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ALAN NOLAN ,

You ll laugh, you ll cry , ...you ll hurl.

For Dad. First published 2014 by The O’Brien Press Limited 12 Terenure Road East, Rathgar, Dublin 6, Ireland Tel: +353 1 492 3333; Fax: +353 1 492 2777 Email: books@obrien.ie Website: www.obrien.ie ISBN: 978-1-84717-253-2 Copyright for text, illustrations and layout design © Alan Nolan 2O14

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or utilised in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or in any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. 87654321 18 17 16 15 14

Editing: The O’Brien Press Limited Printing: Norhaven Paperback A/S, Denmark The paper used in this book is produced using pulp from managed forests

The O’Brien Press receives assistance from

In the dust of defeat as well as in the laurel of victory, there is glory to be found. JJ Meagher Okay. Here’s the story. Sin é an sceal, as they say. My name is Rusty and I am proud to say I am a Ballybreen Terrier. If you had asked me was I a proud Terrier three months ago, the answer would have been very different. You see, only three months ago the Ballybreen Terriers were the worst Under 12s hurling team in the county. In fact we were the worst in the country. To be honest, we were the worst in the entire world. If they played hurling in outer space (and I’ve no reason to believe that they don’t – imagine the poc fadas you could have in zero gravity!) I’m sure the Mars U12s could have beaten us with one tentacle tied behind their backs.

Plain and simple: we were ROTTEN, we were WOEFUL, we were WUBBISH. Sorry, RUBBISH. So how did such an unbelievably crummy team end up winning the Lonergan Cup? Well, it wasn’t easy. It’s a long story of hard work, loads of training, LOADS of fun, new friends, old friends… and one young fella who had quite a bit of experience in fighting against almost impossible odds. (That’s not me, by the way.) But I’m getting ahead of myself. Maybe a proper introduction is in order. I’m Rusty, but I don’t mean I’m covered in dirty, red, metal flakes. Rusty is my nickname. My real name is Raymond Arantes. I’m from Brazil, originally, my whole family are, and we’ve lived in Ballybreen for six years. I only took up GAA last year, though. And despite being in the worst team in Ireland, yadda, yadda (see above) I LOVE HURLING! When I first picked up a hurley stick, I realised what I wanted to do with my life. The hurley just fitted so well in my hand, it felt like an extension of my own arm. It felt like a part of me that

I didn’t even realise was missing. At that moment, it was like the clouds parted and the sun shone down on my head and my head alone – I think I heard music, but it could have been one of the mums at the side of the field playing her car radio too loud. I knew then – I wanted to be a hurler, I wanted to play for my county, I wanted to win an All-Ireland medal! But first, I had to join a team. Ballybreen is not a big town, but it’s a young town. Plenty of young families moved here during the boom, ourselves included. There’s only one club, and really only one age group that has enough players to make up a panel – the under 12s. Luckily for me, that’s my age.

There aren’t many upsides to being eleven, but the long summer holiday is one of them. In the last couple of weeks of school before the break we were learning all about the legend of Cú Chulainn. You know, the one where he was called Setanta to start with and then, because he was attacked by this guy Culann’s massive hound, and accidentally-on-purpose, totally in self defence, dispatched the crackers canine off to doggy heaven, had to take on the role of the dog and become ‘the hound of Culann’. He had a dog’s life, basically. Well, it was the way he massacred the mental mongrel that caught my attention: he used a hurl and sliotar. Our teacher told us that on that very day Setanta (Cú to his pals) invented the sport of hurling! That sounded so cool, I was instantly hooked!

Our school wasn’t a big, sporty school, but Ballybreen had a very small GAA club, so I went around and signed up. I’ll never forget the look on the bainisteoir’s face when I walked in to the big, rusty, metal container that served as the Ballybreen clubhouse, equipment room, dressing room and storage facility for dead flies and mice droppings: the look was pretty much disbelief with a large side order of ‘this young fella can’t be serious and/or all-in-it.’ New sign-ups were so few and far between that he had to search the whole dingy clubhouse for a pen to take down my details, and when he eventually found one it wouldn’t work. That was Mr Massey. That was seven bainisteoirs ago. Yup, in the last eighteen months the Ballybreen Terriers U12s hurling team has had eight managers. It was Pat Massey when I started, followed by Billy ‘The Bull’ Robinson, then Gerry Lynham (I liked him), then ‘Hacker’ Whelan (he never told us his first name), Tadhg ‘Ol’ One Eye’ O’Sullivan, followed by ‘Nervous’ Naoise O’Neill, then ‘Clueless’ Colm Faulkner, finally by the latest and definitely-not-the-greatest Frank ‘Fidgety’ Furlong.

Players have come and gone as well, but Paddy Fox and Jerome ‘Halfpint’ O’Reilly have been here as long as I have. I call Paddy ‘iPaddy’ because I’ve never seen him without his headphones on. He’s always listening to music and can never hear what you’re saying. A bit of a drawback when you’re playing a match. The other person who’s been here as long as I have, even longer, is Katie Bell, AKA ‘Dinger’ Bell. She’s the team’s number one fan and cheers loudest at all the matches. In fact, she’s usually the only one cheering at our matches. She’s twirly-baton-style majorette for the Ballybreen Spinners and is clever and has a great smile and lovely brown hair and smells nice. Well, you get the idea.

Oh. And then there’s Ollie the Dog. Ollie is the Ballybreen Terriers’ mascot. He’s medium-sized, tan-coloured and eats a lot. I don’t know what kind of dog he is, but if I had to guess I’d say he’s a cross between an Irish terrier and a three-toed sloth. I’ve never met such a lazy dog, or such a fat one. He sleeps in a plywood kennel beside the clubhouse, and once he didn’t come out for three days because he couldn’t fit through the door.

Katie has him on a fitness regime now – low-fat dogfood, semi-regular walks and no, repeat NO biscuits (Kimberley are his favourite). We all love Ollie, but Fidgety Furlong hated him. Furlong disliked anyone or anything that wasn’t lean, mean and ready for action. Which meant he wasn’t overly fond of the Ballybreen Terriers either.

I’ll never forget Fidgety Furlong’s last match as bainisteoir. It was a wild, wet and windy afternoon. As a team the Terriers had our ups and downs. Well, we’d mainly just had downs. And this was definitely one of them. We’d just lost a home game to our old rivals the Kilmore Killers, O-O to 2-17. It wasn’t the first time we’d lost to them, not by a long chalk. They’d beaten us three times in the last six months. In fact, we hadn’t won a match against the Kilmore Killers, or anyone else for that matter, for as long as anyone could remember. Seventeen straight losses in a row. Even Katie looked a little deflated as we left the field. ‘Well done,’ she said as she clapped our backs coming off the pitch. ‘You all gave it your best shot.’ ‘Their best shot?’ said Fidgety Furlong, walking behind me. ‘Their best shot?! They SHOULD be shot!’ His face was turning an interesting shade of crimson as the rain poured down it, plastering what little hair he has to his large forehead and dripping off his long, beak-like nose. ‘You gave that game away, lads,’ he snarled. ‘You never even put up a fight!’

He spoke too soon. As we opened the rickety doors to our crumbling clubhouse, we were greeted by the sight of our keeper, Iggy McKenna, lying on the floor being completely marmelised by our left winger, Seamus Muldoon. ‘You eejit!’ Seamus was shouting. ‘Save a goal? You couldn’t save your communion money!’ Halfpint and iPaddy were trying to separate them as the two lads rolled around, upsetting the snacks table and knocking over team photos. Fidgety Furlong was furious (not a pretty sight) and waded in, trying to pull them apart with one arm, while wiping snots from his enormous nose with the sleeve of his other. ‘Seamus! Iggy! Break it up now or you won’t get a game at all next week!’

‘Don’t care,’ said Seamus, ‘I won’t be here next week – I quit!’ ‘Me too!’ said Iggy, getting up off the floor and grabbing his kit. He and Seamus marched out of the clubhouse into the torrential downpour, slamming the door behind them. There was a peal of thunder. The weather really was turning nasty. So was Fidgety Furlong. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘me too. I’ve been meaning to say this for a few weeks, but I’ve been offered a job in Australia.’ He glared at us. ‘And after the shambles of the last few matches, I’ve decided to take it. This afternoon’s pitiful performance was the last straw,’ he said, ‘I fly out on Thursday.’ ‘I’d like to say I’ll miss you all, but I wouldn’t want to lie,’ he added. ‘To be honest, I’ll be delighted to see the back of each and every one of you, you lazy pack of –’ (A loud peal of thunder drowned out his last word. Probably just as well.) ‘And before I go, I’d just like you to know that the Ballybreen Terriers are the worst, most disorganised, most untalented team that I’ve ever had the displeasure to manage.’ And Fidgety came to us from St. Gobnet’s, so he knew what he was talking about.

‘Good luck getting yourselves a manager,’ he said sarcastically. ‘From now on you’ll be someone else’s problem.’ He pointed at us with a bony finger, the recently wiped snots glistening on his wet sleeve. ‘If you’ve any sense at all, you’ll do like Iggy and Seamus did – give up.’ And with that he blew his long nose on a filthy handerchief and stalked out into the rain. A few of the remaining players looked at each other, then quickly gathered up their stuff and left too. Katie looked stunned. There was another roar of thunder and Ollie put his paws over his ears. There was only him, Katie, Halfpint, iPaddy, me and a handful of the younger ones left in the clubhouse. The last of the Ballybreen Terriers. ‘So,’ said Katie, ‘what do we do now?’ iPaddy took off his headphones and looked around. ‘Huh? What happened? Where did everybody go?’ he asked. ‘Did I miss something?’

After iPaddy’s mum had collected him and Halfpint, Katie and I sat down to review the Terriers’ situation. It was pretty dire. ‘Remember how hard it was to get even somebody like Fidgety Furlong to manage us?’ I asked Katie. ‘Everyone else turned us down. Who will be bainisteoir now?’ ‘You’ve bigger problems than that,’ Katie replied. ‘You haven’t got a team to manage. There’s only you, iPaddy and Halfpint left!’ She was right. But there comes a point when you go so low that you really can’t go any further down. All you can do is get climbing back up. Sure, the Ballybreen Terriers had no talent, no discipline and, more importantly, no players. But they were still MY team. We still had me and iPaddy and Halfpint, and we still had our number one (and only) fan, Katie. As long as I could hold a hurl, I’d keep on fighting – just like Cú Chulainn. Ollie whimpered. Don’t worry, boy, I thought, I promise I won’t fight you!

Okay, if we were going to rebuild the Terriers, we’d better start by tidying up the clubhouse. It was a mess after the fight. Actually, it was usually a mess; the casual observer wouldn’t have noticed the difference. Katie started to hang up the photos that Iggy and Seamus had knocked down while I put empty juice cartons into a black plastic sack. Ollie helpfully helped himself to the remains of a packet of cheese and onion crisps. When the clubhouse looked a little bit better, Katie opened a bottle of lemonade. ‘Make mine a rock shandy,’ I said. ‘I need the hard stuff right now.’ I sat, thinking. ‘What the Terriers need,’ I said to Katie after a while, ‘is an injection of fresh blood. New players. A brand new bainisteoir.’ ‘Hmmm,’ said Katie. She was staring up at one of the photos she had rescued from under the changing bench. ‘You know, the Terriers weren’t always this bad. A couple of years ago, before you joined, we were actually pretty good. We had the players, we had the potential. We could have won the cup.’

‘And it was all down to one guy.’ She held up the photo she had plucked from the rusty wall so I could see. It showed a smiling, ginger-haired kid of about ten years of age with a face full of freckles and a determined look in his eyes. He was dressed in Terriers colours and held a broken hurley stick across his broad (and, it has to be said) chunky chest.

‘Fintan Lonergan,’ said Katie. ‘This was taken on the day he smashed his hurl against the Castlewilde Wolfhounds’ goalpost. He scored a goal too! 3-18 to 1-9 in that game. All thanks to Fintan. Our best goal scorer ever, a powerful, straight shot every time.

A great hurler for his age, from a great hurling family – his own granddad donated the Lonergan Cup!’ ‘And we could have taken the cup that year, the Terriers were going great.’ Ollie padded over to where Katie was sitting and snuggled in to her, resting his sizeable head in her lap. ‘But then, one day, he just stopped coming to training. No explanation. He wouldn’t answer his mobile and wouldn’t come to the phone when we called his house. His mum said he had retired. Retired! At ten years old! She said he’d given up hurling for good, and that was that.’ ‘Ah, come on,’ I said. ‘Nobody gives up hurling for good.’ ‘Well, that’s what they said,’ said Katie. ‘He sounded like he’d made up his mind.’ ‘Well, if he won’t play any more, maybe ... he’d coach?’ My mind was racing. ‘We need a bainisteoir as well as players. Maybe this Fintan guy could help us out!’

The name’s Ollie. And I guess you could say I am the ORIGINAL Ballybreen Terrier.

Woof. I mean, hi.

I suppose some sort of introduction is in order. Please. Step in to my humble abode.

I’ve been here longer than anyone else - I was a terrier since I the day I was born.

Watch your head, pal.

Ahah. A little canine humour, there.

I’ve been keeping track of the Ballybreen Terriers’ progress since I was a pup.

This? This is a photo of my grandma, Mollie the dog. She was here right at the start, when old Mick Lonergan (that’s Fintan’s granddad) formed the Terriers and set up the Cup.

Holding onto newspaper clippings, that sort of thing.

Sorry. Woof! Woof! Bark! Woof woof!

a cat.

Personally, I think losing Fidgety Furlong is the best thing that’s happened to the terriers in a long while.

Between you and me, Fidgety thought tactics were those little white mints that come in the plastic boxes.

He was a ROTTEN manager. Good riddance to him.

And getting Fintan Lonergan back is a BRILLIANT idea! It’ll be BARK-TASTIC to get a Lonergan back in charge of the Terriers!

I just hope Katie and Rusty can pull it off…

IT LOOKS LIKE , THERE S A BIT OF A SCHEMOZZLE IN THE PARALLELOGRAM. , , , MicheAl O Hehir

The next day I met Katie at the clubhouse, where she was feeding Ollie. ‘Low fat dogfood again, Ollie,’ she was saying as she poured some dry food pellets into Ollie’s red bowl. Ollie snuffled around the pellets and glanced up at Katie. He didn’t look impressed. ‘Right. So, what’s the plan?’ I said as I leaned my bike against the clubhouse wall. ‘Well, I suppose, we just cycle over to his house and ask him,’ said Katie. ‘Fair enough,’ I said, and we both hopped on our bikes and headed off, with Ollie running behind us. Well, I say ‘running’; ‘waddling’ would be a more accurate word. We had to stop several times on the journey to allow him to catch up with us. The storm from the day before had passed and the sun was shining as we cycled out of town towards where Fintan lived. Katie’s bike was pretty new. I think she must have gotten it for her birthday, but mine was old and lived up to my name – it was a bit rusty.