GAA novel

Mylargo

Hi all.
I've been tricking around with a fictional novel surrounding a GAA club and was curious if there would be an audience out there for it before going down the route of trying to get it published. The first chapter follows. I would appreciate any feedback and advice. Thank you.

One

A small, round fist on the endof a thick muscular forearm hammered down on the laminated desk puncturing anuneasy silence. Two plastic cups hopped up releasing a few drops of waterapiece before returning to upright positions. Ciaran Matthews’s grim puce facewas awash with the determination he wished to infect each and every lad in theroom with.

He had a neck and head onhim like a tough, resolute and scarred Jack Russell. There were many scars,visible and invisible. His thin-lipped mouth reflected a yellow-toothedmordacity ready to snap at the drop of a hat.

There was important businessat hand and it concerned every member of the small Mount View football clubthat occupied the room with Matthews. A heavy air pervaded the crowded roomlapping into the lungs of Matthews’s audience. A couple of lads – keen on keeping those same lungs on the edge –dragged on fags beside an open window, despite the presence of two ‘no smoking’signs.

Matthews rubbed the bottomof his throbbing fist with his less aggressive hand allowing silence to creepinto the atmosphere. He had been here before on numerous occasions and was surehe knew how to work his crowd.

Then, resting his two palmson the table, he rolled his head on his short neck and gathered his thoughtsbefore delivery.

“I cannot emphasise just how importanttomorrow is. The lifeline of this parish is at stake, the pride of its oldergeneration can be restored; and ye there, ye are the boys for the job at hand,”he barked, spraying the front row with saliva.

He tapped his left watch-freewrist with his right index finger before pointing at the crowd and nodding witha crazed smile taking them all in.

“The time between when youleave this room tonight and the throw-in tomorrow is equally as important, ifyou get my meaning. I’ll personally kick forty shades of s**t out of anyone Ihear about straying before I dump them on the bench, if they’re that lucky.”

His shrewd dark eyes scannedthe room in search of even a hint of dissension among the ranks. There wasnone, a canvas of black lying on the belly of a deep coal pit. Everyone knewthe manager’s ruthless nature; there was not even an attempt at humourconcerning the subject. Any lad spotted within spitting distance of a pintwould be axed, there was no doubting it.

Each member of the panel wasvying for a place in the final and the competition was as fierce as a furiousvolcano. No one wanted to be handed a jersey with the number sixteen on it orover. That is a familiar but sickly and angry disappointment a player couldalways do without. The manager and selectors’ way of saying you’re not goodenough so go where you belong, like back in school, join the group of playersin the yard that are always last to be picked.

The reality dictated thatthere would be over thirty players togged out for the decider, meaning halfthem would be on the bench. In truth, plenty of the gang knew their place andwould accept just being a part of the occasion, but there would no doubt be manyvictims with a hump on them, brimming with retrospective fantasies of glory ifthey had played, should the result go against them.

Earlier in the year some ofthe cockier lads who thought they would walk straight into the team – afterwalking trouble free across the surface of a deep lake – were taught a harshlesson by the new trainer. It had never happened before to this breed of playerin the club, but this was the new coach, a former All-Star who took no s***efrom any prima donnas. They had learned; the most of them.

Matthews once again rolledhis head on his short neck and said: “I have every confidence in each and everyone of you. I believe ye can bring back the Ginnity Cup to this parish tomorrowevening for the first time in forty two years. Well, CAN YE?”

There was a thundering roarof agreement from the players. Some shouted louder than others but this was notan indictment of some lads’ lack of belief, it was just that some of theplayers were plum crazy when it came to voicing how they would gladly sacrificetheir soul in exchange for that piece of metal. It also did not do any harm ifyou were seen to look more determined than the rest. The coach was as vigilantas a Cavan man minding his pennies in proximity to a Cork magnet, he nevermissed a thing of note.

“Well boys, I’ve kept yehere long enough, I’m not naming the team tonight, the selectors and myselfhave decided to leave that until the morning. I want to see everyone in masstomorrow morning, atheists included, we are going to take all the help we canget, whether we need it or not.”

He looked at the ceilingsmirking. The lads started to giveCiaran a round of applause. He held his hands up in the air to signal a halt.

“Let’s not go wasting anyenergy unnecessarily, go home now, and for f**k’s sake no fries in the morning.And remember to bring gloves; the forecast is for a bit of rain tomorrow.Straight home now, I mean that.”

The spirits were high amongthe team as they dispersed but there was a heavy sense of purpose hanging overthem, curbing them from the usual high jinks and shenanigans. A day ofreckoning for them all was just one night away, it promised to be a long nightfor the most of them.

As the car park emptied, FionnMartin felt good but was still weighed down by guilt. He started to walk up thehill towards his home with his training bag slung across his left shoulder.Strolling alongside him was Darragh Kennedy, a friend who he had grown up with.It was a steep hill they climbed, about the width of a large Massey tractor.

The boys were next-doorneighbours, living about two hundred metres from each other. They did not talkmuch as they walked, both lost in their own private thoughts. When they came toa T-junction they stopped for a moment. The air was damp and heavy thoughneither of them took much notice of this.

“Look Darragh, I hopethere’s no hard feelings, I know I went in hard, but I was genuinely going forthe ball, I’d give anything to see you trotting out there tomorrow, anything, you’llbe badly missed,” Fionn said.

Darragh’s head dropped andhe frowned for a moment looking down at the plaster cast on his left wrist.

“It wasn’t your fault Fionn,I just fell awkwardly that’s all, it could have happened to anyone.”

But it had happened to himthe curse of f**k on it. He lifted up his uninjured arm and looked at it.

“At least I can lift a pinttonight with this good arm unlike the rest of you poor souls.”

Fionn sniggered. “You knowas well as I do that some of them f****rs will sneak off somewhere furtherafield for porter, it’s just their nature and youth I suppose. I’m not exactlyone to talk.”

“Aye sure. Well that waswhen you were younger; I think you’ve learned since then.”

“Have I?” said Fionn “Iwonder sometimes."

"Anyway that’s enough oldchat for tonight, tomorrow we’ll be in great form for a bit of craic, I’m offhome to change and head out, goodnight,” said Darragh heading off to the leftunwilling to reveal his true emotions.

A couple of stray tearsescaped his eyes and his nose began to run as it always did when he gotemotional. It was true, the metal pin in his wrist defined it so; the lads wouldhave to do it without him. It had been a tough and sometimes downright crueleight months of training in every kind of weather imaginable.

Lungs burning as theysearched for oxygen, snot streaming into the mouth and down the chin; almostheaving, coupled with knowing there were another ten shuttle sprints to gobefore the next drill and another ten drills after that. It was hell at timesfor the cause.

But it was now that it hurtthe most, feeling the emptiness of his efforts echo through him. Give him themuck and torture of training anytime in exchange for an unbroken wrist thatcould pluck the ball from the sky.

Tomorrow was the day he hadprepared all his footballing life for. There was not a damn thing on earth hecould do now but cheer on his friends. It was a poor consolation but the onlyconsolation on offer.

“Night,” said Fionn. It wasan often burgeoning guilt he would never be rid of; no matter how many timesDarragh laughed it off.

Fionn ambled off in theopposite direction towards his abode, the memories of the incident in clearfocus stomping through his mind. They were playing a game of backs andforwards. The going was hard with no quarter given. The challenge was fair, afifty-fifty ball they both went for. But this was where the guilt raised itsugly face. Fionn went in hard, all right, but it was harder than he shouldhave, he was still fuming over getting clocked on the jaw by Darragh a minutepreviously in a careless tackle. The focus was primarily on Darragh’s shoulderand not so much on the ball.

It was a sweet connectionthat caused Darragh to trip over his legs and fall awkwardly on his wristresulting in a bad break. Fionn won the ball and picked off a point.

But his pleasure lasted onlya moment as he turned to see Darragh writhing on the ground and groaningthrough gritted teeth. It wasn’t like Darragh to stay down and Fionn knewimmediately his rage did this, albeit unintentionally.

But rage is usually onlyshort-lived, the guilt that replaced it was a different creature altogether. Itwas not something Fionn could dismiss, it always lingered there, sometimesforgotten but always with you, ready to remind you at a moment’s notice.

He had walked over fiftyyards when he heard the hum of a car and then noticed the headlights coming upbehind him. He stepped up on the ditch to give the car plenty of room and allowhimself better odds of remaining fit for the game.

The car – a souped up silverNissan Micra with spotlights on the front and blue go-faster stripes along thesides – hooted its horn three times as it passed. It was one of the youngReilly’s – from beside the lake about a mile the far side of the football pitch– behind the wheel.

He couldn’t make out whichone it was. This was no real surprise as the poor mother had produced six ladsand a single daughter, the good Catholic upbringing she had was not wasted onher.

The eldest lad, Glen, ownedthe car, but they all drove it whenever they needed it, covered by theinsurance of never missing a Sunday’s mass, Fionn suspected.

None of the Reilly boys everkicked a ball, it was such a waste to the parish; their father was a wizard onthe pitch who had a couple of runs with the county team. His gene pool was nottotally wasted though as their sister Josie was a talented player for theladies team.

Despite their reluctance toplay ball, all the youngsters and their parents and grandmother – an iron oldlady that could melt opposition fans with a momentary glance in their direction– would be at the game tomorrow, they rarely missed a match.

There was a great buzzcirculating throughout the parish, it was even stretching into neighbouringparishes. There was blue and white bunting, the team colours, hanging oneverything that was high enough to proudly display them. Each telephone pole onall the roads leading to the church had a flag pointing at forty five degreestowards the sky, imploring the heavens to deliver a promise of victory.

The church was the centre ofthe parish; it was one of the smallest parishes in the county with only a pub,a small grocery shop and a primary school accompanying the place of worship. Theschool had about sixty kids, the majority of which were female much to the woeof the football brethren. Most of the young boys did not hail from goodfootball stock either. What had they done wrong at all?

The population comprised ofthe inhabitants of houses scattered throughout the roads and boreens within theparish borders. It amounted to about two hundred and eighty people.

It wasn’t much of a pick tochoose potential junior football champions out of, but there were some outsideplayers on the peripheries of the border who felt an allegiance to the team anddonned the blue and white.

Some of the players lived inDublin, studying or working. There were five offspring in Fionn’s family. Hewas the youngest of the lads, his sister Aislin the youngest of them all. Thethree brothers were in the capital, two of them settled into family life and athird still testing the water before such a drastic decision.

Fionn reckoned thatparticular temperature would never reach an acceptable heat for Tom, theartist, his eldest brother. His two other older brothers Eamon and Joe droppedanchors fairly early on their journey.

Eamon was just touchingthirty and a father two times after one successful accident. The twins weregirls but that did not seem to bother him at all, despite bragging when hiswife Karen was pregnant of how his son would play for the county, his countythat was.

Joe was two years youngerand only married over a year. His wife Jasmin was a real looker. That pair wereof the same mind when it came to the direction of their lives.

They were both the same ageand very career orientated. Joe was an architect and Jasmin an IndustrialEngineer.

They were the most organisedpair Fionn had ever come across. Lord knew where Joe got it from, it certainlywasn’t his family. They had penciled into their diary the February of theirthirty second year for the conception of their first child. Joe had confided inFionn this information on one of the few times he allowed himself completeinebriation. This way they could still enjoy a summer holiday and not have theinconvenience of a pregnancy during the Christmas period. What would MotherMary of God think?

Fionn wondered what deitywould be answering to them if the target was not hit on the first time ofasking. They still had about four years to make their first million. This was nofantasy either. Fionn believed they were more than capable of accruing such asum, especially considering their unashamed tight fists.

Fionn was approaching thequarter century and was playing the best football of his life so far. Joe andEamon still played for the home team and would make the eighty-mile round triponce during the week for training. Though for the last month they were makingthat journey twice a week. Usually they would be joined by a pair of the collegelads.

Tom never showed theslightest interest in football, all he ever wanted to do was chase women; andavoid the traps they set for him once he caught them.

Fionn was talking to him onthe phone last week and told him how the whole parish was decked out in theteam colours anticipating the game. The apathetic tone of Tom’s voice displayedhis interest better than any picture could.

He was more interested in tellingFionn that a politician’s daughter had it real bad for him. He had even writtenher a poem to knock her fever out of control. He told him that she had somefine and rich qualities, most notably her breasts and peach of an a**e.

Despite his indifference, hepromised he would turn up for the game on Sunday, probably bring that girl withher so everyone could get a look at her before he dispatched her to the growingscrapheap of his conquests.

pickarooney

If you sent it to me as an editor I'd stop reading after two lines and if you pressed me for a reason I'd tell you to remove 80% of the adjectives and re-submit.

He had a neck and head on him like a Jack Russell

This is good, in as much as a Jack Russell has a distinctive head that creates a clear image (I'm not sure it does in this case)

He had a neck and head on him like a tough, resolute and scarred Jack Russell

This is terrible, however. Your simile should stand on its own. By adding three adjectives you completely defeat the purpose.

It continues on in this way. You spend the whole chapter showing the reader how many words you can use and the story is lost.

Mylargo

Thanks pickarooney.
Well pointed out, I will take this advice on board and revise.

Mylargo

Hi pickarooney
I don't mean to be nuisance taking up your time but I do appreciate your feedback and have had a quick revise of the piece. Could you take a few minutes to see if I'm going in the right direction or tell me I shouldn't bother. Iknow the first line probably still annoys you so please forgive that.
Thank you again

A small fist on a muscular forearm hammered the laminated desk puncturing an uneasy silence. Two plastic cups hopped up releasing a few drops of water apiece before returning to upright positions. Ciaran Matthews’s face was awash with the determination he wished to infect each lad in the room with.

He had a neck and head on him like a Jack Russell. He looked ready to snap at the drop of a hat.

There was important business at hand and it concerned every member of the small Mount View football club in the room with Matthews. A heavy air pervaded the crowded room lapping into the lungs of Matthews’s audience. A couple of lads – keen on keeping those same lungs on the edge – dragged on fags beside an open window, despite the presence of two ‘no smoking’ signs.

Matthews rubbed the bottom of his throbbing fist with his less aggressive hand allowing silence to descend. He had been here before and was sure he knew how to work his crowd.
Resting his two palms on the table, he rolled his head on his short neck and gathered his thoughts before delivery.

“I cannot emphasise just how important tomorrow is. The lifeline of this parish is at stake, the pride of its older generation can be restored; and ye there, ye are the boys for the job at hand,” he barked, spraying the front row with saliva.

He tapped his left wrist with his right index finger before nodding with a crazed smile at his audience taking them all in.

“The time between when you leave this room tonight and the throw-in tomorrow is equally as important. I’ll personally kick forty shades of s**t out of anyone I hear about straying before I dump them on the bench, if they’re that lucky.”

His shrewd eyes scanned the room in search of even a hint of dissension. There was none. Everyone knew the manager was ruthless; there was not even an attempt at humour concerning the subject. Any lad spotted within spitting distance of a pint would be axed.

Each member of the panel was vying for a place in the final and the competition was fierce. No one wanted to be handed a jersey with the number sixteen on it or over. That was the manager and selectors’ way of saying you’re not good enough so go where you belong, like back in school, join the group of players in the yard that are always last to be picked.

The reality dictated that there would be over thirty players togged out for the decider, meaning half them would be on the bench. In truth, plenty of the gang knew their place and would accept just being a part of the occasion, but there would no doubt be many victims with a hump, brimming with retrospective fantasies of glory if they had played, should the result go against them.

Earlier in the year some of the cockier lads who thought they would walk straight into the team – after walking trouble free across the surface of a deep lake – were taught a harsh lesson by the new trainer. It had never happened before to this breed of player in the club, but this was the new coach, a former All-Star who took no s***e from any prima donnas. They had learned; the most of them.

Matthews once again rolled his head on his neck and said: “I have every confidence in each and every one of you. I believe ye can bring back the Ginnity Cup to this parish tomorrow evening for the first time in forty two years. Well, CAN YE?”

There was a thundering roar of agreement from the players. Some shouted louder than others but this was not an indictment of some lads’ lack of belief, some players were just crazy when it came to voicing how they would gladly sacrifice their soul in exchange for that piece of metal. It also did not do any harm if you were seen to look more determined than the rest. The coach was as vigilant as a Cavan man minding his pennies beside a Cork magnet, he never missed a thing.

“Well boys, I’ve kept ye here long enough, I’m not naming the team tonight, the selectors and myself have decided to leave that until the morning. I want to see everyone in mass tomorrow morning, atheists included, we are going to take all the help we can get, whether we need it or not.”

He looked at the ceiling smirking.

The lads started to give Ciaran a round of applause. He held his hands up in the air to signal a halt.

“Let’s not go wasting any energy unnecessarily, go home now, and for f***’s sake no fries in the morning. And remember to bring gloves; the forecast is for a bit of rain tomorrow. Straight home now, I mean that.”

The spirits were high among the team as they dispersed but there was a heavy sense of purpose hanging over them, curbing them from the usual high jinks. A day of reckoning for them all was just one night away, it promised to be a long night for the most of them.
As the car park emptied, Fionn Martin felt good but was still weighed down by guilt. He started to walk up the hill towards his home with his training bag slung across his left shoulder. Strolling alongside him was Darragh Kennedy, a friend who he had grown up with. It was a steep hill they climbed, about the width of a large Massey tractor.

The boys were next-door neighbours, living about two hundred metres from each other. They did not talk much as they walked, both lost in their own thoughts. When they came to a T-junction they stopped for a moment. The air was damp and heavy though neither of them noticed.

“Look Darragh, I hope there’s no hard feelings, I know I went in hard, but I was genuinely going for the ball, I’d give anything to see you trotting out there tomorrow, anything, you’ll be badly missed,” Fionn said.

Darragh’s head dropped and he frowned for a moment looking down at the plaster cast on his left wrist.

“It wasn’t your fault Fionn, I just fell awkwardly, it could have happened to anyone.”

But it had happened to him the curse of f**k on it. He lifted up his uninjured arm. “At least I can lift a pint tonight with this good arm unlike the rest of you poor souls.”

Fionn sniggered. “You know as well as I do that some of them f****rs will sneak off somewhere further afield for porter, it’s just their nature and youth I suppose. I’m not exactly one to talk.”

“Aye sure. Well that was when you were younger; you’ve learned since then.”

“Have I?” said Fionn “I wonder sometimes.”

“Anyway that’s enough old chat for tonight, tomorrow we’ll be in great form for a bit of craic, I’m off to change and head out, goodnight,” said Darragh heading off to the left unwilling to reveal his true emotions.

A couple of stray tears escaped his eyes and his nose began to run as it always did when he got emotional. It was true, the metal pin in his wrist defined it so; the lads would have to do it without him. It had been a tough and sometimes cruel eight months of training in every kind of weather.

Lungs burning as they searched for oxygen, snot streaming into the mouth; almost heaving, coupled with knowing there were another ten shuttle sprints to go before the next drill and another ten drills after that. It was hell at times for the cause.
But it was now that it hurt the most, feeling the emptiness of his efforts echo through him. Give him the muck and torture of training anytime in exchange for an unbroken wrist that could pluck the ball from the sky.

Tomorrow was the day he had prepared all his footballing life for. There was not a damn thing on earth he could do now but cheer on his friends. It was a poor consolation.

“Night,” said Fionn. It was an often burgeoning guilt he would never be rid of; no matter how many times Darragh laughed it off.

Fionn ambled off in the opposite direction towards his home, the memories of the incident stomping through his mind. They were playing a game of backs and forwards. The going was hard with no quarter given. The challenge was fair, a fifty-fifty ball they both went for. But this was where the guilt landed. Fionn went in hard, harder than he should have, he was still fuming over getting clocked on the jaw by Darragh a minute previously in a careless tackle. The focus was primarily on Darragh’s shoulder and not so much on the ball.

It was a sweet connection that caused Darragh to trip over his legs and fall awkwardly on his wrist resulting in a bad break. Fionn won the ball and picked off a point.
But his pleasure lasted only a moment as he turned to see Darragh on the ground, groaning through gritted teeth. It wasn’t like Darragh to stay down and Fionn knew immediately his rage did this.

But rage is usually only short-lived, the guilt that replaced it was a different creature altogether. It was not something Fionn could dismiss, it always lingered there, sometimes forgotten but always ready to remind you at a moment’s notice.

He had walked over fifty yards when he heard the hum of a car and then noticed the headlights coming up behind him. He stepped up on the ditch to give the car plenty of room and allow himself better odds of remaining fit for the game.

The car – a souped up silver Nissan Micra with spotlights on the front and blue go-faster stripes along the sides – hooted its horn three times as it passed. It was one of the young Reilly’s behind the wheel.

He couldn’t make out which one it was. This was no real surprise as the poor mother had produced six lads and a single daughter, her good Catholic upbringing in evidence.

The eldest lad, Glen, owned the car, but they all drove it whenever they needed it, covered by the insurance of never missing a Sunday’s mass, Fionn suspected.
None of the Reilly boys ever kicked a ball, it was such a waste to the parish; their father was a wizard on the pitch who had a couple of runs with the county team. His gene pool was not totally wasted though as their sister Josie was a talented player for the ladies team.

Despite their reluctance to play ball, all the youngsters and their parents and grandmother – an iron lady that could melt opposition fans with a glance in their direction – would be at the game tomorrow, they rarely missed a match.

There was a great buzz circulating throughout the parish, it was even stretching into neighbouring parishes. There was blue and white bunting, the team colours, hanging on everything that was high enough to proudly display them. Each telephone pole on all the roads leading to the church had a flag pointing at forty five degrees towards the sky, imploring the heavens to deliver a victory.

The church was the centre of the parish; it was one of the smallest parishes in the county with only a pub, a small grocery shop and a primary school accompanying the place of worship. The school had about sixty kids, the majority of which were female much to the woe of the football brethren. Most of the young boys did not hail from good football stock either. What had they done wrong?

The population comprised of the inhabitants of houses scattered throughout the roads and boreens within the parish borders. It amounted to about two hundred and eighty people.
It wasn’t much of a pick to choose potential junior football champions out of, but there were some outside players on the peripheries of the border who felt an allegiance to the team and donned the blue and white.

Some of the players lived in Dublin, studying or working. There were five offspring in Fionn’s family. He was the youngest of the lads, his sister Aislin the youngest of them all. The three brothers were in the capital, two of them settled into family life and a third still testing the water before such a drastic decision.

Fionn reckoned that particular temperature would never reach an acceptable heat for Tom, the artist, his eldest brother. His two other older brothers Eamon and Joe dropped anchors fairly early.

Eamon was just touching thirty and a father two times after one successful accident. The twins were girls but that did not seem to bother him at all, despite bragging when his wife Karen was pregnant of how his son would play for the county, his county that was.

Joe was two years younger and only married over a year. His wife Jasmin was a real looker. That pair were of the same mind when it came to the direction of their lives.
They were both the same age and career orientated. Joe was an architect and Jasmin an industrial engineer.

They were the most organised pair Fionn had ever come across. Lord knew where Joe got it from, it certainly wasn’t his family. They had penciled into their diary the February of their thirty second year for the conception of their first child. Joe had confided in Fionn this information on one of the few times he allowed himself inebriation. This way they could still enjoy a summer holiday and not have the inconvenience of a pregnancy during the Christmas period.

Fionn wondered what deity would be answering to them if the target was not hit first time. They still had about four years to make their first million. This was no fantasy either. Fionn believed they were more than capable of accruing such a sum, considering their tight fists.

Fionn was approaching the quarter century and playing the best football of his life. Joe and Eamon still played for the home team and would make the eighty mile-round trip once during the week for training. Though for the last month they were making that journey twice a week. Usually they would be joined by a pair of the college lads.

Tom never showed the slightest interest in football, all he ever wanted to do was chase women; and avoid the traps they set for him once he caught them.

Fionn was talking to him on the phone last week and told him how the whole parish was decked out in the team colours anticipating the game. The apathetic tone of Tom’s voice displayed his interest better than any picture could.
He was more interested in telling Fionn that a politician’s daughter had it bad for him. He told him she had some fine qualities, most notably her breasts and peach of an arse.

Despite his indifference, he promised he would turn up for the game on Sunday, probably bring that girl with her so everyone could get a look at her before he dispatched her to the growing scrapheap of his conquests.

pickarooney

Whose point of view is it from? You start with a kind of cinematic close up then an observation of Ciaran's face followed by information only he can be privy to (he wished to infect everyone). Decide on this first and then rewrite accordingly.

Those cups were presumably upright throughout rather than falling over and returning to an upright position.

Mylargo

Thanks again for the hints pickarooney.
I won’t waste your time any further after this post. Your criticisms are very valuable to me and have taught me plenty in such a short space of time.
Do you think there is any point in my continuing with this work or does it look dead in the water. I know there are over one million GAA members in Ireland and perhaps another 100,000 members worldwide, so I guess there should be a readership for it just so long as I take your advice on board and obviously have it heavily edited.

Take three



A small fist on a muscular forearm hammered the laminated desk puncturing an uneasy silence. Two plastic cups hopped up releasing a few drops of water. Ciaran Matthews wore a determined scowl that seemed to infect each lad in the room.

He had a neck and head on him like a Jack Russell and looked ready to snap at the drop of a hat.

There was important business at hand and it concerned every member of the small Mount View football club in the room with Matthews. A heavy air pervaded the crowded room lapping into the lungs of Matthews’s audience. A couple of lads – keen on keeping those same lungs on the edge – dragged on fags beside an open window, despite the presence of two ‘no smoking’ signs.

Matthews rubbed the bottom of his throbbing fist with his less aggressive hand allowing silence to descend. He had been there before and looked comfortable with his crowd.
Resting his two palms on the table, he rolled his head on his neck before delivering his sermon.

“I cannot emphasise just how important tomorrow is. The lifeline of this parish is at stake, the pride of its older generation can be restored; and ye there, ye are the boys for the job at hand,” he barked, spraying the front row with saliva.

He tapped his left wrist with his right index finger before nodding with a crazed smile at his audience taking them all in.

“The time between when you leave this room tonight and the throw-in tomorrow is equally as important. I’ll personally kick forty shades of s**t out of anyone I hear about straying before I dump them on the bench, if they’re that lucky.”

His shrewd eyes scanned the room in search of a hint of dissension. Nothing was given away. Everyone knew the manager was ruthless; there was no attempt at humour concerning the subject. Any lad spotted within spitting distance of a pint would be axed.

Each member of the panel was vying for a place in the final and the competition was fierce. No one wanted a jersey with the number sixteen on it or over. That was the manager and selectors’ way of saying you’re not good enough so go where you belong, like back in school, join the group of players in the yard that are always last to be picked.

The reality dictated there would be over thirty players togged out for the decider, meaning half them would be on the bench. Plenty of the gang knew their place and would accept just being a part of the occasion, but there would likely be a few victims with a hump, brimming with retrospective fantasies of glory if they had played, should the result go against them.

Earlier in the year some of the cockier lads who thought they would walk straight into the team – after walking trouble free across the surface of a deep lake – were taught a harsh lesson by the new trainer. It had never happened before to this breed of player in the club, but this was the new coach, a former All-Star who took no s***e from any prima donnas.

Matthews once again rolled his head on his neck and said: “I have every confidence in each and every one of you. I believe ye can bring back the Ginnity Cup to this parish tomorrow evening for the first time in forty two years. Well, CAN YE?”

There was a thundering roar of agreement from the players. Some shouted louder than others but this was not an indictment of some lads’ lack of belief, some players were just crazy when it came to voicing how they would gladly sacrifice their soul in exchange for that piece of metal. It also did not do any harm if you looked more determined than the rest. The coach was as vigilant as a Cavan man minding his pennies beside a Cork magnet, he never missed a thing.

“Well boys, I’ve kept ye here long enough, I’m not naming the team tonight, the selectors and myself have decided to leave that until the morning. I want to see everyone in mass tomorrow morning, atheists included, we are going to take all the help we can get, whether we need it or not.”

He looked at the ceiling smirking.

The lads started to give Ciaran a round of applause. He held his hands up in the air to signal a halt.

“Let’s not go wasting any energy unnecessarily, go home now, and for f***’s sake no fries in the morning. And remember to bring gloves; the forecast is for a bit of rain tomorrow. Straight home now, I mean that.”

The spirits seemed high among the team as they dispersed but there was a heavy sense of purpose hanging over them, curbing them from the usual high jinks. A day of reckoning for them all was just one night away, it promised to be a long night for the most of them.

As the car park emptied, Fionn Martin felt OK but was still weighed down by guilt. He started walking up the hill towards his home with his training bag slung across his left shoulder. Strolling alongside him was Darragh Kennedy, a friend who he had grown up with. It was a steep hill, about the width of a large Massey tractor.

The boys were next-door neighbours, living about two hundred metres from each other. They did not talk much as they walked, both lost in their own thoughts. When they came to a T-junction they stopped for a moment. The air was damp and heavy.

“Look Darragh, I hope there’s no hard feelings, I know I went in hard, but I was genuinely going for the ball, I’d give anything to see you trotting out there tomorrow, anything, you’ll be badly missed,” Fionn said.

Darragh’s head dropped and he frowned for a moment looking down at the plaster cast on his left wrist.

“It wasn’t your fault Fionn, I just fell awkwardly, it could have happened to anyone.”

But it had happened to him the curse of f**k on it. He lifted up his uninjured arm. “At least I can lift a pint tonight with this good arm unlike the rest of you poor souls.”

Fionn sniggered. “You know as well as I do that some of them f****rs will sneak off somewhere further afield for porter, it’s just their nature and youth I suppose. I’m not exactly one to talk.”

“Aye sure. Well that was when you were younger; you’ve learned since then.”

“Have I?” said Fionn “I wonder sometimes.”

“Anyway that’s enough old chat, tomorrow we’ll be in great form for a bit of craic, I’m off to change and head out, goodnight,” said Darragh heading off to the left unwilling to reveal his true emotions.

A couple of stray tears escaped Darragh’s eyes and his nose began to run as it always did when he got emotional. It was true, the metal pin in his wrist defined it so; the lads would have to do it without him. It had been a tough and sometimes cruel eight months of training in every kind of weather.

Lungs burning as they searched for oxygen, snot streaming into the mouth; almost heaving, coupled with knowing there were another ten shuttle sprints to go before the next drill and another ten drills after that. It was hell at times for the cause.
But it was now that it hurt the most, feeling the emptiness of his efforts echo through him. Give him the muck and torture of training anytime in exchange for an unbroken wrist that could pluck the ball from the sky.

Tomorrow was the day he had prepared all his footballing life for. There was not a damn thing on earth he could do now but cheer on his friends. It was a poor consolation.

“Night,” said Fionn. It was an often burgeoning guilt he would never be rid of; no matter how many times Darragh laughed it off.

Fionn ambled off in the opposite direction towards his home, the memories of the incident stomping through his mind. They were playing a game of backs and forwards. The going was hard with no quarter given. The challenge was fair, a fifty-fifty ball they both went for. But this was where the guilt was born. Fionn went in hard, harder than he should have, he was still fuming over getting clocked on the jaw by Darragh a minute previously in a careless tackle. The focus was primarily on Darragh’s shoulder and not so much on the ball.

It was a sweet connection that caused Darragh to trip over his legs and fall awkwardly on his wrist resulting in a bad break. Fionn won the ball and picked off a point.
But his pleasure lasted only a moment as he turned to see Darragh on the ground, groaning through gritted teeth. It wasn’t like Darragh to stay down and Fionn knew immediately his rage was responsible.

But rage is usually only short-lived, the guilt that replaced it was a different creature altogether. It was not something Fionn could dismiss, it always lingered there, sometimes forgotten but always ready to remind him at a moment’s notice.

He had walked over fifty yards when he heard the hum of a car and then noticed the headlights coming up behind him. He stepped up on the ditch to give the car plenty of room and allow himself better odds of remaining fit for the game.

The car – a souped up silver Nissan Micra with spotlights on the front and blue go-faster stripes along the sides – hooted its horn three times as it passed. It was one of the young Reilly’s behind the wheel.

He couldn’t make out which one it was. This was no real surprise as the mother had produced six lads and a single daughter, her good Catholic upbringing in evidence.

The eldest lad, Glen, owned the car, but they all drove it whenever they needed it, covered by the insurance of never missing a Sunday’s mass, Fionn suspected.
None of the Reilly boys ever kicked a ball, it was such a waste to the parish; their father was a wizard on the pitch who had a couple of runs with the county team. His gene pool was not totally wasted though as their sister Josie was a talented player for the ladies team.

Despite their reluctance to play ball, all the youngsters and their parents and grandmother – an iron lady that could melt opposition fans with a glance in their direction – would be at the game tomorrow, they rarely missed a match.

There was a great buzz circulating throughout the parish, it was even stretching into neighbouring parishes. There was blue and white bunting, the team colours, hanging on everything that was high enough to proudly display them. Each telephone pole on all the roads leading to the church had a flag pointing towards the sky, imploring the heavens to deliver a victory.

The church was the centre of the parish; it was one of the smallest parishes in the county with only a pub, a small grocery shop and a primary school accompanying the place of worship. The school had about sixty kids, the majority of which were female much to the woe of the football brethren. Most of the young boys did not hail from good football stock either. What had they done wrong?

In the houses scattered throughout the roads and boreens the population amounted to about two hundred and eighty. It wasn’t much of a pick to choose potential junior football champions out of, but there were some outside players on the peripheries of the parish border who felt an allegiance to the team and donned the colours.

Some players lived in Dublin, studying or working. There were five offspring in Fionn’s family. He was the youngest of the lads, his sister Aislin the youngest of them all. The three brothers and Aislin were in the capital. Two brothers settled into family life and a third was still testing the water before such a drastic decision.

Fionn reckoned that particular temperature would never reach an acceptable heat for Tom, the artist, his eldest brother. His two other brothers Eamon and Joe dropped anchors fairly early.

Eamon was just touching thirty and a father two times after one successful accident. The twins were girls but that did not seem to bother him at all, despite bragging when his wife Karen was pregnant of how his son would play for the county, his county that was.

Joe was two years younger and only married over a year. His wife Jasmin was a real looker. That pair were of the same mind when it came to the direction of their lives.
They were the same age and career orientated. Joe was an architect and Jasmin an industrial engineer.

They were the most organised pair Fionn had ever come across. Lord knew where Joe got it from, it certainly wasn’t his family. They had pencilled into their diary the February of their thirty second year for the conception of their first child. Joe had confided in Fionn this information on one of the few times he allowed himself inebriation. This way they could still enjoy a summer holiday and not have the inconvenience of a pregnancy during the Christmas period.

Fionn wondered what deity would be answering to them if the target was not hit first time. They still had about four years to make their first million. This was no fantasy either. Fionn believed they were more than capable of accruing such a sum, considering their tight fists.

Fionn was approaching the quarter century and playing the best football of his life. Joe and Eamon still played for the home team and would make the eighty-mile round trip once during the week for training. Though for the last month they were making that journey twice a week. Usually they would be joined by a pair of the college lads.

Tom never showed the slightest interest in football, all he ever wanted to do was chase women; and avoid the traps they set for him once he caught them.

Fionn was talking to him on the phone the week before and told him how the whole parish was decked out in the team colours anticipating the game. The apathetic tone of Tom displayed his interest better than any picture could.
He was more interested in telling Fionn that a politician’s daughter had it bad for him. He told him she had some fine qualities, most notably her breasts and peach of an arse.

Despite his indifference, he promised he would turn up for the game on Sunday, probably bring that girl with her so everyone could get a look at her before he dispatched her to the growing scrapheap of his conquests.

Unregistered.

Cool story, bro.

EileenG

A small fist on a muscular forearm hammered the laminated desk puncturing an uneasy silence.

Just this sentence would stop me from reading on.

A small fist sounds childlike. I'd expect to see a large fist on a muscular forearm. I'm now distracted, trying to visualise the brawny man with the baby hands.

What is a laminated desk?

Did the fist puncture the uneasy silence, or did the desk? Either way, something is wrong.

The opening sentence is indirect and passive.

Instead, try something like "Ciaran pounded the desk. 'You'd better win,' he thundered."

The first line of dialogue you attribute to him does not fit with a desk-pounding bollix, it sounds like a solicitor discussing a probate application.

Barked is not a speech tag. I would dispute if it's possible to bark anything unless you are a dog, but you certainly can't bark several lines of dialogue.

I could go on, but I don't want to make you cry.

Go back and rewrite, keeping it simple and direct. Cut the adjectives. Make the dialogue something you can imagine people saying.

Tell the story, don't show off your ability to write.

Mylargo

Thank you EileenG
As you can see I TRY to write but have zero training in creative writing so this feedback is very helpful. On the small fist on a muscular forearm I can see where you are coming from and agree. But this character is based on a coach I trained under who did have very small hands and muscular forearms. He was not a stereotypical big GAA player, just a small man with huge talent. But if the first line is enough to stop you reading on, I obviously have a lot of work to do. Perhaps you could recommend a helpful book in creative writing for me.

alfa beta

hey - one thing I'll say for you Mylargo - you don't shy away from critical comment and that's a good thing.

By now, plenty would have walked off in a huff and told pickarooney and eileeng to stuff it.

The fact that you're willing to listen to genuinely good advice is admirable.

As for books to read about how to write - there are millions of the things out there - but the one I come back to again and again is Stephen King's 'On Writing' - well worth a read.

Remember, though, writing is all about practice. It's all about sticking an idea on paper and then chopping it and changing it and adding to it and, most importantly, taking away from it until you know in your heart and soul you can't make it any better.

And often you'll find simplicity is the key to good writing. Drop the adjectives that add little. Drop the descriptions that might confuse the reader. Keep it simple. Keep it real. And make sure your narrative point of view is consistent. Tat way you're guaranteed a bestseller......well.....

Mylargo

Thanks alfa beta

If people are going to take their valuable time to come on here and criticise my writing I have to accept they are genuinely trying to be helpful. It's easy to be told your stuff is great but criticism and direction is ultimately the fuel to make me a better writer and the truth is we are never as good as we think we are. I have already learned plenty in the past 24 hours. Thank you for your tips and I will be sure to look up Stephen King's 'On Writing'.

pickarooney

It's definitely improving but you're still lacking a focal point in the beginning. If we're looking at it from the audience, we won't just see the hand banging, we'll see the whole person. I think you're trying to force a description which is not really literary in nature. I can just about imagine the small fists with teh big arms but as a jumping in point it's not that catchy.

I think it would run much better in a sentence like '... Ciaran Matthews with his big arms and his little fists and his head like an itchy Jack Russell..."

I haven't actually read beyond the first few lines but everything is probably applicable to the rest. On the subject of reader interest, I would say as long as the story is bigger than the sport it should not be too big a problem. To use a cinematic example, I'd say far fewer people have ever watched a bobsled race than sent to see Cool Runnings, although books are different and unless you have a name and/or you're writing in the genre du jour you can't very well expect to shift many copies. It's always a worthwhile project though, writing a book, particularly if you enjoy it.

EileenG

Be careful about basing fictional stories on real people. By all means, pinch details or traits that make your story work, but just because a real person had a small fist, don't assume your charcter must as well.

If you decide the small fist works, then weave it in at an appropriate moment. If you open with it, the reader is confused. A better time might be have some other character mention how incongruous the big voice and the small fists are.

Remember you have a vision in your head of all the characters, their appearance, how they sound, where they are. But the reader can only see the words you put on the page.

When you introduce a charcter, do what you do in real life, and mention the one or two characteristics that strike you. Don't give long descriptions, don't give backstory. Put your characters into action. Seeing them do stuff will tell us far more than you telling us about them.

A book which I keep rereading, and which is probably in your local library is "How NOT to write a novel".

In the meantime, concentrate on telling the story. Don't get clever. Imagine you are writing this scene in an email, and base your scene on that sort of story telling.

EileenG

I'll add this: a novel should be about the hero. There should be one person whose decisions and actions drive the story. Keep the focus on that person. Don't assume that because there are 11 (or however many) people on the team that the story is about eleven men and their families and friends. It's about the hero.

Don't bog the reader down in sea of names. The main charcters, probably five to seven of them, should be vivid and detailed, but the rest can be pretty much "Wally the waiter", "Pat the postman" or "Roger the reserve goalie". We don't need their life story if they are just pouring coffee or delivering letters.

Mylargo

Thanks again pickarooney and EileenG, ye have been very informative. Basically I will have to take a long look at my work and try to curb my impatient nature - not a characteristic too suited to writing I know. I will certainly look up 'How NOT to write a novel' though I'm half way there already I suspect. The main characters in the novel are members of the family mentioned, the principal one being Fionn. The idea is to experience the evening before the game with each of them including some backstory along the way and bring them together for the final the next day.

EileenG

If Fionn is the hero, then put him on the first page.

Be very careful with backstory. Your reader is not as interested in backstory as you are.

lilly mae

Gosh I don't know? What generation are you writing for or from...'the mother had PRODUCED'...'her GOOD CATHOLIC EDUCATION IN EVIDENCE' ????? roads and boreens !!...chase women and avoid the traps they set for him ????? where are such women, I think you'll find women do the chasing, no strings attached. And OMG...dispatched them to the growing scrapheap of his conquests ??? refer to previous also. I'm just trying to get a feel for who your readers will be ? Keep writing though, its good for the soul!!!

20centuryboy

I think GAA novel would be well received in Ireland. It should focus around a central story involving characters though, rather than just be about GAA itself, which is what you're going for clearly so that's good. I'd certainly take a second look if it popped up in Eason's!

I liked what you posted here but it needs a lot of work I think, specifically what the above posters have said. Adjectives in general should be used sparingly. Try more dialogue instead? Also, find a central viewpoint for your story. Who is telling it? What do they know?

I would definitely continue bashing away at it though.

lilly mae

Hey where is the next instalment of the GAA novel. I was looking forward to the progression!!

Mylargo

Hi lilly mae. I'm almost afraid to but what the hell. And yes these roads do still exist.


Two



The evening dampness wasfinally starting to tell on Fionn and he shivered from the cold that penetratedhis layers. The country road was dark, so Fionn walked along the grass thatsprouted up in the middle of the road making a natural white line. These greenstrips were plentiful on the small country roads that seldom reaped the benefitof the county council.



The Martin house was a northfacing four-bedroom dormitory bungalow situated fifty yards up a shallowacclivity from the road. The front garden, a lawnmower’s nightmare, was threequarters of an acre. The outside light was on which most likely suggestedsomeone had recently been outside disturbing the motion sensor.



Its beam reached the roadproviding a little light for any passerby to avail of.

Fionn turned into thedriveway and walked lazily up the chipping surface towards the house his eyeswatching his feet. He could smell the smoke from the coal fire that would beblazing in the sitting room.



Then he glimpsed a figurecoming towards him from the field that bordered their garden. The figure pusheddown a strand of barbed wire and climbed over it into the garden.



He had a length of sally inone hand and a flashlight with a very faint yellow glow in his other. He sporteda worn sallow anorak tightened around his waste with a length of light blue balingtwine. His brown trousers gleamed with grime as they disappeared down into adirty green pair of wellington boots.



Fionn recognised MickeyMcEntee, the farmer who owned all the fields that surrounded his house. He hadrecently left a herd of cattle in the field to graze and must have been checkingup on them.



“Young Finn, how are youkeeping, fit and well for tomorrow I trust,” he said in a low-pitched voicerecognisable after the first syllable.



“As fit as can be expectedMick, are you coming up for a cup of tea?”



“God no Finn I’m in a bit ofa hurry, I’ve still a couple of herds of beasts to check up on before I can gethome for Winning Streak. It’s not the same since Mike Murphy had to quit, Godbe good to him, but sure we have to give that younger fellow a chance.”



Mickey never touched a dropof drink in his life, but was addicted to the most God awful shows on TV. TellyBingo and Blind Date were two more of his favourites.



He was one of a long line ofbachelors in Mount View, a list that his eldest brother Tom Martin would likelyjoin in the future; if he ever settled down and came home.



Mick played football forMount View in his day and was meant to be a notorious savage once the refereethrew the ball in. It was a handshake, a smile and wish of good luck to hisopponent before a swift dig of the elbow into his marker’s ribs genuinelyintroduced him.



Fionn heard many of thestories about him, his favourite being the time he chased a player – who unwiselyclipped him – right off the pitch into the dressing rooms and out again intosomeone’s car where the frightened player locked the door. He was apparentlyabout to throw a rock through the windscreen to get at him when half a dozenlads grabbed a hold of him.



When he cooled down, hereturned to the pitch where the ref warned him about his behaviour with a bitof finger wagging. The player who had been running for dear life refused toreturn to the pitch, despite Mick’s apparent forgiveness. It was evidently avery wise decision considering McEntee’s form.



“Will you be travelling forthe game tomorrow Mick or is that a silly question?”



“Of course I’ll be there. Ithink we might have a chance this year Finn, those town lads may have a biggerpick, but they don’t have the same heart as our lads. Take no prisoners now youhear. Good night and God bless your boots,” said Mickey saluting with the sallyrod.



Fionn bade him goodnight andwatched him walking down the drive slapping the torch and cursing it at thesame time.



He was a big lump of a man,stooped slightly with the years of hardship. Fionn reckoned he must have been abear of a man in his playing days. He kept watching him until he pulled out hisBlack Nelly bicycle from the ditch.



Fionn then turned and walkedup to his house. He had no front door key so he walked around to the back doorwhich was always open. There was a great blast of heat from the kitchen whenFionn pulled open the back door. It was accompanied by a great aroma waftingfrom the stove.



He walked in and pulled hisbag off his shoulder and threw it into the corner. His mother then walked in fromthe front hall armed with a kitchen knife.



“Well, was there many downthere tonight?” she asked him.

“They were all there exceptEamon and Joe and the other lads living in Dublin.”



“Well I suppose this eveningwasn’t that important, did ye do much?”



“Ah we just had a bit of akick around really and then Ciaran spieled out a list of threats and then theusual motivation stuff. Sure it was only a taster for tomorrow when we get intothe dressing room, that’s when we’ll see the proper white smoke.”



“There’s a nice piece ofsteak and chips in the oven for you, I’m only this minute after putting themin.”



“Ciaran’d have a heartattack if he knew any of his lads were eating anything like that, if it’s notpasta it’s poison as far as he’s concerned.”



“Never mind that nonsense, apiece of steak will do you no harm, build you up.”



“I don’t think my stomachwould ever forgive me if I didn’t listen to me mother. It smells great.”



Fionn took out the plate putit on a tray with salt, vinegar, ketchup and a pint glass of milk and madestraight for the sitting room. Their dog Jesse was lying on the rug between thefire and the couch. He was a seven-year-old black and white border collie withlight blue eyes. His days of rushing out, wagging his tail and jumping up onarrivals were in the past now. He was his own dog and had assumed his place inthe hierarchy of the family. He was living on the same level as Fionn and heknew it.



“Well Jesse,” said Fionnsitting down on the couch with the tray on his lap.



The dog turned his head overtowards Fionn and sniffed the air. He then struggled onto his belly and turnedto face Fionn. With his chin resting on the floor he stared at Fionn as hebegan eating. Years ago he used to beg for the food, but that too had changed.Instead he just stared at the diner waiting until he got the food his attentiondeserved.



There was only one personwho never gave Jesse a scrap of food and that was Fionn’s uncle Tommy. He wasdisgusted that the beast was even allowed in the house. Whenever Tommy was overhaving dinner – which was quite often – the dog would thoroughly ignore him. Hewould sometimes even slight him by leaving the room.



Fionn threw a chip towardsJesse. It landed a couple of inches from his snout. Jesse shoved it with hisnose but took no further action, he could be very fussy when he wanted, andbesides, the aroma was painting a picture of something much tastier on thatplate than a bit of a fried spud.



“F**k you Jesse I’m enjoyingthem chips too much to be wasting them on you.”



The dogs eyes just grew alittle larger, like he was saying sorry but I’m still not eating that chip – atleast not until I taste a bit of that steak.



Fionn decided to eat upeverything bar the piece of steak he was saving for Jesse so he would not haveto feel guilty as he continued to eat after giving him a piece. Otherwise he’dhave to give him two pieces and it was as juicy and tasty a steak he sampledfor a long time.



Washing down his food withthe milk, Fionn stood up. The dog seemed to get just a little bit anxious. He thentossed him the meat that Jesse cleanly caught and swallowed in the samemovement. Then he ate the chip that was still on the ground beside him, maybeit had been too hot.



Fionn brought the tray backinto the kitchen and placed the plate, knife, fork and glass into the sink.



His mother was sitting atthe kitchen table drinking a cup of tea and smoking a cigarette.



“I hope you don’t expect meto clean those boots for you,” she said looking over at his sports bag in thecorner.



“No, not at all, I’ll cleanthem myself in the morning,” he said.

He then looked at the dishesin the sink and decided he would wash them. He put the plug in ran the hotwater and spilt in a drop of washing up liquid. As the sink filled he put awaythe ketchup, salt and vinegar.



He turned the tap off andreached for the plate but pulled his hand out quickly the minute it touched thesteaming water. He then wisely diluted it with some cold water.



“Easy seeing just how versedyou are in this kitchen,” said his mother.



Fionn shrugged and thenbegan to wash the dishes in a safer water temperature.



“Where’s daddy, in thebathroom?” asked Fionn placing the plate on the draining board.



“Yes, he’s having a shower;we’ve decided to go out for a drink tonight. Be a shame not to soak up some ofthe atmosphere, God knows when it might happen again, if ever.”



“How is he, do you thinkhe’s up to that already?”



“Well I honestly don’t knowif he is or not, but he reckons himself that he is, so who am I to argue.”



They both then heard thebathroom door open and ceased speaking of him. He came in a minute laterdressed in Jeans and a yellow paisley shirt. The jeans looked a little baggy onhim. He was after losing over a stone and a half in the past six months.



“The bathroom’s all yoursTess,” he said.



He looked then at Fionn.



“Make us a mug of tea Fionn,while I’m waiting for your mother to get ready.”



Fionn switched the kettle onand continued to wash the dishes before drying them and putting them away. Hefound it difficult talking to his father lately when faced with the reality ofmortality and its fragile state. His father’s thick head of hair was gone aswas his bushy beard. They decided to shave his beard because the falling hairkept going into his mouth creating a lot of discomfort.



Fionn had not yet got usedto the sight of his father without his hair and beard. When he dreamed of himit was as he appeared six months ago.



The last doses ofchemotherapy were very harsh and he spent a lot of time in bed trying to getover it and build up his strength. It was depressing to see a once mighty man reducedto such a vulnerable state. To make matters worse the steroids he neededbrought about temporary diabetes, at least he hoped it would be temporary. Thatseemed to be more devastating to him than the cancer was. In truth though, itwas likely just a culmination of all the cruel s**t that was being hurled athim.



The doctors told him it wasacute leukaemia and it would have to be attacked as aggressively as it attackedhis body. Fionn recalled the day they went to the hospital to see him afterhearing the diagnosis.



He was sitting at the sideof his bed with his back to Fionn, his mother and sister Aislin as they enteredthe ward, apparently lost in his thoughts. When Tess called his name he jumpeda little, startled from his contemplation.



He turned and smiled, butnot quick enough to disguise the somber look preceding it. A lump had come to Fionn’s throat at thatmoment and he fought hard to hold back tears. Aislin ran to him and hugged himwhile Tess just smiled bravely.



So far he was respondingwell to the treatment, but the other things like the diabetes were definitelygetting him down, though he did not like to show it. However acting was notsomething Jim Martin knew too much about, he could not disguise his feelings asmuch as he wished.



Fionn made two mugs ofsteaming tea and joined his father. His father grimaced pushing his tonguebetween his lips, not yet used to the bitterness of the sugar substitute.



“Was Ciaran in good formtonight, did he have anything helpful to say?” he asked Fionn.



“Aye he seemed in goodenough form, didn’t say anything we haven’t heard before.”



Fionn’s father played forthe team for fifteen years. They were years of poor harvests netting him onlyone league medal which paled in comparison to the importance of thechampionship medal that eluded him and all his team-mates.



He raved on about howbrilliant a footballer the present coach Ciaran was, but he had hisreservations about his coaching abilities, despite the present situation of theteam.



Fionn had two league medalsto date, but – like his father – was still empty handed in the championshipstakes. Unlike his father though, he was still in a strong position to chasethat Holy Grail.



The past three years wereprobably the worst in the club’s history. They had gone those three yearswithout as much as one championship win.

However there were the seedsof a promising team among the ranks, many of the underage teams had beensuccessful in their championships. Some of those players were now establishingthemselves in the team.



Recognising thepossibilities, the club’s committee went in search of a high-profile trainerwho might be the one to make the difference.

Their search ended whenCiaran Matthews agreed to the task. They did not get much bigger than him.Though he never won an All-Ireland he received an All-Star three times, twiceas a forward and once as a back.



In this, his first year atthe helm, Mount View had already won the league, albeit division five, and werenow in preparation for the final of the championship.



“Did they name the team yet,or are they waiting until before the game?”



Fionn nodded. “Yeah, theusual format, I hardly expected them to change that now seeing that we got thisfar. I suppose they’re a superstitious type.”



“Is young Mullins flyinghome or was that just a rumour going about.”



“I don’t think so, sure evenif he did you couldn’t expect to play him, it would be the height of hypocrisywith all the talk about people not turning up for enough training sessionsbeing dropped. There’d be war if anyone was dropped for him.”



“Oh I know that but he wouldbe great cover to have on the line if things were not going so well,” said Jimtapping the edge of his mug.



“At the end of the day it’sall going to be about winning. No-one’s going to give a s**t at the end of theday if we’re cheering after the final whistle.”



“True, but as I say therewould be recriminations. Imagine he did come and came on and made a total messof things. What then, I don’t think anyone would be willing to take that kindof a chance,” said Fionn.



“Speaking of chances, I hearBilly Murtagh has waged one thousand euro with a guy from Navan that the Mountwill beat their lot.”



“That’s a lot of money to bethrowing around, but sure if anyone has that kind of money it’s Billy Murtagh.He’s no stranger to gambling. He’d better buy us all a drink if we do thebusiness.”



“Sure Murtagh would buy yeall drink for the night if ye win, it’s not about the money for him, it’s moreto do with pride, he played himself for the Mount reserve team and is as diehard a follower of the club as anyone I know.”



“He was as handy as thathuh!”



“Some people just don’t havefootball in them Fionn, their heart might be in the right place, but that won’tkick the ball over the bar, or into the net, or help them snatch a high ball fromthe air.”

“What do you think yourselfdaddy, do you think we have a chance, honestly?” asked Fionn.



Jim took a sip of teaweighing the question for a few seconds before answering. He wiped his lipswith the back of his hand and then his hand on his trousers.



“The Navan lads are verystrong and there are lots of them vying for places on their senior team. Thenyou have the older experienced lads that have come down from the senior squadfrom last year. It’s a formidable mixture and one that will take some beating.I honestly think that this final has come a year too soon for our youngsters,but it will come down to the day as it always does. As long as there’s timeleft there’s hope.”



Fionn demurred, although heknew his father was genuinely talking about the game he couldn’t help butdigest his last few words.



“Are ye meeting anyone inparticular at the pub?”



“Just the regulars, be niceto see them, it’s been a while. You’re not coming over yourself I assume,Ciaran’s orders”



“No I’m not going to bothertonight, I have a few cans of Fosters in the fridge, and they’ll do me no harmat all, help me sleep if anything. But for Jesus sake don’t tell anyone.”



“The divil of harm they’lldo you is right, sure in my day if you hadn’t a dozen pints of porter in youthe night before a game you would be considered odd indeed. There were even acouple of lunatics had that much in them the day of the game. Though, I supposethe game has changed a little since then.”



Fionn smiled and picked uphis mug and his father’s and brought them over to the sink.

“Would you like anothermug?” he said looking at the kettle.



“No I better save a littleroom for the pint or two I might be able to manage tonight.”



Fionn looked over hisshoulder sharply at his father. “Do you think you’re ready to be going to thepub and have a drink yet?”



Jim smiled revealing oneblack gap on the top row of his teeth, he may have lost his hair but his warmhearted smile was always there to radiate reassurance.



“Of course I am. How is thatankle of yours holding up, you’ve done great work to be back in contention fora place, what is it, only four weeks tomorrow.”



Fionn looked straight downat his right ankle, his kicking foot. “Five weeks, it’s not too bad you know,that reminds me I better do my exercises and friction rubs.”



Fionn went back into thesitting room and sat down with his feet at the back of Jesse.

He reached for the remotecontrol and flicked on the television rubbing Jesse’s back with his left foot.

Jesse rolled over andallowed his belly become the target of Fionn’s foot.



“You needn’t think I’m goingto start rubbing you for the night.”



Jesse’s head lolled back andhe closed his eyes. A dog’s life indeed thought Fionn.

He untied his right trainertook it off and then the sock. The ankle was still a little swollen but it wasin pretty good shape. He would still need to strap it for the game but itshould hold he reckoned. It would want to after all the tears of pain it robbedof him to get to such a condition. He recalled getting the injury and thetreatment that followed as he massaged his ankle.

alfa beta

What exactly is it that you don't like about your space bar?

Seriously though - if you're going to try and attract readers to your work, would you not look at your post after you submit it and make sure it's readable in the most basic sense?

And if the lack of spaces is caused by some technical foible to do with posting from a phone or what-not just find a normal computer, click on 'edit' and fix what you've written.

It might make the difference between someone thinking 'what the fug is that word' and 'hey this is quite good'

Mylargo

alfa beta
Yes I only noticed it when it was already posted. I just copy and paste from my computer and for whatever reason words are merging. I did not have time to correct due to already being late for work. Sorry about that, I will amend as best I can. Cheers

Mylargo

The evening dampness was finally starting to tell on Fionn and he shivered from the cold that penetrated his layers. The country road was dark, so Fionn walked along the grass that sprouted up in the middle of the road making a natural white line. These green strips were plentiful on the small country roads that seldom reaped the benefit of the county council.



The Martin house was a north-facing four-bedroom dormitory bungalow situated fifty yards up a shallow acclivity from the road. The front garden, a lawnmower’s nightmare, was three quarters of an acre. The outside light was on which most likely suggested someone had recently been outside disturbing the motion sensor.



Its beam reached the road providing a little light for any passerby to avail of.

Fionn turned into the driveway and walked lazily up the chipping surface towards the house, his eyes watching his feet. He could smell the smoke from the coal fire that would be blazing in the sitting room.



Then he glimpsed a figure coming towards him from the field that bordered their garden. The figure pushed down a strand of barbed wire and climbed over it into the garden.



He had a length of sally in one hand and a flashlight with a very faint yellow glow in his other. He sported a worn sallow anorak tightened around his waste with a length of light blue baling twine. His brown trousers gleamed with grime as they disappeared down into a dirty green pair of wellington boots.



Fionn recognised Mickey McEntee, the farmer who owned all the fields that surrounded his house. He had recently left a herd of cattle in the field to graze and must have been checking up on them.



“Young Finn, how are you keeping, fit and well for tomorrow I trust,” he said in a low-pitched voice recognisable after the first syllable.



“As fit as can be expected Mick, are you coming up for a cup of tea?”



“God no Finn I’m in a bit of a hurry, I’ve still a couple of herds of beasts to check up on before I can get home for Winning Streak. It’s not the same since Mike Murphy had to quit, God be good to him, but sure we have to give that younger fellow a chance.”



Mickey never touched a drop of drink in his life, but was addicted to the most God awful shows on TV. Telly Bingo and Blind Date were two more of his favourites.



He was one of a long line of bachelors in Mount View, a list that his eldest brother Tom Martin would likely join in the future; if he ever settled down and came home.



Mick played football for Mount View in his day and was meant to be a notorious savage once the referee threw the ball in. It was a handshake, a smile and wish of good luck to his opponent before a swift dig of the elbow into his marker’s ribs genuinely introduced him.



Fionn heard many of the stories about him, his favourite being the time he chased a player – who unwisely clipped him – right off the pitch into the dressing rooms and out again into someone’s car where the frightened player locked the door. Mickey was apparently about to throw a rock through the windscreen to get at him when half a dozen lads grabbed a hold of him.



When he cooled down, he returned to the pitch where the ref warned him about his behaviour with a bit of finger wagging. The player who had been running for dear life refused to return to the pitch, despite Mickey’s apparent forgiveness. It was evidently a very wise decision considering McEntee’s form.



“Will you be travelling for the game tomorrow Mick or is that a silly question?”



“Of course I’ll be there. I think we might have a chance this year Finn, those town lads may have a bigger pick, but they don’t have the same heart as our lads. Take no prisoners now you hear. Good night and God bless your boots,” said Mickey saluting with the sally rod.



Fionn bade him good night and watched him walking down the drive slapping the torch and cursing it at the same time.



He was a big lump of a man, stooped slightly with the years of hardship. Fionn reckoned he must have been a bear of a man in his playing days. He kept watching him until he pulled out his Black Nelly bicycle from the ditch.



Fionn then turned and walked up to his house. He had no front-door key so he walked around to the back door which was always open. There was a great blast of heat from the kitchen when Fionn pulled open the back door. It was accompanied by a great aroma wafting from the stove.



He walked in and pulled his bag off his shoulder and threw it into the corner. His mother then walked in from the front hall armed with a kitchen knife.



“Well, was there many down there tonight?” she asked him.

“They were all there except Eamon and Joe and the other lads living in Dublin.”



“Well I suppose this evening wasn’t that important, did ye do much?”



“Ah we just had a bit of a kick around really and then Ciaran spieled out a list of threats and then the usual motivation stuff. Sure it was only a taster for tomorrow when we get into the dressing room, that’s when we’ll see the proper white smoke.”



“There’s a nice piece of steak with chips in the oven for you, I’m only this minute after putting them in.”



“Ciaran’d have a heart attack if he knew any of his lads were eating anything like that, if it’s not pasta it’s poison as far as he’s concerned.”



“Never mind that nonsense, a piece of steak will do you no harm, build you up.”



“I don’t think my stomach would ever forgive me if I didn’t listen to me mother. It smells great.”



Fionn took out the plate put it on a tray with salt, vinegar, ketchup and a pint glass of milk and made straight for the sitting room. Their dog Jesse was lying on the rug between the fire and the couch. He was a seven-year-old black and white border collie with light blue eyes. His days of rushing out, wagging his tail and jumping up on arrivals were in the past now. He was his own dog and had assumed his place in the hierarchy of the family. He was living on the same level as Fionn and he knew it.



“Well Jesse,” said Fionn sitting down on the couch with the tray on his lap.



The dog turned his head over towards Fionn and sniffed the air. He then struggled onto his belly and turned to face Fionn. With his chin resting on the floor he stared at Fionn as he began eating. Years ago he used to beg for the food, but that too had changed. Instead he just stared at the diner waiting until he got the food his attention deserved.



There was only one person who never gave Jesse a scrap of food and that was Fionn’s uncle Tommy. He was disgusted that the beast was even allowed in the house. Whenever Tommy was over having dinner – which was quite often – the dog would thoroughly ignore him. He would sometimes even slight him by leaving the room.



Fionn threw a chip towards Jesse. It landed a couple of inches from his snout. Jesse shoved it with his nose but took no further action, he could be very fussy when he wanted, and besides, the aroma was painting a picture of something much tastier on that plate than a bit of a fried spud.



“F**k you Jesse I’m enjoying them chips too much to be wasting them on you.”



The dogs eyes just grew a little larger, like he was saying sorry but I’m still not eating that chip – at least not until I taste a bit of that steak.



Fionn decided to eat up everything bar the piece of steak he was saving for Jesse so he would not have to feel guilty as he continued to eat after giving him a piece. Otherwise he’d have to give him two pieces and it was as juicy and tasty a steak he sampled for a long time.



Washing down his food with the milk, Fionn stood up. The dog seemed to get just a little bit anxious. He then tossed him the meat that Jesse cleanly caught and swallowed in the same movement. Then he ate the chip that was still on the ground beside him, maybe it had been too hot.



Fionn brought the tray back into the kitchen and placed the plate, knife, fork and glass into the sink.



His mother was sitting at the kitchen table drinking a cup of tea and smoking a cigarette.



“I hope you don’t expect me to clean those boots for you,” she said looking over at his sports bag in the corner.



“No, not at all, I’ll clean them myself in the morning,” he said.

He then looked at the dishes in the sink and decided he would wash them. He put the plug in ran the hot water and spilt in a drop of washing up liquid. As the sink filled he put away the ketchup, salt and vinegar.



He turned the tap off and reached for the plate but pulled his hand out quickly the minute it touched the steaming water. He then wisely diluted it with some cold water.



“Easy seeing just how versed you are in this kitchen,” sneered his mother.



Fionn shrugged and then began to wash the dishes in a safer water temperature.



“Where’s daddy, in the bathroom?” asked Fionn placing the plate on the draining board.



“Yes, he’s having a shower; we’ve decided to go out for a drink tonight. Be a shame not to soak up some of the atmosphere, God knows when it might happen again, if ever.”



“How is he, do you think he’s up to that already?”



“Well I honestly don’t know if he is or not, but he reckons himself that he is, so who am I to argue.”



They both then heard the bathroom door open and ceased speaking of him. He came in a minute later dressed in jeans and a yellow paisley shirt. The jeans looked a little baggy on him. He was after losing over a stone and a half in the past six months.



“The bathroom’s all yours Tess,” he said.



He looked then at Fionn.



“Make us a mug of tea Fionn, while I’m waiting for your mother to get ready.”



Fionn switched the kettle on and continued to wash the dishes before drying them and putting them away. He found it difficult talking to his father lately when faced with the reality of mortality and its fragile state. His father’s thick head of hair was gone as was his bushy beard. They decided to shave his beard because the falling hair kept going into his mouth creating a lot of discomfort.



Fionn had not yet got used to the sight of his father without his hair and beard. When he dreamed of him it was as he appeared six months ago.



The last doses of chemotherapy were very harsh and he spent a lot of time in bed trying to get over it and build up his strength. It was depressing to see a once mighty man reduced to such a vulnerable state. To make matters worse the steroids he needed brought about temporary diabetes, at least he hoped it would be temporary. That seemed to be more devastating to him than the cancer was. In truth though, it was likely just a culmination of all the cruel s**t that was being hurled at him.



The doctors told him it was acute leukaemia and it would have to be attacked as aggressively as it attacked his body. Fionn recalled the day they went to the hospital to see him after hearing the diagnosis.



He was sitting at the side of his bed with his back to Fionn, his mother and sister Aislin as they entered the ward, apparently lost in his thoughts. When Tess called his name he jumped a little, startled from his contemplation.



He turned and smiled, but not quick enough to disguise the somber look preceding it. A lump had come to Fionn’s throat at that moment and he fought hard to hold back tears. Aislin ran to him and hugged him while Tess just smiled bravely.



So far he was responding well to the treatment, but the other things like the diabetes were definitely getting him down, though he did not like to show it. However acting was not something Jim Martin knew too much about, he could not disguise his feelings as much as he wished.



Fionn made two mugs of steaming tea and joined his father. His father grimaced pushing his tongue between his lips, not yet used to the bitterness of the sugar substitute.



“Was Ciaran in good form tonight, did he have anything helpful to say?” he asked Fionn.



“Aye he seemed in good enough form, didn’t say anything we haven’t heard before.”



Fionn’s father played for the team for fifteen years. They were years of poor harvests netting him only one league medal which paled in comparison to the importance of the championship medal that eluded him and all his team-mates.



He raved on about how brilliant a footballer the present coach Ciaran was, but he had his reservations about his coaching abilities, despite the present situation of the team.



Fionn had two league medals to date, but – like his father – was still empty handed in the championship stakes. Unlike his father though, he was still in a strong position to chase that Holy Grail.



The past three years were probably the worst in the club’s history. They had gone those three years without as much as one championship win.

However there were the seeds of a promising team among the ranks, many of the underage teams had been successful in their championships. Some of those players were now establishing themselves in the team.



Recognising the possibilities, the club’s committee went in search of a high-profile trainer who might be the one to make the difference.

Their search ended when Ciaran Matthews agreed to the task. They did not get much bigger than him. Though he never won an All-Ireland he received an All-Star three times, twice as a forward and once as a back.



In this, his first year at the helm, Mount View had already won the league, albeit division five, and were now in preparation for the final of the championship.



“Did they name the team yet, or are they waiting until before the game?”



Fionn nodded. “Yeah, the usual format, I hardly expected them to change that now seeing that we got this far. I suppose they’re a superstitious type.”



“Is young Mullins flying home or was that just a rumour going about.”



“I don’t think so, sure even if he did you couldn’t expect to play him, it would be the height of hypocrisy with all the talk about people not turning up for enough training sessions being dropped. There’d be war if anyone was dropped for him.”



“Oh I know that but he would be great cover to have on the line if things were not going so well,” said Jim tapping the edge of his mug.



“At the end of the day it’s all going to be about winning. No-one’s going to give a s**t at the end of the day if we’re cheering after the final whistle.”



“True, but as I say there would be recriminations. Imagine he did come and came on and made a total mess of things. What then, I don’t think anyone would be willing to take that kind of a chance,” said Fionn.



“Speaking of chances, I hear Billy Murtagh has waged one thousand euro with a guy from Navan that the Mount will beat their lot.”



“That’s a lot of money to be throwing around, but sure if anyone has that kind of money it’s Billy Murtagh. He’s no stranger to gambling. He’d better buy us all a drink if we do the business.”



“Sure Murtagh would buy ye all drink for the night if ye win, it’s not about the money for him, it’s more to do with pride, he played himself for the Mount reserve team and is as diehard a follower of the club as anyone I know.”



“He was as handy as that huh!”



“Some people just don’t have football in them Fionn, their heart might be in the right place, but that won’t kick the ball over the bar, or into the net, or help them snatch a high ball from the air.”

“What do you think yourself daddy, do you think we have a chance, honestly?” asked Fionn.



Jim took a sip of tea weighing the question for a few seconds before answering. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand and then his hand on his trousers.



“The Navan lads are very strong and there are lots of them vying for places on their senior team. Then you have the older experienced lads that have come down from the senior squad from last year. It’s a formidable mixture and one that will take some beating.I honestly think that this final has come a year too soon for our youngsters, but it will come down to the day as it always does. As long as there’s time left there’s hope.”



Fionn demurred, although he knew his father was genuinely talking about the game he couldn’t help but digest his last few words.



“Are ye meeting anyone in particular at the pub?”



“Just the regulars, be nice to see them, it’s been a while. You’re not coming over yourself I assume, Ciaran’s orders”



“No I’m not going to bother tonight, I have a few cans of Fosters in the fridge, and they’ll do me no harm at all, help me sleep if anything. But for Jesus sake don’t tell anyone.”



“The divil of harm they’ll do you is right, sure in my day if you hadn’t a dozen pints of porter in you the night before a game you would be considered odd indeed. There were even a couple of lunatics had that much in them the day of the game. Though, I suppose the game has changed a little since then.”



Fionn smiled and picked up his mug and his father’s and brought them over to the sink.

“Would you like another mug?” he said looking at the kettle.



“No I better save a little room for the pint or two I might be able to manage tonight.”



Fionn looked over his shoulder sharply at his father. “Do you think you’re ready to be going to the pub and have a drink yet?”



Jim smiled revealing one black gap on the top row of his teeth, he may have lost his hair but his warm hearted smile was always there to radiate reassurance.



“Of course I am. How is that ankle of yours holding up, you’ve done great work to be back in contention for a place, what is it, only four weeks tomorrow.”



Fionn looked straight down at his right ankle, his kicking foot. “Five weeks, it’s not too bad you know, that reminds me I better do my exercises and friction rubs.”



Fionn went back into the sitting room and sat down with his feet at the back of Jesse.

He reached for the remote control and flicked on the television rubbing Jesse’s back with his left foot.

Jesse rolled over and allowed his belly become the target of Fionn’s foot.



“You needn’t think I’m going to start rubbing you for the night.”



Jesse’s head lolled back and he closed his eyes. A dog’s life indeed thought Fionn.

He untied his right trainer took it off and then the sock. The ankle was still a little swollen but it was in pretty good shape. He would still need to strap it for the game but it should hold he reckoned. It would want to after all the tears of pain it robbed of him to get to such a condition. He recalled getting the injury and the treatment that followed as he massaged his ankle.

ThePinkCage

I think you could have an audience for a novel like this if you do it right, if you convey the humour and the sense of community that the GAA is famous for, but also aren't afraid to explore the dark side. I haven't come across GAA books before and I'd imagine a lot of peole would relate to them, especially people who don't read a lot.

I wouldn't worry re adjectives. Pickarooney's right, but overloading with adjectives is a classic rookie mistake and can be corrected using the standard writing rule of show, don't tell. In other words, you use action and dialogue to convey your character's personality and emotions. For example, if a character bangs his fist on the table, you know he's mad. You don't have to say so. Readers like to work things out for themselves. It makes the book more interesting for them.

I suggest you write the first draft first, polish it up yourself, then show it to trusted friends. Then come back and post again if you're stuck, or if you've gone as far as you can go, but need a bit of help.

Good luck.

Mylargo

Thanks for the advice ThePinkCage