St. Patrick's Day in the Afternoon

by W. B. READY

ALL for tripping a wing, Scrammy Ryan had to leave his native land and flee to Iowa, where he is as safe as he can be from the wrath of the men of Coonakilty. Scrammy is an old man now, a dignified, shy, retiring little hit of a man, and to look at him nobody would ever know that he is entering the legend of Ireland, where his fame will be as secure in West Cork as that of Finn MacCool or Sean Tracy. The children of his native township of Barryowen learn of his great exploit from the old people, as they sit wide-eyed around the glowing turf fire of an evening, listening as they hear h-ll of Cuchulain, the Hound of Ulster, of Red Hugh O’Donnell, who is buried in Spain, and of Grania of the shining bosom, the snowy-breasted pearl. Scrammy, still living, is talked of along with these long-dead creatures. In Coonakilty, too, his name is often mentioned, and is included in the curses of the old crones, along with the names of Oliver Cromwell and David Lloyd George, which is a high measure of fame indeed for a man who runs the elevator in the only hotel in a little Midwest town.

As the children who are hearing the story now will grow up and scatter, leaving their homely places, as most young Irish do, to seek fame and fortune in the green fields of America, they will bring the story with them, and their children’s children will pass it on to a Western world, so that Scrammy’s fame may even penetrate into Iowa in the years to come. The elevator which he pilots up and down, these days, may even have a panel inscribed to him in some future year: Scrammy Ryan found a refuge here, after tripping the wing of Coona-kilty. He might even attain the distinction of having a brand of whiskey named after him, and the Dublin Players might even include a play about him in their repertoire, in blank verse, along with their plays of Cathleen ni Houlihan and the Croppy Boy.

Scrammy’s fame is secure, but because the years may distort the story it is well to recount it now, before the Barryowen people glorify it too much or the Coonakilty folk, by their vituperation, turn it into a lampoon.

Until that day, that fateful day, March 17, 1903, Scrammy was just one of the lads of the village. He would never be noticed in a crowd of more than three. There was nothing about him to show the glory that was impending, the glory that was to be his before that day was done. The great day started quietly. The Coonakilty team, with their supporters, armed about eleven in the morning, and while the supporters started to belt the bottle, the playing men swaggered down the main street, flexing their muscles, laughing scornfully with one another over the idea that these Barryowen jackeens could constitute a threat to their supremacy.

Every year the four townships of Barryowen, Coonakilty, Ballygunnion, and Slievduddy played one another al football. If any team managed to heat the other three teams, it was awarded the Triple Crown, a wonderful award that didn’t exist in actuality, but was an imaginary trophy that was very rarely won. So keen was the competition that when Coonakilty had played Slievduddy on the previous Boxing Day, and the football had been torn to pieces, neither team paused at all, but went right on with the game with flying fists, until Con Leary had time from his shouting to blow up another one.

The game between Coonakilty and Barryowen was the last of the series. Both learns had beaten the other two. The Triple Crown was to be won by one of them upon that St. Patrick’s Day, and there was a deep undercurrent of excitement throughout West Cork as to which team was going to be victorious. So intense was the excitement that the Skibbereen Engle had sent a special correspondent down to report upon the struggle, and had supplied him with carrier pigeons so that he could air-mail his dispatch to the waiting metropolis.

The game that these townships played bore a cursory and superficial resemblance to Rugby football. There were fifteen men on either side, and they could pick up the ball and run with it, but it was only the boldest of men that would venture to do so. The four townships had introduced variations of their own into the game. The only thing that was really frowned upon was to use some artificial implement, other than the boot or the heavy brass rings, with which to induce an opponent to give ground. The ball spent most of the ninety minutes of play in the midst of the thirty players who fought in close formation to get to one end of the field or the other, and when they had reached it they would fall exhausted on the ball until their supporters could intimidate the referee into admitting that they had crossed their opponents’ line.

The football teams were the heroes of their parishes and townships. As might be expected, they were picked more for their battling quality in solid slugging than for their dexterity in handling a ball. Sometimes a team would include a foot-runner, who would shiver on the wing except for once or twice In a game, when a bullet-headed and scarred coplayer would sneak out of the melee with the ball hidden under his jersey and pass it to the fleet one, who would then run for the opponents’ line like the hammers of hell, with the whole fifteen of the opposition giving tongue and chasing him when they discovered how they had been deceived. The fury of his pursuers so unnerved Tommy Mulcahy a few years previously that he didn’t stop when he got to the goal line, but ran straight on with the ball under his arm until he dropped panting in his mother’s cabin in Loughnabreda, four miles away from the game.

The game had developed over the centuries and the Church had begun to make it Christian by dropping a ball amid the battling heroes. It was very rarely that men died as a result of the games, but there were always a few punchies around the district, who were treated with the consideration that is given to afflicted by a God-fearing people, especially when the affliction is the result of fighting the good fight.

Scrammy was strictly a supporter, and he was never too vociferous a one. One could never tell if one were standing by friend or foe, and some of the other township supporters would as soon brain a rival with an empty bottle as look at him. Indeed, Scrammy’s brother Jim had been a little queer ever since he shouted “Up Barryowen!" at the wrong time and in the wrong place five years previously. Not that there was really anything the matter with Jim, except that he shouted “Up Barryowen!” all the time since, and seemed to have forgotten all the other fine conversational phrases that he used to have. So Scrammy was always a wee bit cautious before he let loose with his encouragement. It seems that all the great heroic deeds come from men like Scrammy, who up to the very deed never seem to have nerve enough to say “Boo!” to a goose.

By three o’clock in the afternoon the town of Barryowen was filled to overflowing. The beer shops in O’Connell Street were jammed to the doors, and foaming pints of porter were passed out over the heads of people to the crowds standing in the streets. All the adjacent townships had come into Barryowen for the game, forsaking their own Paddy’s Day celebrations in order to see the bloody murder that was due to start at half-past three on the Parish Field, behind Township School.

The old priest, Father Mullins, God rest his soul, would never let the game be played there, because it was hallowed ground, but the new priest, God bless him, never tried to stop them. He told the organizers to go right ahead, only they had to charge a shilling a head to cover the expenses, and pass the plate around at half-time for the Church Building Fund.

2

JUST before the game was due to start, there was a crowd of about ten thousand people gathered around the pitch. Parky Cleary had got a tent up, and had the concession to sell porter on the field. The Sons of Erin fife and drum band screamed away at one end of the field, while the Hibernian pipers marched up and down the pitch playing strictly impartial tunes like “Soul of My Saviour" and “The Canadian Boat Song.” The bookmakers had their stands up, and were shouting the odds, which were seven to five on Barryowen, it being their home ground.

Behind the hedge there was a bit of cockfighting going on, and Owen Downey, with drink taken, was offering to fight any man in West Cork for a stake of five pounds, there and then. The local constabulary had decided to take in a convention at Cork for that day—it were better so; and the military had a flying squad sitting in the wagons at the barracks just in case the natural excitement the day should start off an uprising. It was a lovely day, the weather was tailored for the occasion.

The two teams shouldered their way through the crowd and onto the field. The Coonakilty team had used the Dolphin Hotel for their changing quarters, while Barryowen had changed in the humbler Mooney’s Bar. While the home team wore their well-known saffron jerseys, with the green shamrocks over the hearts, Coonakilty had come out with a glorious new regalia of clean jerseys hooped in orange, white, and green. They even had numbers on the back of them. There was not much to choose between the teams as they stood glowering at one another while poor Mr. O’Neil, the referee, kept them waiting while he got back another large whiskey at the rear of Parky Cleary’s tent to keep his courage up. The air was tense; silence had descended on the crowd as they waited for the whistle to blow.

Mr. O’Neil blew a faltering blast, and with a scream Spike Leahy kicked off for Coonakilty. A foolhardy Barryowen forward tried to gather the ball. Before he could get it away from himself the enemy was on him howling, and the issue was joined. The thud could be heard for acres as the two teams crashed into each other. The mothers praying in their cabins flinched, and the fathers licked their lips and swallowed dry. Both teams were locked in a flailing combat, except for a little foot-runner whom Coonakilty had brought with them in case there was a chance of a stealthy run.

The crowd was so packed that they were standing right upon the lines of the field of play. Scrammy himself, jammed among his own supporters — he had seen to that — was hovering on the touchline. Within a quarter of an hour it became evident to everyone that this game was to be the battle of the century.

The teams swayed back and fore across the field: up and down they fought their way, with the ball in the middle of them, never quite making either end of the field. The soft Irish turf became as churned up as a farmyard midden, and the teams were almost unrecognizable from one another, so covered were they with mud and blood and spittle, with their jerseys torn, their hair all matted, and their grunts and their staring eyes, their bruised faces, and their sagging bodies making them all appear alike except to the initiated.

When the first half of the game was over, and the battlers sucked their lemons and were wiped off by the bucket boys, the spectators looked at one another and shook their heads in silent delight. This was a game for the record. It was a memorable occasion and the crowd realized it, not even leaving their places at half-time to go to Cleary’s, lest they miss one precious minute of the second half. While this Homeric struggle was proceeding their womenfolk were shopping downtown, for this was strictly a man’s spectacle, but the women cast many an uneasy glance up to Parish Field, for the great noise and the even greater silence told them that great things were portending.

3

THE second half began with a rush and a roar. The brief interval had worked wonders for the team, and the battle went on as ferociously as ever. Scrammy was sweating with excitement by this time, and had even essayed a timid howl when he knew that it would be smothered in an enveloping roar from the crowd. The little foot-runner from Coonakilty was so hopping with excitement that he had actually tried to get into the fray, only to come whizzing out of it like a cork from a bottle when he did try.

It seemed as if men could not keep up the pace so long, but the battle, now become silent and dour, went on and on, with no score, until only ten minutes were left for play. Then, when the Barryowen team were battling right on the enemy’s goal line, Spike Leahy, the Coonakilty captain, staggered out of the scrum with the ball under his oxter and lobbed it to the little foot-runner, who hared up the field with it.

There was a stunned moment of silence before the crowd roared out a warning to the Barryowen team, who looked up from their pummeling to find that their fleet fresh enemy was nearly halfway up the field and going like a steam engine. With a bellow the Barryowen team started after him like a stamping herd, but it was hopeless from the start. So confident was the Coonakilty pedestrian that he slowed down to a gallop, and even took time off to look behind him, and therein was his undoing, for as he did so Scrammy Ryan put his foot out and tripped him.

Scrammy Ryan, the mouse of Barryowen, put his foot out and tripped the foot-runner, in full view of the field.

Mr. O Neil blew a blast on his whistle, a silence descended, except for the gasping of the pedestrian, and the full magnitude of the occasion burst on Scrammy and on the Coonakilty men at the same time. With a terrified lunge Scrammy pushed back through the crowd as at the same moment seven of the Coonakilty forwards began to tear their way through the spectators to get him. They threw grown men over their shoulders, so eager were they to get their hands and feet on Scrammy. The crowd remained passive. The situation was too big for it. Then, as Scrammy broke clear of the crowd the Coonakilty pack gave tongue. They were clear too, and Scrammy was only about fifty yards nearer the gate than they were.

Fear gave Scrammy wings. Some say he went so quickly past them that the wind ruffled their clothes. Anyway, he was halfway down O’Connell Street before the seven Coonakilty avengers, all torn and bloodied in their football rig, came storming out of the gate behind him, leaving in their wake an awe-struck crowd, a depleted Coonakilty team all jibbering with rage, an apprehensive referee, and a cool and grinning team of Barryowen.

Fleur Driscoll, the Barryowen Captain, was a crafty, foxy, red-haired man. He went up to the nonplused O’Neil, the referee, and insisted that the game go on. Dusk was falling, the protests of Spike Leahy and the remainder of the Coonakilty team were of no avail, and the game went on. Spike did nothing with his penalty kick, and Barryowen began to cross the Coonakilty line at will. They scored sixty points before the final whistle blew. Coonakilty staggered off the field broken men. They looked wildly around, hoping to Cod that their supporters would start something, but they seemed far away, straining, listening, with the rest of the silent crowd.

Players and spectators all stayed silent, listening. Then, from afar off, came a thin scream, from beyond O’Connell Street. It sounded something likethe noise a rabbit makes when it is caught by a badger. But they all knew that this was no rabbit scream, but the voice of Scrammy Ryan in his agony as he turned at bay outside the Emporium window. Then there was a crash of glass, and silence. All the men slowly took off their hats, and the teams slowly wended their way to their changing quarters.

There was no celebration in Barryowen that night. The Coonakilty men and the men from the other townships went away, and left Barryowen to its grief. Barryowen had won the Triple Crown, but Scrammy was a bitter price to pay for it. “Holy God,” said Driscoll, emotionally, as the team quaffed their porter mournfully in Mooney’s. “Holy God, if it was one of us it wouldn’t matter at all, but that poor wee mouse Scrammy. He must have loved Barryowen.'’

They dragged the river, but they couldn’t find Scrammy’s corpse, and Father Muldoon, despite their pleading, refused to have a funeral without one. The town felt cheated of these last rites, so they had a grand concert, with the proceeds of which they hoped to provide for poor Jim Ryan, who was left bereft, now that Scrammy had gone. Jim’s “Up Barryowen!” had become more constant since Scrammy had passed away, and the mournful sound of it was like a knell to the people of Barryowen.

A special meeting of the Four Townships’ Football Club was held, and a letter was read from the Bishop condemning the plays and forbidding them in future. Actually the Bishop was delighted with the opportunity to put a ban on the pagan festival, but his letter included a prayer for poor Scrammy, and roundly castigated the Coonakilty men, to the open joy of the other three townships.

Then, when it seemed to be all over, and Barryowen was left as perpetual owner of the Triple Crown, a public subscription was opened in Barryowen, and an actual triple crown was bought, something like the Pope’s hat, and on it was inscribed: The Triple Crown, won by Barryowen in perpetuity, from all comers. Coonakilty was in disgrace, and Barryowen was riding high. All their triumph was put in jeopardy, however, by a postcard that Fleur Driscoll got at the post office. It was a colored card of the City of Cork, and scrawled on it was “I’m here. S.R.” Fleur Driscoll swore quietly, then grinned, and closing the post office went around to tell the rest of the town.

The news had to be kept quiet, because Coonakilty, to stop the Bishop’s nattering, was on the point of putting up a stained-glass window to Scrammy in the procathedral hall. In spite of the pledges to secrecy that he obtained, all Barryowen had Fleur Driscoll’s news before the day was out. Father Muldoon, a Barryowen boy himself, and the bank manager drew out Scrammy’s savings from the bank and gave the whole £85 of it to Fleur with instructions to buy Scrammy a ticket, an £85 ticket, and told him to get Scrammy on the next boat sailing out of Cork, east or west, as long as it was going far. That’s how Scrammy came to Iowa.

The Coonakilty men didn’t get the news until the window was erected “by the sorrowing citizens of Coonakilty,” and they couldn’t convince the Bishop of the story. The people of Barryowen and Bally gunnion and Slievduddy just rocked with delight when they heard the story of Scrammy’s scrambling out of the river, all cut with glass, and bruised and wet, and bow he sneaked out of town in terror. It didn’t make his feat any the less memorable, and it made even greater fools out of Coonakilty.

In Barryowen simple old Jim Ryan still calls out “Up Barryowen!” and the Coonakilty people wince when they hear it still; and in Iowa, in the Middle West, Scrammy pilots his purring craft up and down, and remembers his great day, the excitement, the impulse, the terror, and the glory of it.