4

 *

A few moments prior to the start of Sunday morning’s Mass, Naughtonby’s squad showed themselves. “I had this feeling,” Brendan commented, “Something was amiss.” Patrick focused on his friend. “I don’t remember one of them being around long enough to drink from the second bottle.”

Wee Sean paused to take in the situation. “I wonder where they made their beds last night and how close they were to Aaron Heaney’s shot gun.”

* * *

Canon Hanrahan’s Mass contained prayers for the traveling football squad. “May their travels keep them safe, and may their endeavors be fruitful. A lamb or two wouldn’t hurt neither. In the Name of the Father,” he began as he Crossed himself.

Just outside the ladies of Innishfen and Killelea’s football squad gathered about. “A lamb or two would be nice,” Mary Corrigan commented. “A goat, a few chickens. Maybe even a horse.”

“Aye,” Maureen Darcy commented. “’Twould.“

Helen O’Hare pivoted about, placing hard, indignant eyes first on Mary and then on Maureen. “And has it occurred to either of yous that we could trade up for what we need?”

“When I brought it up to Sean before the last meet, he took to himself. It makes too much sense to be commenting on.”

Helen nodded. “Ladies, a good day to you.” The woman charged off determinedly, which only left the others to question each other what plans she would be making.

* * *

Morning began with Mass on the Common. Patrick and Canon Tucker served together, each taking turns lifting the Host to the Heavens and asking His blessing. Canon Tucker didn’t want him there and wasn’t embarrassed to show it. While Patrick blessed the homes of the Villagers, and his mates shared a drink with the competition, Canon Tucker remained in the Parochial House near the unfinished chapel, and prayed that He forgave their sinfulness.

What concerned Patrick more than Tucker’s disapproving glances was the fact that Brendan Kelly did not receive the Holy Sacrament. Without Molly O’Sullivan about, Patrick was confused. Did his friend have a chance to leave the group last evening during Patrick’s absence?

But before Patrick could ask, Canon Tucker sought him out on another matter. “These children’s games aren’t bad enough, but that you have to be donning a pair of trousers and kicking that ball yourself? Tell me what your men are saying about playing this, this, blasphemy is wrong.”

“Would you be accusing m’men of bearing false witness, Canon Tucker?”

“You’re fully intending to play then?”

“I am.”

“And I suppose you approve of the drinking, carousing and the betting going on?”

Patrick drew up, filling his lungs, and nodding thoughtfully. Tucker stood tall, his shoulders wide and his chest deep. A few years ago Canon Tucker might have made an excellent defenseman. “I spent the evening last,” Patrick began, “Visiting with your women. We weren’t carousing. For that matter, most of them hate football as much as they do the drink and carousing.”

“And you’re now going to tell me you know nothing about the gambling taking place as we speak?”

“Now I wouldn’t be consulted about that, would I?” Patrick patted the larger man’s arm as he moved off. He’d barely have time to change and eat. The match would begin after lunch.

The outcome of the match resulted from a crack in the lines of the fresh, over confident Naughtonby squad. Eamonn took possession of the ball, knocking it backwards with his fist, sending it directly at Brendon. Brendon, while blocking, sunk low. When the ball came down, he popped up and head butted it high into the air. As the others continued to block Naughtonby’s players, Seamus O'Hare and Rory Murphy swept Wee Sean off his feet and held him aloft. The ball began its downward descent. Sean tightened up. The ball fell, and Sean sprung. It was his turn to head butt the ball, sending it over the head of the opposition’s goalie, and over the goal post. Wee Sean next found himself sitting in the middle of the field, his head spinning and his feet not ready to assume his weight. Once able, he staggered to the sidelines, allowing Father Patrick to take his place. The game ended with Innisfen on top, zero, one to zero, zero. The first number in the score recognized how many points were earned by hitting the lower goal. Each lower goal was worth three points. The second number by how many points were earned by sending the ball through the uprights. Those goals were worth one point. The tired, angry members of the Innisfen squad hung on as they had in many other instances by the single trait that finally sent the British packing. Pigheadedness, pure and simple.

Most of the men picked up their chickens, a few pigs and a calf, and waited just outside of Naughtonby. Wee Sean and Jerry Corrigan seemed to be taking their time saying goodbye. When the privy behind the home of none other than Kevin Eustace caught fire, and none other than himself, darted through the privy door with his naked arse hanging above the lash on his trousers, the group decided it was best to let the pair find their own ways home.

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