by
Norman Freeman


“Didn’t he get hit by a ball on his way home from the pub.”

There are many stories about hurling balls going soaring out of the grounds and bouncing off some fellow’s boil-afflicted neck or some woman’s sore toe in the street outside. Jaysus, I only bent down to tie my shoelace when – bang!”

The risk of being hit by a ball at the end of its long flight is there, especially where streets and houses are in the near vicinity of the GAA grounds. The risk is highest when roadways and dwellings are behind the goal posts. It must be said that the possibility always lent some sense of excitement for those living nearby when a big game was under way. Then the GAA went and spoiled it all by erecting high netting behind the goals.

One story is of a fellow in Enniscorthy coming home unsteadily in the afternoon to his house near the Bellefield grounds. He had gone into the pub after Mass and stayed there, steadily drinking pints. As he was nearing his house he could hear the shouting and roaring as Faythe Harriers and Rathnure battled it out in the county championship. Next thing a sliotar floated high out of the grounds and struck him on the head. He staggered and then collapsed. Fortunately, some neighbours saw what had happened. They hurried forwards to lift him to his feet and help him into his home.

“Hit by a ball was he?” said his long-suffering wife as her stout-filled husband was settled into an armchair to recover from the ordeal. “You can be sure he won’t be hit by a ball when he’s on his way to the pub.” The story got round. From then on, whenever this man was unsteady on his feet, as he often was, they used say “Oh I think he was hit by a ball today.”

A somewhat romantic story about a wayward ball comes from Thurles. Behind the Killinan end of Semple Stadium in Thurles a path wends its way between bushes and small trees, at the edge of a field. It is a quiet place. Blackberries and haws ripen there undisturbed, buttercups and daisies grow on either side.

A frail, pale-faced young man was in the habit of wandering there. He was poetically inclined and often took with him a slim notebook into which he jotted random verses and words with a small silver pen. Like many poets, he felt a sense of lonesomeness, of being apart from the general stream of life. Never was this more felt than on the day of big matches. Over the high embankment he could hear the great surging roars of the packed crowd, like huge flocks of starlings taking off into the sky.

One such Sunday he was wandering along that path when he saw a buxom, dark-haired young woman coming along towards him. Their eyes made contact and he would have loved to strike up a conversation. But he was too shy. He could not get her and her big round eyes out of his mind. He wondered if she too was lonely, looking for a soul-companion.

The following Sunday our poet went along the same path at much the same time, hoping to see her. And sure enough she came towards him. He ached to find a reason to say something. But he was tongue tied. Next thing, when they were no more than five metres apart, there was a big roar from the packed stadium nearby and a sliotar came floating down, bounced near the path and landed at their feet. Of course that broke the ice. They handed it back and forth, laughing and chatting. She was a sensible down-to-earth kind of girl and she joked easily. He immediately fell for her and, it must be said, she had some feeling for him.

They had a number of dates after that, sitting in a café over coffees and doughnuts. His poetic sense of romance made him restrained in his advances. In the end she took the lead and kissed him full on the mouth the night before she returned to the University of Limerick where she was studying Physical Education. He missed her a lot, though they still had contact by e-mail and mobile text messages. It was during this time that our poet penned the following verse.
The ball that fell
At our feet
Broke the spell
It helped us meet
We handled it
Our fingers joined
God bless the hurler
Who scored that point.
Sadly, the romance didn’t last. Her text messages became shorter and less frequent and then stopped altogether. He was distressed to learn that she had begun a passionate affair with a big lout with a huge head of bushy red hair. Not alone that, but this fellow played that most vulgar of all musical instruments, the saxophone, in a nightclub.

Our young poet was stricken and it took him a long while to get over the disappointment. However, he was consoled to learn that the red-headed saxophonist had got a suspended sentence following an affray, when some musically discerning customers took exception to his playing. And, furthermore, that poem has been selected for inclusion in a soon-to-be- published anthology “Poems and Verse from the World of Hurling.”