at Liverpool and played for England’s under nineteen year old age group team before a knee injury sent him back to school and a successful career in banking. Of course he was an avid Liverpool supporter but he enjoyed watching younger players perform and he considered himself as something of an expert at spotting young talent. He had even arranged for a couple of young men to practice with his old club. As he looked across the field at the little boy, he knew he was looking at someone special.

  Nigel pulled on his old gym shoes and nudging the soccer ball ahead he wandered out to the brick wall separating his front yard from the roadway. When their game brought the boy and his dog to the top of the field, he called out, “Hello there.”

  The boy stopped and looked over at Nigel, shading his eyes against the bright sunshine, “Hello Mister Blessington,” he answered respectfully.

  Nigel was slightly taken aback that the boy would know his name but then he supposed that, although he never met them, the O’Sullivans would have heard of him just as he knew their name. He smiled pleasantly and replied, “And here you know my name and I don’t even know yours.”

  The boy stood scratching th
e massive dog’s ear for a moment remembering the manners he was taught before responding, “I am Brian Boru O’Sullivan. I am pleased to meet you.”

  “And I am certainly pleased to meet you,” Nigel responded. “And who is your great friend there?”

  “This is Molly,” the boy said vigorously rubbing her shoulder. “She is the best dog in the world.”

  Nigel smiled, “I have no doubt about that. It is a pleasure to meet you as well Molly. You know, Brian, I was watching you play there and I would have to say you are quite skilled with the hurley.”

  “Thank you Mister,” the boy said. “My Dad says it must be in my blood.”

  “Ah yes, and did he play the game.”

  A puzzled look crossed the boys face as he responded, “I don’t think so. It must be some other blood.”

  Nigel replied, “Of course. Tell me Brian Boru, have you ever played soccer?”

  “No,” the boy said seriously, “but my Dad and I watch it on the television. We are Liverpool supporters.”

  “Are you now?” Nigel said, “And would you believe, so am I. Would you like to give it a try?”

  The young boy looked dubiously as Nigel expertly flipped the ball into the air, catching it on his chest before allowing it to roll back to his feet. Nigel encouraged the boy opening his front gate, “Come on then.”

  Brian and Molly walked through the gate into the front yard. Brian instructed Molly to sit near the entrance and guard his hurley and ball. Molly seemed to understand perfectly and she lay down with her massive paws draped over the stick. Brian trotted to a spot about ten feet from Nigel who was juggling the ball with his feet.

  “Now then,” Nigel instructed as he allowed the ball to drop to the ground, “you don’t kick the ball with your toes but you use the inside of the foot to pass the ball and the top of the foot to shoot.” With that he sent a slow pass in the direction of the small boy and was amazed when it was returned firmly and accurately to his right foot. He noticed that the boy’s balance was instinctively perfect, head down, left foot properly planted and leaning over the ball. So much for the first lesson he said to himself.

  The two passed the ball back and forth without allowing it to stop and Nigel saw that not only was the child well balanced but his feet also demonstrated a remarkable quickness that allowed him to adjust to any unexpected misdirection or hop of the ball. Nigel directed several passes to the boy’s left foot but the result was, once again, a perfect return. It was impossible for the former professional to decide whether the young boy was naturally right footed or left footed. Nigel also tried a few step-over passes and Brian repeated the move without difficulty and heel passes met with a similar response. “Are you sure you haven’t played soccer before?” Nigel asked in amazement.

  “Yes, Mister,” the boy replied seriously, “but sure it’s only kicking a wee ball now isn’t it.”

  “Quite right,” Nigel said as he caromed a strong shot off the front wall. The ball bounced to the child’s chest and he calmly absorbed the shot, just as he had seen on television, allowing it to fall to his feet before delivering a strong left-footed shot against the wall. The ball arrived a bit too quickly at the older man’s feet and for the first time the ball strayed from where he had intended.

  The two delivered several ricochet shots, all of which were handled expertly by the young boy. After a time, Nigel began to feel the heat of the sun and decided that while the child might be able to do this all day, he could not. When the final shot was delivered, he stopped the ball at his feet, put his hands on his hips and looked down at the boy. “I don’t think I have ever played with a young fellow who was quite as talented as you are,” he said … thinking – ‘or an older fellow as well’. “I think that you could play for Liverpool when you get older if you wanted to.”

  The boy beamed, “Thank you mister. Ireland as well?”

  Nigel replied messing the young boys already wild head of red-blonde hair, “of course Ireland as well. Thank you for playing with me but I think my wife has some jobs for me to do. Perhaps we could do this again some time.”

  “That would be nice,” Brian replied as he picked up his hurley and balancing the ball on its end, ran down the laneway with the great Molly in hot pursuit.

  Nigel retreated to the comfort of his house shaking his head and muttering “incredible” as he walked. On entering his home he flipped the soccer ball into its basket and stood with his back to the door thinking about what he had seen. Millicent appeared at the entrance to the kitchen wiping her hands in her apron before crossing her arms. “Well, is he strange or what?”

  Nigel looked aside considering the question, “Strange is not the word. That child, even at his young age, is an incredibly gifted athlete. I have never seen a fifteen or sixteen year old that was as natural with the ball as he is and yet he has never played or practiced. If the truth be known, I am having a great deal of difficulty figuring out how it is possible for a child to be so coordinated so, perhaps, he is strange. I must have a word with his father. If you don’t mind, I just might wander down there on the off chance he might be around. No time like the present, what?”

  With that, Nigel took a jacket off the coat stand near the front door and proceeded toward the front gate. His wife’s terse reminder that lunch would be ready in an hour sent him on his way. Nigel strolled down the laneway in the direction of the O’Sullivans’ home hoping that the boy’s father would be out tending his garden or performing some similar outdoor chore on such a fine morning. He was rewarded in his effort when he rounded a bend and saw a tall man deadheading roses in front of his whitewashed cottage. As Nigel approached the man removed his hat wiping his balding head with an old rag that hung from his pocket.

  “Grand morning,” Nigel said amiably.

  The tall man walked toward the stonewall surrounding his front yard and replied, “tis that, thanks be to God,” he replied.

  “Nigel Blessington,” Nigel said offering his hand, which was warmly taken by the tall man. “I apologize for not introducing myself earlier but my wife and I only moved here a few months back and it seemed to me that people here pretty much keep to themselves.”

  “Cathal O’Sullivan,” the tall man replied. “A pleasure to meet you. I suppose you are right, people don’t move to a remote townland if they are looking for constant company. But I think you will find people here to be pleasant enough. And if you don’t mind my asking, what brings you to the wilds of County Louth?”

  Nigel replied, “I took a position with the Ulster Bank in Drogheda. My wife is a country girl – well big house country—and she got tired of living in big cities. She fell in love with the bungalow up the road so here we are.”

  “I can understand that,” Cathal replied, “my wife and I have been here for a dozen years or so. Fell in love with the peace and quiet, at least until the little fellow came along.”

  “Ah yes, that would be Brian Boru,” Nigel said with a smile. “I met him earlier this morning. Quite a remarkable young man, if you don’t mind my saying that.”

  Cathal stroked his chin and gave his guest a wry smile, “Remarkable yes. The wife and I never thought we would have a child at all. We met late and after a few years of marriage it appeared that it just wasn’t in the cards. But then you never know.”

  Nigel nodded in agreement, “I know what you mean. Millicent and I were the same, but I’m afraid we weren’t so fortunate. Still and all we have a pile of nieces and nephews and a good life so there are no complaints. Your son, though, is special. I kicked the soccer ball around with him and I must say he is remarkably gifted athletically. Were you an athlete?”

  “Not at all, not at all,” the tall man said with a smile. “Neither was Evelyn for that matter. But then there must have been some athletic blood somewhere back in the distant past because I have no other explanation for him. It is almost embarrassing at times.”

  “A while back,” he continued, “we took him down to the local Gaelic Athletic Assoc
iation club to play hurling with the toddlers. Well toddlers playing hurling might be a stretch; it is more like a bunch of helmets playing an elementary form of field hockey. Anyway, putting Brian among them was like an expert county player competing with under eight year olds, except of course that he was the same size as all the other toddlers. He couldn’t understand why they wouldn’t let him lift and shoot when all the other little ones could barely push the ball along the ground. We had to take him off before some child got in the way of his shot. So they moved him up with older children and he completely dominated them as well. The other children became frustrated with his skills, particularly because of his size so he took a few belts.”

  “I recall the press coverage,” Nigel replied.

  “Of course, the press,” Cathal said. “Then you know we all came to the conclusion that it was in everyone’s best interest to let him grow a bit before he wins his first all-Ireland medal.”

  “Perfectly reasonable,” Nigel replied. “After watching him out in the field it doesn’t seem to have slowed his training.”

  Cathal responded, “Well now, the one thing Brian loves is his hurling, and sport in general I would have to say.”

  Nigel agreed, “Yes, yes. I would know a good bit about soccer and I have never seen anyone, even lads ten years older than the young fellow, who has the balance and agility and natural skill of your Brian. Has he played soccer?”

  Cathal replied, “No he hasn’t. I’m sure if he did it would be the same thing again. He would be far too good for his own age group and far too small for his skill level. As disappointed as he was over the hurling, I wouldn’t want him to have the same experience with soccer, so we will just have to wait on that as well. It is a bit of a shame though because he loves sport so much. He doesn’t have many friends because older kids don’t want to be around a small boy and younger children can’t play at his level. Fortunately, he has his Molly and he is generally a happy boy. Now if he had only inherited a few more academic genes…”