“Typical Mick,” Paddy whispered louder than he intended. “He’d peel an orange in his pocket if he could.” He was referring to Mickey Flannery who stood only a few feet away from them, listening intently to the football match between Cork and Galway on his earphones. Mick refused to let anyone else listen in, or to even let them know what was going on. With bragging rights and county pride at stake this match was not something to be taken lightly by the three men down the back of the church. Thirty minutes were left in the All-Ireland Football Final, and Paddy, Mick and Tom were itching to get out and catch the last minutes of this enthralling battle.
A squeak of excitement broke free from Mick’s lips. A squeak that let Paddy and Tom know that something brilliant or devastating was after happening. The suspense was tormenting Tom, and the nudge he meant to give Mick turned into a thump. Mick glared at Tom and shuffled a few inches away, muffling under his breath and fixing the collar of his shirt to hide the wire of the earphones. “Ah for feck sake,” Tom complained but was hushed by the condemning stare of the statue of the Virgin Mary in the alcove to their left. He cleared his throat and quickly clasped his hands together in prayer.
The stained glass windows cast shards of colourful light onto the church tiles. Red, white and maroon bouncing and clashing against each other in what became a fixating visual display for poor Paddy, who would have given anything to rush out the large double doors that stood between him and the closing minutes of the All-Ireland. His goal was guarded by the watchful eyes of his wife who was intent on clarifying for him that the GAA would never save his soul or deliver him from evil.
The altar boy rang the half-time bell and the priest raised the chalice like the Galway captain lifting the Sam Maguire, but with a little less enthusiasm and a lot less shouting and cheering. “…lead us not into temptation”, said the priest as Tom visualized his escape route out the heavy oak doors. First dodge past Mary Delaney coming up on the left wing, collections basket gripped attentively in both hands, she passes it once, twice.., next continue on up the field weaving past Johnny Sullivan and clan, avoiding the disapproving tut-tuts of Mary O’Brien and the accusatory looks of his wife and the priest. And out the door in a spectacular display of dodging and diving that would be bound to hold consequences later. But this elaborate envisaging was not to come to fruition, because Tom couldn’t work up the courage, or risk the loss of his wife’s delicious Sunday roast.
The sound of Mick stifling a squeak and trying to disguise it as a cough, made Tom and Paddy tense with curiosity. Tom scrutinized Mick’s face for any hint of happiness or disappointment. Mick’s clenched jaw suggested it was a close call, and his hands, balled into tight fists, told Tom the match must have been coming to an interesting conclusion. As the priest rambled on about devotion, Paddy fidgeted distractedly with the cuffs of his jacket. The droplets of condensation on the church windows reminded him of a cold refreshing pint-glass full to the brim of the “good stuff” as he called it, the perfect accompaniment to a good match.
As row after row shuffled silently to the altar for Communion, the only sounds to be heard were the rumbling of the priest’s voice and a few sighs and cries from the younger counterparts of the congregation. Mick followed along, compulsively, when it came time for the back-benchers to make their way up for Communion. His feet followed suit instinctively but his mind remained engrossed in the on-goings of Croke Park. “Now’s your chance,” he whispered to James Finnerty who was taking a free kick for Galway a hundred miles away. Barbara Molloy scowled and murmured her denunciation to Sheila Lafferty, followed by a brisk shake of the heads and a sharp tut uttered perfectly in unison.
The priest stood soberly dispensing holy wafers to the civilized crowd as James Finnerty stepped forward to take the decisive kick. Mick was wide-eyed in anticipation and his mutterings of “go for it” caught the attention of a handful of the nearby crowd. As Tom and Paddy made their way dutifully to the back of the church they were startled by a sudden commotion at the altar. They turned quickly to see Paddy shouting “Good man Finnerty!” while gripping onto Father McGuire and lifting him off his feet. All colour fled from the aging priest’s face as Mick twirled him around in an enthusiastic bear-hug. A confetti of communion wafers floated to the floor and the priest let out a shriek. “Thanks be to God!” shouted Mick with a grin that spread across his face, and made the rest of the congregation wonder what had made him so enthusiastic about mass all of a sudden.
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