The Brothers' Lot - Kevin Holohan [15]
“Well, let me tell you that whether you do or don’t do either of those things, if you are not vigilant you will find yourselves drifting into such depraved activities. It may begin with soft woolly hats, but mark my words, it will not end there. Then there will be the trilby, the fedora, the soft slouch, or any number of feeble pieces of millenary, and before you know it, you will find yourself peering into public conveyances with lustful intent, and that way lies sickness and depravity and the path to Hell and damnation.”
Brother Kennedy paused for breath. His bald head was already glowing bright red with the exertion of his discourse.
“You, boy, what is your name?”
“Vincent O’Connor.”
“Vincent O’Connor, BROTHER!” Brother Kennedy barked.
“Vincent O’Connor, Brother,” O’Connor replied.
“What sports do you play, O’Connor?”
“Ehm, football, relievio.”
“Define football.”
“Soccer.”
“Soccer, BROTHER!”
“Soccer, Brother.”
“Soccer, ha! Bloody vile foreign garrison game! And what is relievio?”
“You have two teams and one tries to catch the other and put them in the den, but if you get in the den without being caught and shout Relievio, then all your team are free again,” explained O’Connor.
“That is not a sport! That is a corner boy’s street game! Out to the line!”
As they were standing in the middle of the gym hall, no one was quite sure where the line was supposed to be. O’Connor took a guess and started walking toward the stage.
“Not over there, you fool,” cried Brother Kennedy and swooped toward him. He grabbed the boy by the hairs above the ears and dragged him over to the side of the hall near the climbing ropes. “If you don’t know what you are supposed to be doing, ASK!” he shouted, and delivered a couple of strong raps to the boy’s head to enforce his point. “You, boy! What’s your name?”
“Francis Scully … Brother.”
Brother Kennedy arched what traces of eyebrows he had at him. “And what sports do you play, Scully?”
“Pullin’ me prick,” whispered McDonagh behind Scully.
“Pullin’, ehm,” began Scully. McDonagh drew in his breath sharply. There’d be murder. “Ehm, what do you call it, Brother? Pullin’ me, ehm, the rope, like, tug of war!” announced Scully triumphantly.
“That is not a sport, you stupid amadhán!” shouted Brother Kennedy.
“But it’s in the community games, Brother,” protested Scully.
“I’ll community-games you! Out to the line!”
Scully joined O’Connor beside the climbing ropes. They both started rubbing their hands together behind their backs.
“You, boys! Hands by your sides!” called Brother Kennedy across the hall. He knew well what they were doing. He had not spent thirty years leathering recalcitrant thugs without learning a thing or two.
Scully and O’Connor sullenly complied.
“You, boy, there, what’s your name now?”
“Finbar Sullivan, Brother.”
“Oh, the new boy. Quite a Gaelic footballer and a hurler, I believe,” mused Brother Kennedy approvingly.
Finbar felt himself severely on the spot. He could sense the swell of scrutiny press around him. He had to do something or he would be marked as a “good pupil,” and it would be doubtful if he could make it through the week.
“Only when the soccer season is over, Brother,” he found himself saying. It was like someone had gotten inside his head and was finding new circuits in his makeup that he had never known before. It was by equal measure exhilarating and frightening.
Brother Kennedy stared at him in disbelief. This was inconceivable. It was all very well for Dublin guttersnipes to know no better than the street game of soccer, but for a boy from the noble County of Cork to not only know how to play Gaelic games but to turn his back on them deliberately in favor of the foreign evil of soccer was beyond perfidy.
“Out to the line, you ingrate!” he barked, the veins in his forehead showing dark blue against the bright red of his skull.
In twenty minutes all except Maher, who’d had polio and wore braces on his legs and thus could not reasonably be victimized