Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha

  I had to fight for George Best.

  Kevin didn’t follow Manchester United. He followed Leeds. He’d once followed United but then he’d changed because of his brother; his brother followed Leeds.

  It was Kevin’s turn to pick.

  —Eddie Gray, he said.

  No one else wanted to be Eddie Gray. Ian McEvoy followed Leeds as well but he was always Johnny Giles. Kevin was sick once, and Ian McEvoy picked Eddie Gray.

  —Why not Johnny Giles?

  —Just—

  I’d caught him.

  Four of us followed Manchester United. All of us wanted to be George Best. We always made Sinbad be Nobby Stiles so he stopped following United and started following Liverpool, although he didn’t really follow anyone. For a while I nearly changed to Leeds as well, but I couldn’t. They’d have said that it was just because of Kevin but, mostly, it was because of George Best.

  What we did was, Kevin got four ice-pop sticks and broke one of them and each United supporter picked a stick and whoever got the broken stick got to choose first.

  Aidan picked the small stick.

  —Bobby Charlton, he said.

  He picked Bobby Charlton because he knew what would happen to him if he picked George Best. I’d do him. There was no ref. You could do what you wanted, even tackle one of your own team. I could beat Aidan. He was a good fighter but he didn’t like it. He always let you up before you surrendered properly; then you could get him back.

  Kevin threw away one of the big sticks. I picked the small one this time.

  —George Best.

  Liam was Denis Law. If he’d picked the small stick he’d have been George Best. I wouldn’t have stopped him. He was different. I’d never had a fight with him. There was something; he’d have won. He wasn’t that much bigger. There was something. It hadn’t always been like that. He’d been very small once. He wasn’t that big now. His eyes. There was no shine on them. When the brothers were together, standing beside each other, it was easy to see them the way we saw them; little, jokes, sad, nice. They were our friends because we hated them; it was good to have them around. I was cleaner than them, brainier than them. I was better than them. Separate, it was different. Aidan got smaller, unfinished looking. Liam became dangerous. They looked the same together. They were nothing alike when you met one of them alone. That nearly never happened. They weren’t twins. Liam was older than Aidan. They both followed United.

  —It’s cheaper, said Ian McEvoy when they weren’t there.

  —The game’s about to commence, said Aidan.

  Me, Aidan, Ian McEvoy and Sinbad versus Kevin, Liam, Edward Swanwick and James O‘Keefe. We were given a two-goal lead because we had Sinbad. He was much smaller than everyone else. Teams with Sinbad in them usually won. We all thought it was because of the automatic two-goal lead but it wasn’t. (The score in one match was seventy-three, sixty-seven.) It was because Sinbad was a good player. But none of us knew this; he was a twirp; we were stuck with him because he was my little brother. He was a brilliant dribbler. I didn’t know until Mister O’Keefe, James O’Keefe’s da, told me.

  —He has the perfect centre of gravity for a soccer player, said Mister O’Keefe.

  I looked at Sinbad. He was just my little brother. I hated him. He never wiped his nose. He cried. He wet the bed. He got away with not eating his dinner. He had to wear specs with one black lens. He ran to get the ball. No one else did that. They all waited for it to come to them. He went through them all, no bother. He was brilliant. He wasn’t selfish like most fellas who could dribble. It was weird, looking at him. It was great, and I wanted to kill him. You couldn’t be proud of your little brother.

  We were two-nil up before we started.

  —The captains shake hands.

  I shook hands with Kevin. We squeezed real hard. We were Northern Ireland. Kevin was Scotland. Bobby Charlton was playing for Northern Ireland because he was on his holidays there.

  —Scotland to kick off.

  These games were fast. It was nothing like being on grass. The road wasn’t wide. We were packed in together. The gates were closed. The smack of the ball against the gate was a goal. Goalkeepers scored about half the goals. We tried to change the rules but the goalkeepers objected; they wouldn’t go in goal if they weren’t allowed score goals. The useless players went in goal but we still needed them. Once, James O’Keefe, the worst player of us all, kicked out from goal. He scored a goal but the ball whacked off the gate and back across the road, into his own goal. He’d scored a goal and an O.G. with the one shot.

  —My word, said the commentator.—Extraordinary.

  Scotland kicked off.

  —Denis Law taps to Eddie Gray-

  I got a foot in; the ball hit the gate.

  —Yessss!

  —My word, said the commentator.—A goal by Best. One-nil to Northern Ireland.

  —Hey! I reminded him.—Sinbad’s goals.

  —Three-nil to Northern Ireland. What a start. What can Scotland do now?

  Scotland scored three.

  It made you dizzy. The ball bombed over the road, and over. It was a bit burst. It hurt when it got you in the leg.

  —I can’t recall a game quite as exciting as this one, said the commentator.—My word.

  He’d just scored a goal.

  It always slowed down after a while. If it hadn’t we’d never have played it. It would have been just stupid. Your feet got sore blemming a burst ball.

  —Seventeen, sixteen to Northern Ireland.

  —It’s seventeen-all!

  —It isn’t. I’ve been counting.

  —What is it? Kevin asked Edward Swanwick.

  -Seventeen-all.

  —There, said Kevin.

  —He’s on your team, I said.—He’s just saying it cos you said it.

  —He’s on your team, he said.

  He was pointing at the commentator.

  —Really, the referee will have to take control of the situation.

  —Shut up, you.

  —I’m supposed to talk. It’s my job.

  —Shut up; your da’s an alco.

  This always happened as well.

  —Okay, I said. -Seventeen-all. We’ll win anyway.

  —We’ll see about that.

  Kevin turned to his team.

  —Come on! Wake up! Wake up!

  Liam and Aidan never did anything when we said things about their da.

  The game had slowed down. Aidan didn’t commentate for a while. It was getting dark. The game ended at teatime. If James O’Keefe was late for his tea his ma gave it to the cat. That was what she’d shouted one day when he’d been hiding behind a hedge when she’d called him in.

  —James O’Keefe! I’m going to give your fish-fingers to the cat!

  He went in. He said later that he’d been hiding cos he thought they’d be having mince and turnips for their tea, not fish-fingers. But he was always lying. He was the biggest liar in Barrytown.

  Twenty-seven, twenty-three; we were winning again.

  —My word, said Aidan.—Roger Hunt is posing problems for the Scotland defence.

  Roger Hunt was Sinbad. They couldn’t cope with him. It was because he was small and he was able to hide the ball behind himself. Kevin was good at sliding tackles but we were playing on the road so Sinbad was safe. It was much easier to foul someone the same size as you. Another thing about Sinbad, he didn’t score the goals himself. He passed the ball to someone who couldn’t miss - mostly me - and they all marked me instead of Sinbad because I was scoring the goals. I’d scored twenty-one of our goals. Seven hat-tricks.

  —Why are they called hat-tricks?

  —Cos you get given a hat if you score one.

  If you played for Ireland you got a cap. It was like a school cap or a cub’s cap, with a badge on it. England caps had a thing on the top of them, like the cord on my da’s dressing gown. You’d never have worn one if you got one. You were supposed to put them in one of those presses w
ith glass doors and people could look at them when they came to your house, and your medals. When I was sick I was let wear my da’s dressing gown.

  Mister O‘Keefe invented Barrytown United. I liked Mister O’Keefe. His first name was Tommy and he let us call him that. It was weird at first. James O‘Keefe didn’t call him Tommy and none of us called him Tommy either when Missis O’Keefe was around but that wasn’t because Tommy told us not to. We just didn’t. James O’Keefe didn’t know what his ma’s first name was.

  —Agnes.

  That was Ian McEvoy’s one.

  —Gertie, said Liam.

  That was his and Aidan’s ma’s name.

  —Does it say that on the grave?

  —Yeah.

  It was James O’Keefe’s turn.

  —Don’t know.

  I didn’t believe him, but then I did. I’d thought he wasn’t telling us because it was a name we’d laugh at, but we were laughing at them all, except Gertie. We tortured him, a Chinese burn on each arm at the same time, and he still didn’t know his ma’s name.

  —Find out, said Kevin, when we let him up cos he was coughing.

  —How?

  —Just find out, said Kevin.—That’s your mission.

  James O’Keefe looked panicky.

  —Ask her, I said.

  —Don’t give him hints, said Kevin.—You’d better know by after dinner, he told James O’Keefe.

  But then we forgot all about it.

  Missis O’Keefe wasn’t that bad.

  —George Best elbows Alan Gilzean in the face.

  —I didn’t touch him, I said.

  I kicked the ball away to stop the game.

  —I didn’t touch him. He ran into me.

  It was only Edward Swanwick. He was holding his nose so we wouldn’t see that he wasn’t bleeding. His eyes were wet.

  —He’s crying, said Ian McEvoy.—Look it.

  I wouldn’t have done it if it had been any of the others. They knew that, they didn’t care; it was only Edward Swanwick.

  —And, really, said the commentator.—Alan Gilzean seems to be making a bit of a meal of his little knock.

  The funny thing was, Aidan was never like that - that funny - when he was just himself, when he wasn’t commentating. Forty-two, thirty-eight to Northern Ireland. Kevin’s neck was getting red; he was going to lose. It was great. It was getting dark. Missis O’Keefe was the final whistle. Any minute now.

  —Barrytown United.

  —Barrytown Rovers.

  We were thinking of names.

  —Barrytown Celtic.

  —Barrytown United’s best.

  I said that. It had to be United. We were sitting in O‘Keefe’s back garden. Mister O’Keefe was sitting on a brick. He was smoking a cigarette.

  —Barrytown Forest, said Liam.

  Mister O’Keefe laughed but none of us did.

  —United.

  —Nev-er.

  —Let’s have a vote for it, said Ian McEvoy.

  Mister O’Keefe rubbed his hands.

  —That sounds the best way alright, he said.

  —It’ll be United.

  —No, it won’t!

  —Shhhh, said Mister O’Keefe.—Shhhh, now. Right, okay; hands up who wants Barrytown Forest.

  Liam lifted his hand a little bit, then put it back. No hands. We cheered.

  —Barrytown Rovers?

  No hands.

  —Barrytown—United.

  The Manchester United and Leeds United fellas put all their hands up. There was no one left, except Sinbad.

  —Barrytown United it is, said Mister O’Keefe.—By a handsome majority. Which one did you want? he asked Sinbad.

  —Liverpool, said Sinbad.

  It was so brilliant being in a team called United that we didn’t bother getting Sinbad for saying that.

  —Une-eye-ted! Une-eye-ted!

  I’d hold my arms out straight till they ached and I’d spin. I could feel the air against my arms, trying to stop them from going so fast, like dragging them through water. I kept going. Eyes open, little steps in a circle; my heels cut into the grass, made it juicy; really fast - the house, the kitchen, the hedge, the back, the other hedge, the apple tree, the house, the kitchen, the hedge, the back - waiting to stop my feet. I never warned myself. It just happened - the other hedge, the apple tree, the house, the kitchen - stop - onto the ground, on my back, sweating, gasping, everything still spinning. The sky - round and round - nearly wanting to get sick. Wet from sweating, cold and hot. Belch. I had to lie there till it was over. Round and round; it was better with my eyes open, trying to get my eyes to hang onto one thing and stop it from turning. Snot, sweat, round, round and round. I didn’t know why I did it; it was terrible - maybe that was why. It was good getting there - spinning. Stopping was the bad bit, and after. It had to come; I couldn’t spin forever. Recovering. Stuck to the ground. I could feel the world turning. Gravity sticking me down, holding me, my shoulders; my shins sore. The world was round and Ireland was stuck on the side; I knew that when I was spinning - falling off the world. The worst was when there was nothing in the sky, nothing to grab, blue blue blue.

  I only ever got sick once.

  It was dangerous to do things straight after your dinner. You could drown if you went swimming. I went up to my belly button to see if anything would happen - I wasn’t going to go any further - just to check. Nothing did. The water was the same; the suck wasn’t any stronger. That didn’t mean much though. Standing in a bit of water wasn’t the same as swimming. You weren’t swimming until your feet weren’t touching the sand for at least five seconds. That was swimming; that was when you drowned if you were full of your dinner. Your belly was too full and too heavy. Your legs and arms couldn’t hold you up. You swallowed water. It got into your lungs. It took ages for you to die. Spinning was the same, only you didn’t die, unless you were lying on your back when you were getting sick and you didn’t turn over on your side because you’d fainted or something, or you’d walloped your head and you were unconscious with your mouth full of vomit. Then you suffocated, unless someone saw you in time and saved you; they turned you over and thumped your back to make room in your throat for some air to get through. You gasped and coughed; then they gave you the kiss of life to be on the safe side. Their lips would be touching your lips and your lips would be covered in vomit. They might get sick themselves on you. They might be a man, a man kissing me - or a woman.

  Kissing was stupid. It was alright for kissing your ma when you were going to school or something, but kissing someone because you liked them - you thought they were lovely - that was just stupid. It didn’t make sense. The man on top of the woman when they were on the ground or in a bed.

  —Bed. Pass it on.

  We snuck into Kevin’s ma’s and da’s bedroom and looked at their bed. We laughed. Kevin pushed me onto the bed and he wouldn’t let me out; he held the handle on the other side.

  When I got sick from spinning I didn’t faint or anything. I just knew I was going to get sick when I was lying on the grass after I’d stopped - the grass was warm and stiff - so I tried to stand up but I fell back on one knee and then the sick came; not real vomit - food from the top of the heap in my stomach. My ma said that you should chew the food well before you swallowed it. I never did; it was a waste of time and boring. Sometimes my throat hurt after I’d swallowed something big; I knew it was going to be sore but it was too late to stop, it was too far down, there was nothing I could do. Boiled potatoes, big bits of bacon with fat on it, cabbage - that was what came out. Angel Delight, strawberry. Milk. I could name every bit of it. I felt better, sturdier. I stood up. It was in the back garden. My head moved a little bit - house, kitchen - but then it stopped. I looked at my clothes. They hadn’t been hit. My runners were clean too. And my legs. It was all on the ground. Like stew off a plate. Did I have to clean it up? It wasn’t on a floor or a path. But it was in the garden, not a field or someone-else-we-didn’t-know’s garden. I
wasn’t sure. I walked down to the kitchen door. I turned and looked. I couldn’t make up my mind if I could see it there or not. I was looking there because I knew it was there. I could see it, but I knew it was there. I went around to the front and messed with the flowers. Then I went back down the side again and came around the kitchen and looked and I couldn’t really make out anything. I left it there. I looked at it every day. It got harder and darker. I threw the bacon into the garden that backed onto ours, Corrigan’s. I let it drop over the fence so they wouldn’t see anything flying in the air if they were looking out. I waited for shouts. Nothing. I washed my hands. The rest of the sick disappeared. It was slimy and real looking after rain. Then it was gone. It took about two weeks.

  —Is it morning not to get up?

  —Yes, it is.

  —Go back to bed, lads.

  The table was still dirty. The dishes were still on it, from dinner the night before. Ma put my cornflakes bowl on top of a dirty plate.

  I didn’t like it. The table should have been clean in the morning. With nothing on it except the salt and pepper in the middle, and the ketchup bottle with not too much dried ketchup up at the lid - I hated that - and the place mats, with a spoon on mine and Sinbad’s. That was the way it always was.

  I ate without letting any of my body touch the table. I swapped my spoon for Sinbad’s. He was in the toilet. He’d probably wet the floor again. He was always doing that. He was afraid that the seat would fall down on him. It was only plastic, and not heavy, but it still frightened him. I was much bigger than him, so I could go into the bowl with only lifting up the hatch part of the seat. I never wet it much and I always dried it. Always. Diseases grew in toilets. If a rat ever got into your house it would go straight for the toilet.

  Ma was humming.

  It was stupid, not doing the dishes in the night. The food was still soft then and easy to get off; it came off in the water. Now, though, she was going to have to rub real hard. Loads of elbow grease. Blood, sweat and tears. She’d have her work cut out for her. It served her right. She should have done them the night before; that was the proper time to do them.