by
Norman Freeman

Romance flowered under unusual circumstances

A surprising story of romance! Believe it or not but the setting for this somewhat odd tale is a well-cared for ground in East Cork. Well, not just the ground but also a house directly across the road from one of the concrete-seated terraces.

A love-starved hurling follower called Fonsie found womanly companionship in this unlikely environment. And he did so because he was such a fervent follower of his club that he always averted his eyes at crucial moments in neck-and-neck games.

No being able to watch at excruciatingly vital passages of play applies to many of the most frenzied supporters. The tension becomes so great coming up to the end of thrilling games that even players on the substitutes bench cannot bear to watch. And some followers, guts wrenched, heads throbbing, cannot watch a crucial free being taken or, even more shattering, a penalty.

Fonsie, now approaching middle age, was a life-long follower of the local side. One Sunday his team was engaged in a tough tussle in the county championship. Our man was seated with match-going friends at the very top row of the terraces at the side of the ground, from where they had a panoramic view of the struggle as it surged up and down the field. His side was three points ahead as the full time whistle approached, just as the clock in the nearby church tower struck 5 pm.

Then the opposition were awarded a penalty. The ground vibrated with the buzz of expectation. Fonsie was actually so excited that by now he was standing on the concrete seating, his head and shoulders above the top wall of the terrace.

‘Oh Jaysus, I can’t watch’ he said to his male companions as the goalkeeper of the rival side came running the length of the pitch to take the penalty. They sympathised with his uncontrollable tension and said ‘Turn away so. We’ll tell you what happens.’

Fonsie turned, facing out over the rooftops of the town. Then his attention was caught by a movement in a bedroom in the house opposite. Through the wide windows he could see a buxom woman doing fitness exercises. She wore no more than a bra and panties.

This decent fellow was a bit shy of women. He had little truck with them. But now his interest was aroused by the display of moving flesh and limbs. He had seen nothing like it except on television.

Meanwhile, on the field of play the goalkeeper struck with great power and precision. It was stopped but a melee developed and the referee awarded another penalty.
‘Keep your face turned, ‘called his friends to Fonsie. But there was no need for this instruction because his eyes were glued on this full- bodied woman stretching and twisting.

Fortunately for him there was another hold up. Players were crowding the penalty-taker and the referee had difficulty getting them to move back. Eventually the penalty was retaken and a goal scored to bring the sides level. The referee blew the whistle at the puck out. Immediately afterward came the public address announcement that the replay would be at the same time in the same venue.

While his companions were angered and disappointed, Fonsie seemed unusually philosophical “Well, it’ll be another day out,” he said, turning round reluctantly. Of course, he would never dare mention what he had been watching in case they might make fun of him.

The following Sunday they were there again. When his companions wanted to sit about half-way up the terrace Fonsie said “Ah you get a much better view from on high,” and they went up to the top seats.

During the course of the game he occasionally stood up as if excited by the clash of the ash and, unseen by his companions, quickly peeked over the wall. Only coming up to 5pm, as the game was coming to a climax , did he again see this fine woman doing her exercises. His side were well ahead and there was actually no reason to avert his gaze but he stood on the concrete seating as if to savour their victory.

From then on he was there, in the same place, every Sunday, often on his own, watching junior and minor hurling matches, mediocre football and camogie games. He also watched the time, especially as the hands of the clock moved toward 5 pm. The main object of his attention was the lovely woman doing her physical jerks. He longed to make contact with her but he was at a loss on how to go about it.

Then one evening, on his way out of the grounds, after a game had gone to extra time, he saw the woman standing outside her house. He plucked up courage and reached for a clichéd greeting.
“It’s fit and well you’re looking,” he said. To his surprise she responded with a smile.
“Well, I have to work at it.”
“I’d need to work at it too,” he said, patting his beer-nourished stomach.
“Why don’t you join the walking club?” she suggested.
“I might. How do I join?”
“I’ll sign you up – I’m the secretary.”

That was the start of a very satisfactory relationship. She had been married but it had apparently disintegrated and she lived alone in the house. She welcomed his attentions.
They enjoyed one another’s company. The only negative aspect was him having to pretend that he enjoyed plodding along with the walking club, sometimes in cold and in rain, not daring to complain about his blistered feet. However, there were rewards for such endurance. Among them was that he now played a participatory role in his partner’s Sunday evening keep-fit routine.

He still went to matches at the sports ground opposite but inevitably left at 4.45 pm no matter how tight the game might be. “I’m in a bit of a hurry,” he would mutter to his companions, without explanation. They were mystified by his behaviour.

Had any of them gone to the top of the terrace and looked down into the bedroom of the house they might have caught a brief glimpse of him pulling down the blind.

No doubt about it, romance can flower in the strangest ways.