I’m staring at meself in the Players Navy Cut mirror behind the counter, trying to force a blank face like the sailor’s on the mirror, so I don’t grin too much at me pint of Smithwicks.  The barmaid, wrinkly-faced, grey hair pinned back, Silk Cut dangling from thin lips, just plopped the pint on the counter in front of me, without any question – though I just turned seventeen.  

I turn my stare to the pint: Thin lines of bubbles stream upward as the brown ale consumes the yellow-foamed head.  

The wrinkly-faced barmaid spins away from us, allowing me to smirk.  With a hollow thunk, she jams a pint glass into the Harp tap, her watery eyes gazing into the glass as it fills.  A minute later, she plops two pints of Harp up in front of the Pa and Basq, spilling lager puddles on the brown-and-white-marbled Formica counter.  

White lines of bubbles stream up through the golden lager.  

“Now, ish dat it fellas?” she asks, the cigarette bopping as she talks.

“Where’s me cider?” Bronx says, eyebrows shooting up his clear forehead.  “An’ me payin’ for the round with the Minister a Defence’s money!”

He slings a fat wallet out of his pocket onto the counter.

“Oh yeah, got paid yesterdah for the first time in a month.  That’ll get me through the weekend so long as I don’t meet no one I owe money ta.”

He laughs too much at his own joke.

The barmaid sighs silently, puts a hand on her hip, leans forward slowly and pulls a flagon of Bulmers off a low shelf.  She grabs a pint glass and fills it, the cider heaving and gurgling out of the brown-glass bottle. 

“Thrung a few ice cubes in there if ya wud,” Bronx says, nodding respectfully.

“We don’t sell ice,” the barmaid purses her thin lips, eyes hardening at Bronx.

“Oh awright so, we’ll I have a pint a …,” he starts.

“Ya’ll have what ya ortered,” she finishes for him, sliding the pint of cider across to the customer side of the counter.

“I will indeed … mam,” Bronx says, nodding slowly.

He grasps the pint of a cider with his right hand, knuckles whitening, hoists the glass up to his mouth and in five long-splattery gulps, downs the pint, his throat pulsing with each gulp.

“There ya go now,” he says in his fake-ould-fella voice, nod-nod-nodding at the floor as he slowly sets the empty pint glass back on the counter.

Then his head shoots upright, eyebrows raised at the barmaid.

“Eh, I’ll have a pint a Harp please,” he says, like he just walked inta the bar.

The barmaid’s watery-eyes flick about for a few seconds, then she turns and grabs a pint glass off the shelf.

I take a good draught of my pint, the taste sharp and refreshing after seventy cold minutes of fighting and rugby.

“What time’s the bus lavin’?” I ask.

“Who gives a shite?” Basq says.  “They can’t lave this many a us behind.”

“Suppose so,” I nod, going at the pint again – better to have it inside me in case she askes our age or runs us when the regulars start showing up.

The door behind us creaks open and in strides the Monivea out-half, a streaky mud-stain still on his cheek.  He kicked the penalty that beat us, after the second half went on for an hour, with them playing downhill.  The first half wrapped up after twenty minutes, us with the hill leading ten to nuthin.  His penalty was the last kick of the game; they won eleven to ten.

“Great match lads,” the rollie-pollie ref pretend-gushed, walking over to shake Bronx’s hand.  “See now, somehows we managed ta get along in t’end.”

He nodded and smiled too much.

“Yeah, yeah,” Bronx, exhausted, nodded back once.  “I’ll buy you a fucken pint inside for not sendin’ me off.”

“Ah, go away outta dat,” the ref laughed.  “If hersell cot me servin’ a pint to an Under 17, she’d castrate me with t’lemon knife.”

“Don’t worry,” Bronx uses his fake-ould-fella voice.  “I have a rake a birth certs balow in t’house.  Wan t’cover every coincidence.”

Still, we knew the ref-barman couldn’t serve the Under 17s he just reffed, so after a pile of ham sandwiches and a few bowls a watery chicken soup, all washed down with pints a watery MiWadi orange, we slipped out in ones and twos before Coach or the bus driver could herd us all back onto the bus and start getting their day done.  

It wasn’t hard to slip by Coach, ‘cause he was still fighting the last penalty with the ref-barman.

“Awright so, I’ll ring it inta t’Branch as a 10-8 win for Castlebar,” Coach says, twist-nodding his head, fast-wiping his finger under his nose.  

“Sure, that last penalty,” he continues, head and shoulders leaning so far sideways he nearly falls off the stool, but eyes glaring at the ref-barman, “was no more a penalty than … than, I’m the fucken man in the moon!”

“Well now, man-in-the-moon, that wash a penn…altee,” the ref-barman twist-nods emphatically back at Coach.  “An’ I’ll tell ya that any young buckeen closin’ his fist an’ whackin’ another fella in the face is a penn…naltee all day long in my book!  A bleddy gurrier he waz punchin’ our fella like dat.”

“Sure, he didn’t hit no one,” Coach’s voice rises, making heads turn.  “There was a fly on yer man’s face an’ he jus’ shooed it away with an open hand.  It’s not his fault your lad moved his head an’ made it look like a thump.  Sure that lad’s father’s a Gard, he couldn’t thump anyone.” 

Coach lurches off the bar­stool scraping it off the tiled floor, one hand hurrying across under his nose, the other held out as he limps along the bar toward the ref-barman.

“Here, here,” he says, pursing his lips, nod-nod-nodding, eyebrows furrowed. 

“Give a handful a five pences an’ I’ll phone it in for ya.  It’s oh-nine-wan, two fou…”

He stops cause the ref-barman isn’t even looking at him; he’s head and shoulders down, fat fingers plunging pint glasses into the black-glass-washer-thing in the sink.

“I knew ya’d be reasonable, sure I let ya swap nearly your whole team at half-time.  This is a league game, ya know, no subs unless someone’s injured.”

“Them ladeens waz injurt,” the ref-barman twist-nods his head.  “I asked dat Injun doctor as wuz walkin’ past with his little spanieleen, an’ he agreed.” 

“I don’t give a shite if that spaniel got up on his hind legs an’ diagnosed them himself, you’re on’y allow ….”

“But sure ye for…feeted t’game be showin’ up here with on’y tirteen lads,” the ref-barman looks up from his glass washing, a sneer-stare pinching his fat face.

“As shmart now an’ all as ye are, ye couldn’t count,” he snorts.  “An’ as stoopid as ye tink we are, we had fifteen young buckeens, an’ then some.”

“Ya never said a fucken word about them made up rules a the Branch, sure if I show up with on’y ten lads, an’ we can bate ….” 

I slip away, holding the pub door till the last minute so it doesn’t slam. 

Out on the street, it’s cold, drizzly, and nearly pitch black cause we’re halfway between the two streetlights in the village; just the reddish light of a Guinness sign lighting the greasy-wet road.  From the even darker darkness behind our bus, a cigarette ash flares bright red.

Thinking it’s the lads after not getting served in the pub across the street, I head toward the red dot in the darkness.

“How’s it goin’ boss?” I hear a familiar-ish voice ask with a forced laugh.

I can’t see his face so I stop a few feet back.

“Orra, our coach’d kill me if he cot me smokin’!” he says, laughing a bit more.

“Ohhh,” I say just to be saying something as my eyes adjust to the darkness.

“Good match today, we near bate them,” he laughs.  “The lads’d never a lit me live that down.”

“Oh gud man!” I say, seeing now that’s it’s Dony, the prop Monivea gave us halfway through the first half so scrums didn’t have to go uncontested after Sid’s eye got burst open.

“I didn’t know what t’fuck ta do when the skelpin’ started,” Dony laughs, pulling ten Major from the inside pocket of his jacket.

He holds the pack out, offering me one, as he slides one out for himself and lights it off the butt in his mouth.

“Aragh, what can a lad do when t’fight starts on’y hape in,” he forces another laugh.  “Sure ‘tis all the wan who ya wallop; tamorrow he cud be yer besht friend.”

“I suppose so,” I say tentatively.

“Aragh, sure didn’t I haveta give me own ould fella a coupleya skelps last night, an’ him as drunk as forty cats,” he forces a dry laugh, broad shoulders rising and falling.  

“Wreakin’ t’house he wuz, firin’ stuff at the wall.  Mam duckin’ n’ dodgin’.  Fuck me says I, he’ll burst the telly an’ I’ll miss The Fall Guy next week.”

He twist-nods like an ould fella, the red ash of his cigarette arcing in the darkness.

“I soon put a stop ta his fucken wreakin’!”

“Jaysys, sorry ta hear that, that’s fier…,” I start but he fast-waves me off, the cigarette ash flashing through the darkness.

“Ah, ‘tiz what it ‘tiz,” he laughs, jams the cigarette back in this mouth and keeps talking, his face red in the light of the cigarette.   

“Sure, I’ll be abroad in London when t’buildings get busy over yonder.  The brether’s balow in Camden Town, a chippy on fifty pound a day.  He’ll ring ash soon ash he has a job for me, an’ I’ll be on the next fucken bush outta Galway ta London.”

He laughs again, but his shoulders don’t move.

“Anyways, thanks for helpin’ us out today,” I say.  “You’re a great prop, hopefully ya get ta stick with it.”

I make for the pub across the road to meet the lads.

“Orra, if ye’re goin’ in there, watch out,” he yells, back to shoulder-laughing again.  “That ould bitch’ll charge ye a fucken fortune if she tinks ye’re underage.”

The pints cost a lot all right, but when you just turned seventeen, you’re happy to get served at any price.  Anyway, Bronx bought the first round.  He’s eighteen and she had to serve him.  That’s how come we all end up sitting at the bar, like ould fellas of a Saturday evening, when in walks the Monivea out-half.

Pa can’t hardly get the pint down from his mouth fast enough.

“DID ANYONE,” he says fierce loud, forcing red-saggy faces around the pub to look up, “see that gobeshite of an out-half for Monivea today?”

Pa scrapes back his stool to stand up, chest and chin out, shoulders back.

The out-half stops, his face curious-confused.

“Huh? Did ye, DID YE?” Pa raises his voice even louder, eyes now glaring at the out-half.

“What a fucken … BOLLIX he is, huh?”

He never takes his eyes off the opposing player, whose confusion has given way to disbelieving anger.  

Breaking out his trance, the out-half’s finger shoots out, aimed at Pa.

“What’d you say?” he demands with hometown complacency.

“How’s it goin’ boss?” Pa answers in such a conversational tone that I tense up even more.

He takes a few steps toward the out-half, arms dangling loosely by his side.

“I was jus’ tellin’ the lads here,” Pa says, turning to nod at us, “how much of a bollix you are.”

His says these words in such a calm, unhurried voice that it takes a few seconds for their meaning to sink in.  When it does, I slide off the barstool and gulp down the rest of my pint; sure now that in a matter of minutes we’ll be out on the street.  

My left heel starts pulsing up and down.

 “What the fuc…,” the out-half starts but then stops, his eyes darting around.

The conversation is so relaxed, the ould fellas at the bar are back to scowling at their pints; one bony, red-faced fella licks the whiskey dregs from the inside of his empty short glass.  The barmaid is trying to keep herself balanced on the lower rung of a barstool clunking the television through a channel change.

“You stay there,” the out-half snaps, eyes narrowed, lips tightened against teeth.

“Well, that was my plan …,” Pa starts to say, Bronx scrapes off his stool making Pa’s turn his head, “I have a pint over there ta finish, but now just cause you want…,” 

“Hey Jonjo-the-banjo,” Bronx interrupts walking right up to the out-half, jabbing him in the chest with his index finger.

“Was that your sister in the next field with the blue dye on her wool?” he asks, his face now an inch from his newfound foe’s face. 

“‘Member the field ya walloped t’ball inta when we got our on’y penalty in the whole fucken game?”

The out-half backs up enough that he can see what he’s up against.

The ould fellas at the bar creak their heads around.  The barmaid, arms folded tight, glares at us, lurches forward to move, then stops, pursing together her thin lips.

“Anyways, tell yer gobeshites we’re here an’ ready to finish things,” Bronx say glaring at him.  “An’ for real this time, that ball-a-shite of a ref won’t be here ta save ye.”

The out-half half turns, keeping his eyes on Bronx as he blindly pushes the door to make sure it opens.  Then his face tightens into a sneer:  

“Youse fuckers will know what it’s like ta git a batin’ when I’m back wi….”

Bronx snaps into a boxer’s stance and scissors his feet back and forth rapidly on the tiled floor.

The out-half blinks a bunch, spins on his heels and darts out the door.

“I’n gettin’ the lads,” he yells over his shoulder.

“Don’t forget ta brin’ your sister too,” Bronx yells after him.  “I could do with an ould shag!”

The door slams closed.

“Is anyone nervous?” Pa asks, a look in his eye that means trouble’s inevitable.

Thinking that being nervous – which I am, my left foot pumping again – is good, I’m just about to raise my hand.

“Well, if ye are, then fuck off,” Pa snaps, his head turning to each of us one after the other. 

“‘Cause bein’ nervous is not goin’ help us win here.”

I lock my heel to the tiles and force my eyes to stare at the slammed door.

“Here, we’ll have another round mam,” Bronx says loudly.  “On’y wan a these bollixes has ta pay for it.”

We climb back up on the stools.  My stomach’s gone now, but I can’t refuse a pint – that’d show that I’m scared shitless.

The barmaid’s watery eyes stare at us, one after the other.

“An’ ye all said yer all eighteen, right?” her gravelly voice says, the cigarette in her mouth bouncing as she talks.

“Course we are, sure ya couldn’t be in t’army if ya weren’t,” Bronx snaps.  

“An’ ya couldn’t be on t’Castlebar Under-17s,” Pa says in a not-so-hushed voice, “if ya didn’t drink!”

The barmaid sighs and turns for pint glasses.

“Now listen …,” Pa starts, but stops when behind us the door slams open.

Without looking, we’re all off the barstools and aiming for the door.

It’s the out-half, Dony and a rake more of their team behind them, so many they can’t fit into the pub.

“Gud man yoursell, ya went an’ got all the gobeshi…,” Bronx starts but is interrupted by the barmaid asking;

“Ish it a Harp or a cidur for you?”

Dony steps out the front, sticks out his chest, letting his jacket slide down his arms onto the floor.

“I’ll take a cider, if you’ll go across the road an’ get some ice,” Bronx says without turning to look at the barmaid.  

His back straightens, fists clench, feet slide into a boxer’s stance.

With sweat breaking out from every pore, heart pounding, eyes on Dony warming up his arms, I feel my feet sliding into the unfamiliarity of a boxer’s stance.

“I’d go across mesell … mam,” Bronx continues in his fake-ould-fella’s voice, “on’y I have a bit a batin’ ta do here.”