Howzat!

“Look at those dicks.”
“Hm?’’
“Look at them dicks, I said. Eejits.”
“Aye. I suppose.”
“Such a game. If it is a game.”
“Aye. I suppose.”
“Cricket.”
“Aye.”
“Here in the middle of Dublin.”
“Aye. Cricket. Here in the middle of Dublin.”
“You would think that this part of Ireland have never broken the connection with Britain.”
“Aye.”
“Playing cricket like they were frigging English.”
“Aye.”
“Do you smell that?”
“Newly-cut grass.”
“Nah – money.”
“Money?”
“Privilege.”
“Privilege?”
“They disgust me, the Dublin Four fuckers and their cricket.”
“Aye. Disgusting.”
“But that’s the shower that is in charge of this country, the TCD elite.”
“A right shower. Aye.”
“We should send the whole lot to the firing squad.”
“Aye.”
“I’m telling you. That’s the best way to get rid of them.”
“Aye.”
“Stinking Staters. You’d think they’d be ashamed to play cricket. Scum.”
“Aye.”
“That’s the shower that is in charge of this country. It won’t be long before these students are in charge of the courts and the money and the political parties.”
“Aye.”
“Privilege.”
“Aye. Privilege.”
“They think they’re the aristocracy, the shower that blossomed after the Civil War, the shower that betrayed the Republic. Middle-class vultures. Privileged vultures. Greedy vultures. England’s vultures in Ireland. They’d prefer it if Ireland were still in the United Kingdom.”
“Aye. They would.”
“Dublin 4’s own, green unionists.”
“Aye.”
“Rotten scum. Traitors.”
“Aye.”
“A firing squad. I’m telling you. When an Ireland comes, let’s send them all to a firing squad.”
“Aye.”
“We have to decommission them.”
“We have to.”
“That’s the best way of getting rid of the bullets – by decommissioning that shower and their cricket.”
“What time is it?”
“A quarter to two.”
“The meeting is at two?”
“Yes. In the big hall or the Aula Maximus if you prefer.”
“Do you think there will be many?”
“Oh aye. You’re well known.”
“Aye.” Caoimhín stood up: “We might as well head.”
“Aye,” said his companion, “let’s go before I start boking up.”
Caoimhín took one final look at the students playing. “Perverts,” said his companion in parting, “let’s send the whole lot of them to a firing squad.”

Caoimhín said nothing. He could not. He was enchanted by the sight of the players in their bright uniforms. He delayed for another moment. The bowler surged towards the wicket and threw the little red ball towards the batsman. The ball swung in the air, bounced once and jumped over the willow bat before striking the batman’s leg. The bowler spun on his heels towards the umpire, threw his hands in the air, bent a single finger towards the sky like a pike man and let out a shout that filled the green with its intensity: “Howzatttt!!!!’ He shouted again as if afraid the umpire would let him down, as if offended that he would not believe the honesty of his appeal: “Howzattt!!!!”

The umpire hesitated, looked towards the batsman and made the slightest movement of his head before raising a finger skywards. The batsman turned and walked away. The other players ran towards the bowler shouting. The games was theirs; they had banished the batsman. They crowded together, high-fiving and did a little dance of joy that reminded Caoimhín of Cor Seisear Déag. “Perverts,” his companion said again, “perverts.”

Caoimhín said nothing. The only pervert, he thought, was the umpire. There was no way that that ball was LBW. No way. The ball was too high; it wouldn’t have hit the stump had the batsman let it pass. No chance. He looked at his companion and almost told him that before realising that republicans were not supposed to be interested in cricket, especially if they were ex-prisoners like himself.

“Are you coming?” his companion asked.
“Fire away,” Caoimhín replied and followed. It was a pity the batsman lost his wicket, he thought. He knew what he was about and he had defended the wicket well while stealing runs and hitting the odd four when the opportunity arose. Caoimhín could see why the other team wanted him out. The batsman had controlled the match and set its pace comfortably. It was a shame that the umpire had made such a poor decision. He obviously hadn’t been paying attention and then, when caught out, took the easy way out. “Probably wanted to get to the clubhouse for a g and t,” thought Caoimhín. A bad decision. Of that he was sure.
“You are very quiet,” his companion said, “are you worried about the speech?”
“Jesus, no. I could give this speech tied upside from the ceiling. I’ve been giving this speech since I started in politics. I’ll attack the Brits, attack the Irish government, attack the SDLP…”
“Attack everyone but us.”
“That’s it. Attack everyone but us. We are never at fault.”

Caoimhín carried on thinking about the cricket. He wanted to discuss the match with his comrade but he knew he couldn’t. If he mentioned it, he’d slag him off. He heard the disgust in his friend’s voice again: “Perverts.”

But there was a mystery to cricket that attracted Caoimhín. He preferred it to hurling though he could never mention that out loud. It was part of his political duties to attend Gaelic games so the voters could see him supporting native culture. He had spent many an evening in Casement Park watching Antrim or a local club hurl. He did it because he was expected to do it. It was for the cause; and a couple of votes. Despite that he just couldn’t get worked up about the game. Hurling was just, too, well, too anarchic for his tastes. He could see no rhythm or reason to the swinging hurls or the sliotar. Ash clashed with ash; the sliotar shot forward and it went over the bar or it didn’t go over the bar. He saw nothing of beauty in it; the game was nothing but mad slashing wood with a ball somewhere in the middle of the action. And talk about rough! He winched every time he saw a hurl rise and fall around the players. Hurling was, Caoimhín said under his breath many times, a game for mad bastards.

Cricket, however, was different. Cricket followers were mannerly and played the game in good weather while enjoying fine food. All you had to do was stretch yourself by the side of the pitch and dip your hand into a basket, take out a sandwich and, perhaps, enjoy a nice, cold glass of cider. Now, that’s culture, thought Caoimhín. That’s the way to spend an afternoon.

He remembered one afternoon he had been travelling through Tyrone. There was a cricket game being played. Caoimhín had been heading to an election meeting in Fermanagh when he saw the teams playing under the shadow of an army barracks. He had been in a hurry and almost drove on but something made him stop. A meeting. Another frigging meeting, he thought. He could hear the talk already: the points of procedure; the cúpla focal, a chathaoirligh, a chara; the suggestions; the plan of action; the lists of voters; the cars available; the ex-prisoners and old republicans who had to be visited; the streets and villages that had to be avoided. Another frigging meeting.

He stopped the car and pulled in to the side of the road. They would not know him here. He was not that familiar a face outside of Belfast. He could watch from the car. No, that might be too suspicious. They might think he was up to something. If the cops came, they might make allegations. Better to drive on. Another frigging meeting. No. Stay. Get out off the car. Walk over and blend in. He bent down to the passenger side and rummaged in the plastic bag in which he had thrown a sandwich and a can of coke. He took them out. It was a lovely day, he thought. I’ll take a break. Twenty minutes, that’s all, I’m owed twenty minutes at least.

He had two baseball hats in the glove compartment – one was an saffron Antrim GAA cap; the other was a dark blue one with NY stitched on it. He took the second one and settled it on his head. No one will know me here, he thought, no one. I am safe enough. He crossed the road excitedly. It wasn’t a big crowd but there were enough people so that he didn’t stand out. He found a spot at the edge of the pitch and settled himself down. No sooner had he sat than he heard a loud “pock” and the little, red ball ran towards the boundary. The batsmen didn’t move. “They know they have got four runs,” thought Caoimhín, “they know they don’t need to move.”

The little red ball hopped over the boundary line and a polite round of clapping flitted around the ground. Caoimhín looked around. No one knows me here, he thought and joined in slowly. He looked at his watch. Half an hour, I’m owed half an hour. He took out his sandwiches and snapped open a tin of coke. An hour; I’m owed that much, he thought, as the bowler ran towards the batsman. The ball flew from his fist and the batsman swung at it with easy contempt. Pock! “Another four,” thought Caoimhín and he began to clap. His eyes and ears sucked in every sight, sound, every shout and movement of what happened on the grass.

This was his first live match and he did not want to miss a single second. He examined how the players were set, how they drew into the batsman as the bowler made his approach. He understood what they were doing; they were trying to intimidate him, distract him a little from the bowler, lessen the field and tighten the noose. He could see them going down on their honkers, bouncing like children in the playground, hands sweeping the grass while the bowler strode down the pitch, readying himself and then firing the ball. This, then, was the highlight of the play, this was the moment of truth for bowler and batsman, that little wait of moments before the ball and bat connected – if at all. Would the batsman stab the ball left or right, would he satisfy himself with a simple, safe push back or would he judge, in those few seconds, that the bowler had misjudged his pitch, that he tossed the ball too short and too high and that the batsman could loosen his body and strike forcefully?

Caoimhín held his breath as the ball rose and fell. The batsman came out, swung – pock! – the ball flew towards the boundary. An out-field player threw himself to his left. It was no good. The ball’s momentum carried it past his fingers and away to safety. Caoimhín clapped again, this time, with more enthusiasm. A good stroke, a really good stroke, he thought. The batsman knows his business; the bowler is beat; he simply doesn’t know it yet. He carried on watching. His judgment was correct; the batsman was not about to cede his wicket. He pushed and swung the bat and bullied the bowler and ball into submission.

Caoimhín felt the warm sun on his head and looked at his watch. The meeting would be well under way by now. Stuff it. They owe me a day. One day at least. He lay back on the verge and settled himself. He had forgotten how warm it could become in the open. He had forgotten the sounds of birds, cars, cows and tractors in open spaces. A blackbird hopped down in front of him, fanned its tail and then crooked its ear to the ground.

Caoimhín could almost hear the bird listening for the rustle of worms below. He could feel its little orange-tipped radar scan for monsters of the deep. The bird stamped its feet, moved on, listened. A sudden round of clapping broke its concentration and it rose to the air, shrieking a warning to the world. Caoimhín closed his eyes. What a wonderful sight, he thought, and let himself doze off. He woke with a start. An old man was struggling towards his car with a collection of bats, stumps and jerseys under his arm. “You’re just right, son,” he said to Caoimhín smiling, “there was little there to hold your attention.”
“I fell asleep,” said Caoimhín un-necessarily. He stood and hesitated. “Do you need a hand?” he asked the old man.
“You could grab a couple of them bats,” said the old man. “Everyone likes to play but not everyone likes to tidy up.”

Caoimhín lifted a handful of bats from under the old man’s arm and nestled them against his chest. “I’m just over here,” said the old fellow. Caoimhín followed him and waited until he had opened the boot of his car before setting the bats in carefully. “You’re a gentleman. That’s a great help,” said the old man. “Do you play yourself?”
“No,” said Caoimhín, “I was just passing through.”
“Aye, well, there are worse ways to spend an afternoon,” replied the old man as he opened the car door and got in. “Many thanks, now. Safe journey.”
“Yes,” said Caoimhín. “Take care.”

He looked at his watch. The meeting would be well over by now. Frig it, he thought. They owe me a day, at least one day. Still, they would want to know what happened to him. He couldn’t say that he fell asleep at a cricket match. He needed a better excuse and then he saw it. Two army jeeps passed by and turned up towards the barracks.

Caoimhín smiled: “I’ll blame the Brits.” No one would question that. Frig them anyway. They didn’t own him. He was his own man. The Brits. That’ll do fine. He could hear them now: “We’ll release a press statement. This is ridiculous. There is supposed to be a peace process. You are an important party representative. They can’t do that. Not anymore. We’ll give them hell in the press release.”

And Caoimhín would just say: “Never bother. I’ve put up with worse. Most of us have put up with worse. Just leave it and let’s get on with the election. I’ll save the whole episode for my autobiography.” That would knock it all on the head, he thought. He turned around. The cricket pitch had emptied. He was alone at the side of the road. He got into his car, turned it around and headed back to the city. “I’m going to pack it in,” he thought. “I’ve had enough.”

He had surrendered his whole life to the cause; had spent years in prison and just as many outside canvassing for the party. He wasn’t sure which was worse anymore: the stink of prison cells or the stale smell of endless meetings up and down the country. He had never imagined himself as full-time politician encased in a shirt and tie most of the week, listening to the same oul shite from the same oul gurns, week after week. “We need to canvas here. We need to address this issue. This is what you should say. This is what you shouldn’t say.” And he listened and put up with it. Just as he listened and put up with the meetings and the eejits and the handshaking, all in the hope that he would get a vote or two more. Give me your vote. For Ireland. For the cause. Shite. All of it. Just shite.

He smiled when he thought of the cricket. There was sense in cricket. He saw his first game in the H-Blocks–the West Indies against England. He marvelled at the stupidity of the game for a moment or two; let himself mock the proceedings publicly before moving on. Bit by bit, however, he felt the game exercise its magic on him. There was something mysterious about it – the way in which the players bobbed around the field; the bowler’s natural rhythm; the batsman’s stubborn defence of his wicket; the way in which he alone stood against the other team trying to attack the ball and make some runs while also trying to keep his stumps safe.
The batsman could have been Cú Chulainn at the ford, he thought.

And then there was the sound of the game; it was hypnotic. He could hear the footsteps of the bowler on the shorn grass and the soft sound of bat striking ball; he could hear the batsman’s trousers and pads rustling against one another as he ran. It was the silence that attracted him, the way in which play created a sanctuary in the soul of those who watched the game; it was a magical meditation on physics. All you had to do, he realised, was surrender to the game, give way to its ebb and flow and you would understand its secret and the grip it took on people.

He supported the West Indies and began to scan the Irish News for little tit bits about scores and players. Hadn’t generations of Irish people been banished to the West Indies. Indeed, there were Irish surnames to be found amongst many of the island’s inhabitants, a sure sign that the native Irish had been swept from Ireland by sword and gun by Cromwell and all who followed him.

Yes, he reasoned, he could safely support the West Indies. Then he began to look through the News Letter and the Belfast Telegraph. “You’re not going over to the other side, are you Caoimhín?” they asked him. “Ah, no. Just seeing what they’re writing about us.” Gradually, he built up a picture of who was playing and the ranking of different countries. He carried the information in his head and spoke to no one about it.

The game was even more mysterious when played at night. He had listened to late-night radio reports while India toured Australia, hidden under the blankets in his cell. The voices of the commentators sounded clear through the headphones and totted up the number of runs scored, wickets taken and overs played. He felt comfortable listening to the tour, the earlier sense of treachery gradually fading. After all, India had been inspired by Ireland’s fight for freedom and had even adapted the tricolour as recognition of their common cause. And, Australia, well, John Mitchell had escaped from it and written his Jail Journal about his experiences there. That was enough in itself. His behaviour did not pass without comment, however. “What programme were you listening to last night?” his cellmate asked him. “You seemed to me very taken with it.”
“Oh, something on Australian politics,” Caoimhín lied. “It’s shameful what’s going on out there.”
“The Aboriginals? Aye, shameful.”

He was annoyed by the question but would still not admit his interest in the sport. It was perfectly legitimate to support Australia and India in cricket, he thought. As long as I don’t support England, he thought. England was the enemy. England was always the enemy. My enemy’s enemy, Caoimhín thought, that’s what this is all about; striking back at them wherever possible. There was no loss of principle or disregard for native culture by taking an interest in cricket. It was simply another way to attack the English. They liked to think of cricket as the game they gave the world, he reasoned. If the world took the game from them and played it so much better than them, it galled them. Galled them, yes, thought Caoimhín, galled them, made the very things they thought of as distinctly and uniquely their and made them foreign. That’s all he was doing, taking part in a cultural struggle by changing the terms of reference, subverting them and making the game his own. Cricket was the most English of games. It was their sean—nós with its bizarre vocabulary of googly; yorker; maiden over; leg-spin; off-side and leg-break.

We should study our enemy as much as possible, he thought. We should look at their games and learn about their minds from them and then beat them at all. Yes, beat them at their own game. That’s what we should do. We should put together a team of ex-prisoners and get a grant for it, he thought. That would really put the republican cat amongst the English pigeons. Talk about a revolution. It would annoy the Brits no end to see a republican cricket team walk out at Lord’s and to take their own game from them in their own country. It would be cultural revenge. They had taken our language and we would take theirs in turn. To steal their own game from them.

Such a thought. Such a victory. The English would keek themselves to see a team of ex-bombers and ex-gunmen walking out in the most hallowed of English venues. It could be done. He was certain it could be done. He could see himself hurtling down the pitch, the ball nestled in his palm while one of England’s top batsmen waited for the delivery. He could hear the commentators hush in anticipation and awe as he threw the ball as he bowled: “He’s 8 for none so far. England are in real trouble here if he finishes of these tail-enders with the same ease with which he dispatched the opening batsmen and middle order.”

He could see the little red ball hit the pitch, bounce, swing around the bat and watch as the terrified batsman realised that he was out. He could see the wicket crumple and the bales fly into the air. He would whirl around, punch his hands into the sky and scream at television cameras: “Howzat! Howzat! Howzat!” Ireland have won! Ireland have beaten England at cricket! Yes, it could be done. He could do it. He could beat the English at their own game.

“Hey,” he called to his companion as they approached the Great Hall, “who is in charge of the cricket club here anyway?”