At Reilly’s Fireside – A chat about hurling and modern tactics
The Barrowside Gael is re-introducing ‘At Reilly’s Fireside’ to the moden reader
Big Pat Harrigan walked in the quaint half-door of Reilly’s kitchen and with a perplexed look on his face took his usual seat by Reilly’s fireside.
“What’s up Pat,” asks Mrs Reilly who was keeping an eye on the fry on the cooker.
“What’s up,” repeats Pat, “I’ll tell you what’s up, I can’t go to my own local anymore and enjoy a peaceful pint, that’s what’s up,”
“Bedad Pat that’s a sad state of affairs and you with shares in the place from all the time you’ve spent there over the years,” says Mrs Reilly, her eyes never leaving the pan.
“Leave the man alone,” interjects Jim Reilly, putting another log on the fire, “can’t you see he’s upset. Now Pat, tell us what has brought this on, sure you love your little tipple and enjoy the chat in Johnsie’s.”
“Enjoy the chat?” exclaims Pat, “There’s no more chats, now what we get is lectures from these young bucks with degrees for this and degrees for that, bloody know-alls and now with all their education and exposure to ‘Fitzgibbon’ they presume to be experts on hurling too.”
Mrs Reilly took her eye off the pan, looked over at Pat Harrigan.
“Oh this is serious alright Pat, did they cast aspersions on your hurling credentials and you the player-manager the year the parish won the Junior B, the same day man landed on the moon.”
“Cast aspersions?” repeated Big Pat, “not only did they cast aspersions, they called me ‘a blinkered traditionalist’. Me. I’ll admit I might be a bit of a traditionalist …”
“A bit?” says Jim Reilly, “sure every bone and fibre in your boys screams traditionalist. But tell us what brought matters to such a head?”
Big Pat straightened himself up in the chair. “I’ll tell you what happened. In detail.” “No surprise there,” whispers Mrs Reilly to herself.
“I was below in the field to watch the senior team play a league match, sitting on the sideline close to the 21-yard line. Oh sorry, 20-metre line, wouldn’t want to be accused of been old fashioned. Anyway, we were playing with a gale force wind and Jack Mac’s young lad was in the goal, he has a fierce puck on the ball, he’d win the Puc Fada on the mountain if he wasn’t too fond of this thing they call ‘the Monday club’ which you and I know is code for a drinking session.” Pat takes a breath.
“Into the middle of next week Jack Mac’s lad would drive the ball if he had a mind to but what does he do with the first puck out? Shovels it like your Ballygunner man Leavy, shovels it maybe 15 yards, sorry metres, to me second cousin’s son playing corner back. The same fella can’t hit the ball out of his way. Or he wouldn’t if he actually got the ball. But sure he was only half-expecting the pass, dropped it, and by the time he recovered from the shock of nearly having possession, their corner forward jab lifted the ball and stuck it in the unguarded net.” “Unguarded net?” repeated Jim Reilly.
“Where was Jack Mac’s young fella?”
“Where was Jack Mac’s young fella?” repeated big Pat.
“Sure wasn’t he abroad on the 21 ya .. 20 metre line, seemingly awaiting the return pass. As if me second cousin’s son would be capable of a return pass!” “You are very hard on that young man,” chastised Mrs Reilly who liked to take the kind motherly approach to her dealings with the young folk.
“Maybe so Missus, maybe so but ‘twasn’t kindness won the Junior B’s the Cup back in the Summer of ’69 was it, we fired them up in the dressing room with every insult we could think of to get the best out of them!”
Jim Reilly grimaced.
“’Tis true Pat, you were a great man for the insults, you told me the only reason I was on the team was I had a motor car and could give lads a lift to the match but that other than that the best thing I could do was stay close to the corner flag and leave room to the real hurlers in front of goal.”
Big Pat Harrigan straightened in his chair again, not a sign of remorse.
“You see,” he says, “these young lads today say we had no tactics back then but we had. Let me rephrase what I told you in modern parlance: “Now Jim your job today is to play wide, hug the sideline, make the decoy runs and that will allow our finishers room to finish!”
“My word Pat,” says Mrs Reilly, plating the fry, “that sounds a lot better, you’re learning this modern jargon fast.
“Don’t encourage him,” says Jim Reilly, “don’t you know that will put the dreaded sweeper on the agenda?”
“I’m telling you now Pat,” warns Mrs Reilly, picking up the kitchen brush, “if I hear one word about the sweeper or how in your day the only sweepers in the village were the housewives and the chimney sweep I will sweep you out the door.”
“Oh fear not my good woman,” nods big Pat, “sure our lads no longer use a swee .. that tactic anymore; oh no, now we - thanks to these new guru’s - operate with a plus-one!”
“A plus-one?” repeats Jim Reilly, a query in his tone.
“Yes, a plus-one,” repeats big Pat, “let me enlighten you.” “That’ll make a nice change,” whispers Mrs Reilly to herself.
“After the cock-up with the puck-out the other evening, I let a roar out of me, ‘will ye in the name of Jayus drive the shaggin’ ball up the feckin’ field.” “Straight out of the modern coaching manual,” whispers Mrs Reilly loud enough for her husband to hear and snigger.
“Ssshh woman, let the man talk, we are being enlightened!”
“Well after I let me roar this track-suited man with a bainisteoir bib - and what me niece tells me is a designer stubble but I reckon its he’s just too lazy to shave properly – looks at me with dagger eyes. I gave him, the dagger eyes back. You don’t survive 25 years Junior B hurling without being able to carry a message with your eyes! And if that failed the boot or the butt of the hurl delivered it with emphasis!”
“Them days are gone Pat and good luck to them,” counselled Jim Reilly, settling into the table for his fry.
“Will you have a plate yourself Pat or would it interfere with the new diet and nutrition programme our hurlers are on,” asks Mrs Reilly.
“Don’t start me on this diet and nutrition nonsense,” exclaims Pat, “a young wan from the city with long red finger-nails telling our boys what they can and can’t eat!” “Hold on Pat, hold on,” says Jim Reilly, “one complaint at a time, weren’t you enlightening us on this plus-one?”
“I was, I was,” says Pat, moving from the chair beside the fire to sit at the table for his fry. “You see after the match I tipped into Johnsie’s for a pint and sure wasn’t the club lotto on and wasn’t me bainisteoir ‘friend’ there. I suppose he was checking up on how much the lotto was making so that the club could pay his ‘expenses’. And to think I did it all for nothing, not a penny.”
“The plus-one Pat, stick to the plus one!” instructs Jim Reilly.
“I will, I will,” says Pat. “Well, you see, he with the ‘designer stubble’ comes down to me and says his sorry about above in the field, he heard I had been a great servant to the club and he wanted to explain their modus operandi. I nodded me head to signal I’d listen.
“I’d say you delayed that signal until such time as he called for a pint for you,” says Mrs Reilly.
“How did you know that,” queried big Pat.
“Oh women’s intuition Pat, women’s intuition!”
“Will you whist woman,” says Jim Reilly with a mock-grimace or the age of enlightenment will pass us by, don’t you know Pat has to be home with the car so as Maggie can go to the bingo!”
“Oh, Good Christ,” exclaimed big Pat Harrigan, gobbling down some of his fry and rising from the table, “I forgot all about the bingo, I may go. I’ll tell you what, I’ll call in to-morrow evening and tell ye about this plus-one.”
“Looking forward to it already,” says Jim Reilly, tucking into his fry.
“Well, whatever about a plus-one, we are minus-one now that Pat is gone,” says Mrs Reilly as she went out into the yard to give Fido the left-overs.
‘At Reilly’s Fireside’ was a popular and often humorous weekly column in ‘The Nationalist’ back in the 1930s featuring the fictional big Pat Harrigan visiting his neighbours for a chat about the events of the day. Above we introduce you to a new generation of Harrigan’s and Reilly’s!
