Game On

HISTORICAL SHORT STORY BY TONY REDCLIFFE

In this story, set in 1957, Sister Bernadette would show Father Hanlon that her team knew a thing or two about football

Sister Bernadette of the Sisters of Mercy sat in her office in the little school in the village of Ballymor, County Mayo.

Her hands were entwined gently on her lap and her eyes were closed in contemplation.

Her thoughts were not on celestial matters. They were on the more temporal subject of football.

She’d always liked it. She’d played it at home, in the garden with her two brothers, who were not averse to giving her a few hard knocks if she beat them to the ball or skipped past them.

She still played in her forties – her roaring forties, as she liked to call them.

She was the headmistress, but she loved to have a kick-about in the school yard with the boys while Miss Grady, the young assistant teacher, played netball or rounders with the girls.

Sister Bernadette would lift her habit to her ankles and could still feint to go left but dart right while the boys shouted, “Here, Sister! Pass it, Sister!”

They were nice boys. What they lacked in skill they made up for in enthusiasm.

It was 1957. Television had come to Ballymor and they could watch live football in the house of anyone who had a set – not that there were many.

Sister Bernadette’s thoughts went back to the kick-about on the playground at lunchtime.

As she’d gone to trap a ball passed to her by Paddy Maguire, she’d heard a laugh coming from behind her.

She’d missed the ball and heard more laughing.

She’d turned to see, leaning over the low playground wall, Father Hanlon from Ballyowen, the village three miles down the road.

She’d seen his shoulders shaking and the wide grin on his face.

“I’ve seen it all now!” he’d shouted.

A footballing nun. Does Mother Superior know? Shall I explain the offside rule to you, Sister?

Bernadette had felt her hackles rise. Be calm, she’d told herself.

She’d approached the chuckling cleric.

“Good day to you, Father Hanlon. I’m glad we’ve brought a little amusement into your life. You’ll not get much, I’m thinking.”

“Well, now, Sister, what I was thinking is that your boys there . . .” he’d waved towards Bernadette’s pupils “. . . could do with someone to coach them.

“Someone who knows about football.

“They’re keen, right enough, but not much else.”

Bernadette had pursed her lips.

“Are you volunteering to coach my boys?”

Father Hanlon had shaken his head.

“No. I have my own team to look after in Ballyowen. A fine group of lads. Most of them are my altar boys at St Michael’s and All Angels.

“I don’t think there are many parishes in Mayo could better them.” Father Hanlon had beamed with self satisfaction.

Bernadette’s words had been out of her mouth before she knew it.

“Well, we’re only a small school here at St Monica’s,” she’d replied, “but my team could give a good account of themselves.”

Her team? She didn’t have a team. She had 10 ten-year-old boys.

Father Hanlon had looked at her and sniffed.

You think so, Sister? Easy to say. Words are cheap.

It had been Sister Bernadette’s turn to sniff.

“Would you be interested in a match next Saturday?” Father Hanlon had gone on.

“The bishop is making a visitation to us, and I know he’s keen on football.”

He’d glanced at the bare playing field next to the playground.

“And we have goal posts. At each end.”

“With nets?” Bernadette had asked.

“Nets? No, of course we don’t have nets. What do you think we are – Croke Park in Dublin?” He’d laughed. “Is it a match, so?”

“Yes,” she’d replied.

What else could she say?

As Sister Bernadette had watched a smiling Father Hanlon disappearing back to Ballyowen in his little black motor car, she couldn’t help feeling that she had been set up.

No doubt the wily priest had figured out a plan to put himself well in with the bishop.

A trap. And she’d jumped right in.

Sister Bernadette’s contemplation was interrupted by a timid knock at her office door.

“Come in,” she called.

Young Billy Molloy walked in, looking wide-eyed around him.

He’d never been in the headmistress’s office before.

“Yes, Billy,” she said. “What can I do for you?”

Billy’s eyes came back to Sister Bernadette.

“It’s about this game against St Michael’s, Sister,” the boy began. “We’ve only got ten players.”

“I know, Billy, but perhaps Father Hanlon can’t count. We shall just have to do our best.

“Besides, it’s just a football game,” she added.

Schoolboy and nun looked at each other.

They both knew it was more than just a game. It was Ballymor against Ballyowen.

“Can my cousin play for us?” Billy asked.

Sister Bernadette was surprised.

“Your cousin? How old is your cousin?”

“Nearly eleven, Sister.”

“Well, that would be all right.” She nodded. “Is your cousin any good?”

Billy nodded enthusiastically.

“Phil’s better than me,” he stated proudly.

Sister Bernadette thought that that wouldn’t be difficult, but said nothing to Billy.

Instead, she smiled.

“Where’s your cousin now?”

“Outside, Sister.”

Bernadette nodded at the door.

“Well, let’s have a look at your cousin Phil.”

A moment later Billy and Phil stood side by side in front of Sister Bernadette’s desk.

She could see a family likeness, both quite slight, and both with dark hair, but Phil had plaits.

What to do now?

Sister Bernadette smiled at the girl.

“What’s your name dear?”

“Philomena Molloy. I’m staying with my aunt and uncle for a couple of weeks,” the girl replied.

“I see,” Bernadette said. “You’re not Irish, Philomena?”

The girl shook her head.

“No. I’m English. I live in Liverpool.”

I believe you like football. Playing football.

Philomena nodded.

“Yes. I play with my brothers. They’re bigger than me, but I’m way better.

“I can really welly a ball,” she declared proudly.

Bernadette smiled and nodded.

“I can believe it.”

She sat back in her chair and looked at Philomena Molloy, almost eleven, who could really welly a ball and was way better than her brothers.

What did she have to lose?

Father Hanlon would huff and puff, but he desperately wanted a football match for the bishop.

“What position do you like to play, Phil?” Sister Bernadette asked with a grin.

The following Saturday afternoon, Sister Bernadette cycled the three miles to Ballyowen.

Her team followed on in a farm trailer pulled by a tractor.

Father Hanlon and Bishop Collins were standing chatting on the touchline of the football field.

The boys of St Michael and All Angels were kicking a ball around.

She saw that they were dressed as a team in red shirts and blue shorts.

Her own team were dressed in a variety of shirts and shorts, but she had raided the girls’ netball and rounders lockers so that each of her players wore a green sash.

She parked her old bike against a low wall and approached the priest and bishop.

Father Hanlon was all smiles.

“So good of you to come, Sister. You know Sister Bernadette, my Lord.”

“I do,” the bishop replied. “St Monica’s over at Ballymor.”

Still smiling, Father Hanlon turned to Sister Bernadette.

“Now, then, you can see we do have goal posts, Sister.”

“Indeed you do,” Bernadette conceded. “Slanting to one side. Have you had an earthquake in Ballyowen ?”

Father Hanlon laughed.

“Always the quick wit, Sister.”

He stopped laughing as he glanced at Bernadette’s team in their green sashes.

What’s this? One of your players has plaits! It’s a girl, Sister!

“She is, Father. Evidently there’s no fooling you. She’s Philomena Molloy, Billy’s cousin.”

Then, she thought, in for a penny, in for a pound.

“She’s over from England for a couple of weeks.

Father Hanlon’s cheeks turned red.

“England! England, you say? She’s English, then? You’ve got an overseas player?”

“It’s only the Irish Sea, Father,” Bernadette said sharply.

Before Sister Bernadette could say more, Bishop Collins intervened.

“I came here to watch a football match,” he declared.

“Do you think we could get started? Your curate, Father Doyle, is the referee, I believe.”

“He is. A man to be trusted.”

Father Hanlon gave Sister Bernadette a scowl before hurrying off to speak to the referee.

A moment later the game began.

It had attracted interest. A game between local rivals, even at this level, was important, and parents and friends from both villages lined the pitch.

By half time St Michael and All Angels were leading three-nil, and Father Hanlon, standing with the bishop, was feeling in a happier frame of mind.

“That girl of Bernadette’s is not a bad little player,” the bishop remarked.

“Yes, my Lord, but she shouldn’t really be on the field,” Father Hanlon insisted.

Bishop Collins shook his head.

“You don’t know your football history, Father,” he replied. “Did you know that on Boxing Day 1920, over fifty thousand spectators turned up at Goodison Park in Liverpool to watch a ladies’ match?”

Father Hanlon shrugged.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Oh, yes. A famous team of its day – Dick, Kerr Ladies from Preston – were mainly women who had worked in munitions factories during World War One.

“They played St Helen’s Ladies, and the best and most famous player at that time was Lily Parr.”

Father Hanlon shook his head.

“I’ve never heard of her,” he admitted.

“No, because in 1921 the Football Association took fright,” the bishop explained grimly.

“They said that football was quite unfit for females and wouldn’t allow any women’s football at any of their grounds.

“So that was that. Here we are in 1957 and nothing’s changed, it seems.” He looked reprovingly at Father Hanlon.

“The second half’s starting, Bishop Collins,” Father Hanlon said hurriedly.

In the second half, after a pep talk by Sister Bernadette, St Monica’s did better.

They conceded no further goals, and towards full time the ball came to Philomena Molloy, who was near to All Angels’s penalty area.

She met it with her left foot.

The ball soared into what would have been the top right-hand corner of the net, if there had been any nets.

Bishop Collins jumped up and down with delight.

“She gave it some welly, Father!” he cried. “She gave it some welly.”

“It was a good goal,” Father Hanlon conceded.

“Oh, by the way, I was talking to some of the parents,” he continued.

“It seems as well as being English, there’s talk about what church she attends.”

Bishop Collins looked at him open-mouthed, then burst out laughing, slapping his thigh.

“You may have won the match, Father, but Sister Bernadette has fielded a female, contributed to Anglo-Irish relations and has now become ecumenical.

“A hat-trick. Sister Bernadette has scored a hat-trick!”

That night, after evening prayers, Sister Bernadette lay in bed, wondering if she should ask Father Hanlon for a return game before Philomena Molloy left Ballymor.

She smiled to herself.

Phil had certainly given it some welly, as Bernadette herself once had.

She was still smiling as she drifted off to sleep.

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