by Peter Murphy
“Obstruction? Are you having me on? He was doing nothing of the sort. He was just minding his own business. Free kick, and that’s enough lip out of you or I’ll book ya.” He admonished with his finger as his other hand tapped his shirt pocket where his black notebook could be seen, along with the stubby yellow pencil.
“Good man, Boyle. You’re playing a blinder,” Anto muttered as he set the ball and drove it into the other team’s end of the field, far away from Danny. Normally they only played him on defense, against the weaker teams, and the ball never came near him. “It’s because they know they’re never going to beat you,” Anto had once told him and Danny was convinced.
The ball sloshed back and forth in the mud and Anto and his teammates forgot about Danny for a while, but, at Fr. Reilly’s insistence, they did include him in the back-slapping when they finally scored.
“Who’re the mountain men now, ye bollockses?” they jeered the other team and even Danny joined in.
“What are you looking at, ya fucking queer?” one of them challenged him when he strayed too far from the huddle.
“Language!” the referee reminded them as he took out his notebook to record the scorer. “I couldn’t see who got it so I’m going to put down your number,” he winked at Danny and blew his whistle to restart play. He never strayed from the center circle so Anto told Danny to stay near him so that he wouldn’t get run over again.
“Is he marking the fucking ref now?” someone muttered when the game was paused while Fr. Reilly tried to dislodge the ball from an overhanging tree.
“Leave him alone, for fuck’s sake,” Anto warned. He didn’t like the way they all picked on Danny.
“Why? Is he your boyfriend now?”
“Fuck you. Say that again and I’ll bleedin’ burst ya,” Anto challenged. They were all very brave when it came to picking on Boyle but none of them would dare stand up to him.
“Language!” the ref reminded them absentmindedly as he watched Fr. Reilly throw sticks at the lodged ball.
**
The rain stopped as the second half started and the sun struggled with the low clouds but the field was slick and the tackles were flying. The opponents weren’t used to losing and were taking it badly. One of them even elbowed Danny as he ran past—a stinging blow to the back of his head when the ref wasn’t looking. He was far too busy blowing on his whistle with increasing fury. The game was getting rowdy.
“It’s just a game, gentlemen,” he reminded them all, but they just ignored him. They were at war and it was only a matter of time until someone got hurt.
The referee nearly blew the pea out of his whistle as one of the Saints rolled around in the mud clutching his shin where the angry red rake of studs was emerging. Fr. Reilly was called to examine the wound while the referee wrote the offender’s name in his notebook. “I’ll have my eye on you now,” he advised the lurking offender and snapped his notebook shut.
“We’re going to have to play short,” Fr. Reilly coached after he got his maimed player under the tree. “Anthony! Get them organized.”
On cue, Anto called them into a huddle. “These fuckers are going to try to rattle us now, so don’t take any of their shite. There’s not long left.”
“And what should I do?” Danny asked.
“Just keep doing what you’re doing. Stay high and wait for the long ball.”
He did for a while but in the last few minutes he came wandering back. His team was getting ready to defend a corner.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Anto asked.
“I’m better as a defender.”
“Okay, go cover number seven and don’t fuckin’ lose him. Don’t let him get a free header.” They were under mounting pressure—playing a man short, and all.
When the corner was taken, it floated over them all, toward the far post where number seven waited with the goal at his mercy.
“Get to it, Boyle,” Anto yelled but Danny just closed his eyes and jumped.
It was like he was hit by a wet sack of sand and he collapsed to the ground in total silence.
“Ah, Jesus! The fuckin’ spastic put it in his own net,” the other team jeered as they brushed past but one stopped to pat Danny on the back, even as he lay face down in the mud.
“Is he hurt?” the referee asked from the center circle.
“He’d better be,” the keeper muttered as he nudged Danny with his toe. “Get up ya little bollocks, will ya?”
But the ref decided to blow his whistle and end the game.
***
“How are ya, Boyle?” Anto emerged from the crowd and dropped a few coins into the open case as he leaned closer so that no one else might hear. “I just wanted you to know that I feel bad about involving you with what went down with Scully. It wasn’t what I wanted, but we all take orders from above, ya know? They were concerned that the cops might want to have a chat with you, too, and they wanted you to know what happens to those that talk back. No hard feelings?”
“No,” Danny agreed as he raised his eyes and looked at his own reflection in Anto’s sunglasses, nodding like a fool. What else could he say?
“Well Boyle, we appreciate you keeping your mouth shut and afterwards, when things have calmed down, we’re going to want you to look after things now that Scully is gone. And Boyle,” Anto paused and quickly glanced around, “don’t fuck it up. And another thing, it you’re still using the stuff, it would be better if you were seen buying from someone else, now and then. That way no one will suspect. Just make sure it stays now and then—otherwise you could end up busking in a fuckin’ bowl. Got it? Now start acting natural before anybody looks over.”
When he stepped back, Danny leaned down and picked the coins from his case. His hands were trembling. He thought about running but where could he go? He was walking down the dark paths that led to the time and place when he would lie, like Scully, dead in a ditch.
“Anto, what happened to the gun? I think I might have left my prints on it.”
“Don’t worry about that Boyle. I buried it in a bog. Nobody is ever going to find it.”
“Thanks Anto.”
“No problem, Boyle. Like I always say, we’re mates and mates look out for each other, like when we used to play football together, remember?”
*
Jerry stood on the other side of the street and pretended to be absorbed in the contents of a shop window. He could see Danny and Anto’s reflection in the glass while the passing crowd hid him from view. He could tell just from the way they stood, that things were tense between them.
He had heard about Anto, mostly mutterings and whispers about drugs and guns. People feared him and wondered why nobody did anything about him, but, when it came down to it, they were afraid for themselves and their families. Anto had a way of getting to anybody who crossed him and no one wanted to risk that. In the local pub, the men always said that one of these days they would get together and deal with him but Jerry also remembered when he was younger and played on the football team with Danny. He was a good player, tough and fast, and he didn’t pick on Danny the way the other little scuts did. He even helped him off the field, that day in the “Park.”
Jerry remembered it well. Everyone did—it was the day of Bloody Sunday.
**
“You played a blinder.” Jerry had coaxed Danny off the field and used his wet hanky to wipe away his tears and snot. He was embarrassed but he couldn’t let his son see that. Things were bad enough.
“But I didn’t even get to kick the ball!”
“But you’re making space for the others,” he continued as he tried to get him to stand on his own. “That’s what all the professionals do. Just like Johnny Giles. Isn’t that right?” he pleaded with Anto who was standing on the other side of Danny. He nodded a few times before he stepped back and went off to join the others. Danny waited until he was gone before he brought up the own-goal.
“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Jerry continued. “It could have
happened to the Bishop. Besides, there’s one good thing: your mother wanted to come with me but I told her to wait for a better day.” He wiped the rain from his face and raised the collar of his old tweedy coat.
***
Still, he never felt that he had done right by his son. He had no idea what a father should be. His own father had been cold and remote, offering only judgements like a magistrate. Everyone else thought so highly of him but Jerry knew what he was really like.
And his mother didn’t help, casting him as a prodigal in Danny’s eyes. Like she had never put a foot wrong in her own life. He didn’t want to think badly about her but he couldn’t help it as old memories rose.
**
When they got back from the game, the kitchen was warm and steamy, smelling deliciously of bacon and cabbage; Granny’s panacea for all that January could throw at them. The winter was taking its toll on her but she still had to have the dinner ready.
“You’re both soaked to the skin,” she chided as she handed them towels to dry their heads and ushered them to the table. “Sit down now and get that into you before you both come down with coughing and sneezing and Danny will have to be off school for a while.”
“Are you not eating?” Jerry had asked when he noticed the settings for two.
“I’m not very hungry right now. I have a bit of an upset tummy. That medicine I’m on takes all the joy out of food.”
“Have you talked with the doctor about it?”
“Don’t worry your head about that. Go on now and sit down before your dinner gets cold. I’m going to go and watch the news. The Civil Rights people were marching up in Derry today and you never know what those B-Specials might get up to. Not to mention the Paisley mobs. He’s nothing but a rabble-rouser, that one, make no mistake. He isn’t even a real minister, you know? He was ordained in one of those Bible colleges they have over in America. I wonder what type of Christianity they teach over there, because there is nothing but hatred and bitterness in the man—and all those thugs that follow him.” She sniffed self-righteously and left for the living room.
“You were doing great until that header,” Jerry said to deflect Danny.
“Do you really think so?”
“I do and do you know what? Maybe I could start teaching you a few things—show you a few tricks and stuff. I could even show you how to head a ball.”
Since he’d come home everything was getting better. Granny wasn’t well but Jacinta came over every Saturday and spent the whole day with them.
“Thanks, Da. But I’m not sure if I want to stay with this team. I’m not really enjoying it anymore.”
“Sweet mother of Jesus,” Granny called out to them before he could answer. “Come in quick—they’re after killing a priest.”
They rushed in as the solemn voice of the RTE recounted the day’s events: British Forces have opened fire on a peaceful march in Derry this afternoon. Reports are coming in that they have killed a number of people, including a Catholic Priest, and injured many more.
“Holy Mary, mother of God, have mercy on us,” Granny sobbed, over and over as the evening grew darker, flickering with grainy images of bodies lying in the streets, of stone faced soldiers, with rifles ready, and the terrified survivors waving dirty white hankies as they carried the dead and dying away.
“It will mean war,” Granny pronounced, her knuckles whitening as she gripped the arms of her chair.
“Maybe,” Jerry prodded Danny until he turned from the screams of outrage on the streets of Derry. “You should go on up and have a bath. You got soaked today and you don’t want to be getting a cold. And I’m sure you still have some homework you could be finishing.”
“I didn’t want him to be getting all upset,” he explained after Danny had gone, but his mother didn’t answer. She was rocking back and forth, kneading her bony hands and muttering about vengeance, “because that’s all those godless heathens understand.”
“Maybe we should turn it off now?” He was worried that she would work herself into a state.
“It won’t change anything if we do. They’re killing our people right there in front of everybody, as bold as brass. Poor innocent people who were just out asking that they be given the same rights as anybody else. I don’t believe them when they say that they were shooting people carrying petrol bombs—they’re all murderers at heart, that lot, just like the Black and Tans.”
“C’mon now, Mam. Let’s turn it off and have a cup of tea?”
His mother turned slowly from the screen and eyed him coldly. “Tea? Is that the best that you can do? You should be up there, right now, defending the people like your father did.”
“I don’t believe in violence. I don’t think it will solve our problems.”
“And what do you suggest we do? Sit on our arses and sing rebel songs?”
“And what’ll be gained by fighting back? Sure, we can kill a few of them but then they’ll come back and kill some of us and then the killing will go on and on for years.”
“It’s the only language they understand for all their talk about fair play and all.”
“But Mam, the problem is that the working people have to see that they’re all the same no matter which side they’re from. And they have to realize that it’s their masters who’re the real enemy, not each other.”
“That’s fine talk coming from you. Is that what you learnt in your one and only year in university? Well let me tell you something. You can’t talk to the British. They’ll never listen to us. Violence is the only thing they ever understand, mark my words. That was how we got the twenty-six counties back. We fought them until they were brought to their knees. Only then would they agree to sit down and talk.”
Jerry didn’t want to argue. He didn’t want to upset her any more than she was. Jacinta had been out for the weekend, and, for the first time, his mother let them spend the night together. She told them that she felt they were almost ready to become a married couple again.
Jerry resented that but couldn’t complain—even when Granny used Jacinta as a skivvy, having her fetch and carry from the shops as well as doing the weekly wash. On the way back to the hospital Jacinta had encouraged him to be patient.
**
“She won’t live forever but in the mean time we just have to be nice and go along with her. She’s just old and wants everything to be her way. And don’t you be fretting about me. I’m just happy that I can get out every weekend.”
The doctor had told her that Granny had spoken to him about how well she was doing; how she seemed so much better and how Granny was beginning to depend on her—now that she was a bit poorly. The doctor also told Jacinta that, if she kept it up, they would see about letting her out for good.
“We can’t mess that up now—after all we’ve been through.”
Jerry wrapped his arm around her shoulders as the rain began, pulling her closer to him and steadying her umbrella between them. He didn’t look at her face—at the desperation in her eyes. She would do anything to get out and his mother would see that she did.
But it was probably for the best. He couldn’t look after his mother and Danny. He could barely look after himself. When Jacinta moved back they could be a family again, and, maybe by then, his mother would finally give them some credit for that.
When they got to the gate Jacinta squeezed his arm and turned away before her eyes welled up.
“Wait,” he called after her. “Gimme a kiss before you go.”
Jacinta came back and pecked his cheek. “Now go on and catch Danny’s match; it’ll mean the world to him if you’re there. It’ll be the proudest day of his life.”
Yes. It was better to go along with things for now and not rock the boat. Maybe his mother might even leave them some money, so that they could go on being a family after she’d gone.
***
Bloody Sunday was the day that changed everything, Jerry decided as Danny strummed a few new chords. That’s when the entire population of Ireland
got off the fence. An angry mob razed the British Embassy and the IRA blew up an army barracks in Aldershot, killing a bunch of ordinary people, mostly women—and a Catholic British Army chaplain.
And his own mother spent her time in front of the TV, cheering them on all the way.
Jerry tried to explain that his mother was sick and that she didn’t mean to say all the terrible things she was saying, but Danny told him it was okay. He said he wanted to hear what Fr. Reilly would have to say about it, first. They could talk about it afterwards.
And when they all went to Mass the following Sunday, to ask God for forgiveness, and to take care of the matter for them—unworthy as they were and prone to lusting for vengeance and all other kinds of sins, Fr. Reilly had denounced it all.
“Love your enemies,” he pleaded with them. “Our Savior asked this of us and what do we do? We go out in mobs and behave like the savages they accuse us of being. We had a chance to prove we were worthy of God’s love by turning the other cheek but we failed. We failed because we put our pride in country between us and God’s power to forgive. I’m ashamed to call myself Irish. We’re no better than the English and they barely have any religion at all.”
Half the congregation had walked out muttering that they wouldn’t return “until the damn young fool apologized.” They even threatened to march on the Bishop’s Palace and demand that the young curate learn to keep a civil tongue in his head and not be berating those who had always stood by, and supported, the Church. It wasn’t for the likes of him to be telling them how they should react. The Bishop, maybe, but he’d have more sense than to be going on like that.
Danny stopped playing football after that and spent every evening with his granny, even when his mother was home. Jerry should have spoken up but didn’t know what to say so he decided to wait until Jacinta was settled—she’d know how to deal with it all. In the meantime, he just made tea for the late night visitors who came to talk privately with Granny and always thanked her when they left.