The Left Handed Hurl

By Francis Scullion

Former Tipperary hurling captain, Tony Maguire, is happily married and living in America where he coaches college football. Tony had to retire from hurling due to injury and missed his shot at an All-Ireland Title. Getting a second chance, he drops everything to travel to Ireland to coach a no-hope County side. Tony has to deal with the pressures of his failing marriage across the Atlantic and the difficulty of getting county players to forget their club rivalries. He whips the Antrim team into shape with the help of Skip, his foul mouthed but hard working and well respected assistant coach and some unorthodox team building measures. They qualify for the All-Ireland Final for the first time in over forty years.
The star player, Paul Claridge, is an eighteen year old school kid who is a wizard at hurling. Paul falls in love with a girl from the Protestant community and in 1989 Northern Ireland their love affair has to contend with bigotry and hatred from both sides of the divide.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Francis Scullion
• Release date: Aug 21, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311636454

Francis Scullion

Francis Scullion is a practising veterinarian. He grew up in N. Ireland. He specialises in zoo and wildlife medicine and is a Past President of the World Association of Wildlife Veterinarians. The Left Handed Hurl is his first novel although he has published widely as a veterinary expert in magazines for the animal owning public and in scientific journals and books for the profession.

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The Left Handed Hurl

By

Francis Scullion

Published by Francis Scullion at Smashwords

Copyright 2015 Francis Scullion

Cover Design by Genevieve Scullion

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to purchase their own copy from their favourite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.

Table of Contents

Start of The Left Handed Hurl

Acknowledgements

About the author

Connect with the author

Personally this is the realisation of a dream. It means everything. You give your life to playing hurling. The ambition for everybody is to win an All Ireland medal.

Tommy Dunne, Tipperary Senior Hurling team captain on winning the All Ireland.

Chapter 1

Can't miss it, was right! The blazing floodlights highlighted a flurry of swirling kamikaze crystals as they emerged from the black sky.

Maguire could see the yellow and blue shirts of the Loughglen men, and green and white striped kit of the visitors who stood, hurls at the ready, ignoring the sleet that brushed across them in sheets.

As he opened the door and stepped into the packed club carpark, he felt the rush tied to his memories of the game. For him it had always been about striving to overcome the obstacles, whether a tough home match against the club champions, or a hard training session on a bitter, cold, winter night.

He always felt a sense of achievement that goes with beating the odds and it was the constant search for this reward that had led him to the heights of hurling success in his day as a player.

The cold stung at his other reminder of the past. His left knee began to complain about the rapid drop in temperature. It was the knee injury that had changed the direction of his life in so many ways all those years ago.

In the knowledge that his playing days were over, he had sought sunnier climes. A sporting career halted in its prime. Sure he had his regrets. He never got to lift the Liam Mc Carthy. In fact he had to watch from the sidelines as Galway snatched the trophy that everyone knew belonged to his Tipperary that year.

That was twenty two years ago and it still riled some. He knew it should have been Tipperary's cup. He was the one that should have lifted the Mc Carthy, given the post-match speech. Three cheers for Galway they were a worthy opponent and all that... Oh how it could still hurt, much worse than the knee.

It wasn't that his teammates played badly or that if he had been on the field as captain, he would have made a difference. But the question could never be answered. That was his main regret.

He liked to think that he would have made the difference. But the chance had gone, as it often does in sport, for one reason or another and the question remained.

The Liam Mc Carthy, like the Sam Maguire, was a knockout competition contested annually, with the holders putting it all on the line at the start of each season, running the gauntlet of provincials before the winners from the four provinces would meet in semis. The competition climaxed on the first Sunday of September.

The bitterness of missing his big chance had long since gone and although the yearning remained he had learned to live with it. The California move had been successful for him and the family. There was no looking back. His sporting history had all been neatly stacked away as the past. He had never intended to bring it to the fore again. The What might have been file had all but been deleted. That was until the Antrim job surfaced.

But that was the hardest bit to understand. Why, when Clare knew what hurling had meant to him, was he here now without her, he asked himself again for the umpteenth time? Why had he and Clare not seen eye to eye on what he considered his last chance to regain some of the past that had slipped from his clutches?

He could have been part of Tipperary's team that reigned supreme throughout the Glory Years but for his damn knee. That team was still talked about to this day. The team that he had once captained until his knee had intervened. How different things might have been? Clare must have seen this.

He always knew that he had to forget about it and get on with life. If he had dwelled on it, he would have been a broken man so he found something else in life to be happy about. Perhaps he had disguised it too well. Perhaps he had buried the hurt too deeply and even the one closest to him was unaware.

Football was an interest and coaching high school football had been a rewarding career but it was not his passion.

Hurling though was still a passion.

'For Jeez sakes ref! A blind man could have seen that!' An irate fan's angst jolted him momentarily from his Calfornia dream. Maguire couldn't wait to get out there; the pull of the game was as fresh as ever. But the absence of his better half still irked him as he headed to the field entrance.

The Antrim board's offer had come as a complete shock. It was a real out of the blue miracle. The answer to all the prayers he had long since abandoned. He felt that the timing was perfect. But when he conveyed his plans to Clare she did not seem to grasp the significance. Did she really, after all these years together, not see what the chance meant to him?

Fair enough, there would be some upheaval. But to return to hurling management. To be able to bring their children back home. Something they had always talked about. Now was the best time.

Clare had recently left her job at the dental practice in downtown Cristantino. A well-deserved break as she had put it, so there was no bind there either. There would be opportunities for someone of her experience in Ireland, if she was concerned about her career.

Her point blank refusal had astounded him.

His adamant acceptance had confounded her.

A fool’s errand was what she had called it. He didn't see it as foolish. He saw it as a last chance he wasn't going to miss. He didn't feel they were splitting up, or that he was walking out on her and the kids. He loved her. There was no question about that. No, they would sort this out eventually. She would see what it meant to him and the sense of it all.

His initial plans were that he would go over, suss out the area, housing and schools and then she would follow.

She said No! He was in a wonderful job, the children didn’t know any other place as home except Cristantino and it was madness at their age to be starting out afresh. No! She was adamant.

But it wasn’t starting afresh. It was taking up where he had left off, or so he wanted to believe. He was resolute.

He laid out his plan for her to follow.

But Clare was still in California and he was here in Antrim with an almost impossible task ahead. The immediacy of the work had become apparent and the reality of the situation was slowly sinking in. He had hoped Clare’s was just an empty threat and that by now she would have joined him.

Antrim’s prospects for an All Ireland Title were non-existent. He was still in the hotel. He hadn’t even got time to see an estate agent yet. He needed Clare here for that. He needed Clare here for lots.

But other than a difficult phone conversation where he had enquired as to her health and she likewise, he had no contact with Clare. He missed her so. The throbbing in his left knee was a welcome stimulus that reminded him that his was the right move and he had work to do. He had to believe this.

He made his way around the bottom end of the field, behind the goals, somewhat dazzled by the bright lights. A roar went up from one side of the stands as the sliothar pointed, splattering a shower of freeze from the catch nets Maguire had just passed. A shiver went up his spine. It had nothing to do with the cold. He knew he was back.

He could see the dugouts now and he wrapped his collar tight into his neck, held his head high and faced the wind as he walked towards two figures on the sidelines.

The smaller of the two was pointing his finger and gesticulating at the taller man. Maguire smiled. He recognised the abuser. The taller man was ignoring the harassment, and with arms folded tightly, concentrated on the action on the field.

Skip. Maguire knew the small figure well. He was the County Antrim Assistant Manager and Maguire’s right hand man in his new post. Maguire was looking forward to working with him. It was Skip who had arranged this meet. Skip spotted Maguire and turned to greet him.

‘Feck this for an evening.’ Skip reached to shake hands. Though they had spoken on the phone recently it was easily thirty odd years since they had first met and a good twenty two since they had last vied as opponents.

Although the greys suggested he was older, Skip hadn’t changed much from Maguire’s recollections. His vocabulary was definitely still the same. He immediately made Maguire feel like he was home, back with an old pal.

‘Feck, am I glad to see you?’ Skip declared. ‘I thought you might have landed in the fecking ditch on a night like that. Were the roads okay?’ He expressed genuine concern.

‘Not too bad,’ Maguire acknowledged. ‘I’ve played in worse.’

‘Well I think you might have come on a bit of a fecking fool’s errand.’ Skip started to break the bad news. ‘Fecking high and mighty himself there has left the young lad on the bench.’

A fool’s errand. The words resonated and Maguire couldn't help but think.

‘You see, this bastard has his rules,’ Skip explained in a sarcastic air. ‘This bollocks says that he has a rule that if you miss training then you sit out the next match. Never mind the bloody fact that the lad was at his Dad’s anniversary Mass. No, arsehole here says, Rules are rules. Rules my arse!’ He spat out towards the tall figure.

Maguire thought it unlikely that anyone would hear Skip, with the wind and all the noise from the crowds in the stands, or so he hoped.

‘It’s not got to do with the bloody fact that the young lad happened to ditch his darling daughter just back a while and managed to find himself a new cross community version. What? Someone dump his wee, sweetie-pie for a Prod. No fecking way José.’

Skip stabbed upwards at the air in the direction of the giant frame against which he held umbrage.

‘Maybe you could have a word?’ Skip offered as he appeared to calm down and looked for a resolution to his dilemma. ‘He knows you’re coming to see the lad play,’ again searching for diplomacy. ‘Bastard probably did it cos he knew you were coming.’ His peacemaker qualities did not last long.

‘It’s not really my place,’ Maguire warned. ‘I need the club managers on side and if they have rules then I can’t interfere,’ he explained. Skip looked ready to launch another attack. ‘But I want to speak to him anyhow, so you never know.’

Maguire took up a position on the sideline, pulled both corners of his collar up and forward to block the draught and pushed his hands deep into his coat pockets hugging his elbows close against his body.

He didn’t believe in hunching up. So he remained tall and defiant challenging the elements to do their worst. It was his way of winning the mind games against nature, games he found increasingly tough to triumph in, as the battle became more difficult through the years.

‘Not a bad game?’ A cloud of vapour passed over his right shoulder. His ear tingled at the welcome flash of warmth.

‘Not bad for the conditions. In fact one of the best contested games I’ve seen in a long time. Do you know what the score is?’

‘Oh, we’re winning by a point at the moment. Block man! Block!’ The tall man switched his concentration completely to the field as the ball soared high and between the posts of the Loughglen side. ‘For God’s sake, Peter, you’ll never win anything by ball watching,’ he chided his half back who acknowledged his fault with a raised hurl toward the manager. ‘Sorry. We’re back to evens again. Frank O’ Loan.’ The Loughglen manager held a hand out.

‘Tony Maguire.’ Maguire unfurled his right hand from his coat pocket to accept the friendly grip.

‘I know,’ O’ Loan replied. ‘Your reputation precedes you,’ he added, as both men pocketed their hands again, their brief encounter over. They turned to continue any further chat to the field.

Maguire deliberated on the tall figure silhouetted against the spotlights, breathing fire as he spat out instructions to his players on the field. Uncertain of just how diplomatic Skip’s account of his need to view the young Loughglen talent had been, Maguire chose to remain silent for a while and see where the discourse would lead.

‘Congratulations on your new post,’ O’ Loan spoke, without looking around.

‘Well to be honest, I'd have thought you'd have been first in the running, with your recent successes at club level.’ Maguire gave his honest opinion.

‘Oh, not the job for me,’ O’ Loan responded. ‘I’m not cut out to answer to a board. Well at least not the current board,’ he added remembering, Never to say, never. ‘In any case I don’t think they would have wanted me as County Manager if it meant having to deal with me on a regular basis. They know I can’t be pushed around, you see.’ Suddenly O’ Loan stiffened slightly, then his body convulsed with staccato twitches as he reacted to play on the field, ‘That’s better Peter, well played lad, keep up the pressure.’

Maguire waited for more of the interrupted exchange, but none came. Here was a guy that he was going to have to work with in one form or another in the future and he was being told in no uncertain terms that he didn’t like to be pushed around.

For that matter, Maguire thought this man probably did get offered the county job and most likely told them to stick it. As manager of Loughglen he was his own boss, answered to no one, had his own set of rules and in all respects was perfectly happy with his lot. Maguire felt he had to tread carefully.

‘Still, an All Ireland Club Championship and runner up last year. I’m sure the county could’ve benefited from your expertise.’ He fished with a compliment. O’ Loan didn’t appear to respond to the comment one way or another. ‘You’ve got a great bunch of lads to work with,’ Maguire continued. He could have kicked himself. He had lit the touchpaper. It was the subject that he positively didn’t want to broach. In a fleeting second he had probably blown his chances of getting on the right side of O’ Loan.

‘Indeed we do,’ O’ Loan eventually responded, staring at his feet, momentarily forgetful of the game in front of him, as he prepared himself to be pushed. ‘Indeed we do,’ he repeated. There was a brief silence. Maguire waited. O' Loan waited. The ball was in his court. Eventually Maguire's silence got too much for him. ‘I’m sorry about young Claridge.’ He was indeed sorry that he had to sideline his best young player in a Championship Final as a matter of discipline and sorry that it coincided with the visit of the new County Manager, who had come to see the lad play. Sorry for both their careers, but rules were rules. No one would push him around on matters of managing his team.

‘That’s no problem.’ Maguire’s surrender was unexpected. There was absolutely no threat to O’ Loan’s authority. ‘I understand he broke your rules, and it’s not my place to expect any manager to bend his rules.’ Maguire laid the trap and stroked his ego further. ‘No, I have to work with you guys, and if I started by trying to push you around, sure how would we ever get a county team together?’

O’ Loan turned and eyed Maguire up and down for signs of duplicity. Either, he decided, there weren’t any or he didn’t spot any but as he turned back to assess the match in hand he commented,

‘Sure you never know when we might need a sub.’ He knew Maguire hadn’t tried to bully him into playing the young lad. The decision would be his. He was in charge. Maguire stepped back towards the dugout knowing he had achieved his first success as Antrim manager.

* * * * * * * * * *

The match had some three minutes left with Kiltycloy two points in the lead. Loughglen had possession and Sheahan who had responded to his manager’s sideline prompts, was making more forward play and opening up the midfield. Baxter was taking advantage of the new found space and had the sliothar balanced on the tip of his hurl as he sprinted up the pitch.

As he approached the Kiltycloy sixty five yard line Baxter flicked the ball in the air and sent it flying toward Agnew managing to avoid the attempted hook of a chasing Kiltycloy defender. Agnew, who was playing full forward, snatched the ball with his left hand and turned sharply prepared to strike. What he hadn't prepared for was the approaching Harrison.

The change in shape of the team, started by Sheahan, had meant Agnew had inadvertently found himself in Harrison's territory, the area of the field that he had so deftly managed to stay well clear of all night.

Agnew had played well against The Mountain, ‘cause that’s what he was, a man-mountain, keeping a safe distance, making plays and taking valuable points. But a goal was essential now, with so little time left, if they were to win the match.

His manager would have been happier if he had remained outfield just a tad, where he would have been certain of taking a point on receiving the pass.

But sometimes the desire to win can override the right and sensible option, and the temptation of glory is too great, leading to a mistake that can cost the match or in this case an individual's ability to play in a number of matches for the foreseeable future.

Harrison was not a dirty player, by any measure, and the resulting tackle was by no means intended to injure the forward but this was his territory and Agnew had transgressed. A fifty-fifty situation always came out in Harrison's favour.

Agnew made to strike the ball. Harrison's hurl came down hard, fast and clean, catching Agnew’s hurl as it started to rise. The hurls met as two sabres in a duel. Unlike sabres, hurls have no hand guards. Harrison's hurl slid down directly on Agnew's right wrist snapping it cleanly. Agnew yowled in agony, dropped his hurl and fell to his knees grasping the pained joint.

The referee blew his whistle to halt play and rapidly beckoned the St John's Ambulance men who were raced and outpaced across the field by a concerned O' Loan.

The damage was obvious, and it was a matter of allowing the professionals to make Agnew comfortable before they assisted him off the field to a deserved round of applause from a knowledgeable appreciative crowd.

O' Loan had made his way back to the subs’ bench immediately he had confirmed his suspicions. Maguire watched as he bent forward and spoke down to a head that respectfully nodded once, twice, then a third time in response to his instructions. The head slowly began to rise, as a lithe young track-suited Loughglen player stood to kit out as substitute for the stricken Agnew.

Maguire watched the new player as he strode out to the full forward position carrying his hurl in the left hand. A lefty, he thought. Not too many lefties in the game.

Being left handed as a hurler imparted a distinct advantage on the forward line. Defenders were used to defending, in the main, against right handed players, so a lefty could throw them with his advantage.

Maguire's senses for some unknown reason, switched from spectator mode back to work mode, as he admired the way this young lad moved. He had something that drew the eye, something that automatically raised expectations. This lad was impressive and he hadn't even started to play yet. But he was a sub. Managers don't keep the cream of their crop on the bench.

Then Maguire remembered O' Loan had his rules. He had made Skip's prodigy sit it out this match. But you never know when we might need a sub., he remembered. He looked to the dugout where Skip had retired to watch the game in some relative comfort. Skip's short figure was standing, his thumbs-up and Maguire could just see him mouthing,

‘We're on. We're feckin’ on.’ Skip was hurriedly making his way back towards Maguire. ‘So the bastard caved, did he?’ Skip enquired, in an obvious gloat. ‘I knew if you had a word he would see sense,’ he surmised.

‘Well. Not exactly my doing, Skip,’ He knew circumstances had overtaken O’ Loan. ‘Chances are, your man won't even get a touch of the ball.’ Maguire didn’t want to decry his assistant’s efforts but there were only a few minutes of overtime left and it wasn’t enough to give anyone a fair assessment. He needed to allay Skip’s over-enthusiasm but also offer some support. ‘Hey lookit, I've really enjoyed this game. It gave me the chance to see some of the other players on the squad in a competitive situation.’

‘Sure the game's not over yet.’ Skip ignored the appeasements. ‘Just give young Claridge your eye. I swear he’s a fecking match winner. Sure they only need a goal,’ he added with the confidence of one who expected the unexpected.

Maguire said nothing more. He knew Skip was an excellent judge of a player. But he feared Skip was setting himself up for a fall on this count, he didn't want to labour the point. He folded his arms and turned again to watch Kiltycloy play out the last few seconds of their triumph.

The play was deep in the Loughglen half and up to six players were in a frantic melee, as the ball bounced in and around feet and hurls, each swiping and flailing, either missing the target or partially connecting, enough to keep the pot stirring. Then the ball broke into the path of a Loughglen back. He slipped the tip of his hurl underneath it as it trickled in his direction, lifted it in the air, and quick as a flash it was punted in a hyperbole back up the field in the direction of the recently substituted Claridge.

Maguire watched intently. Here was the star in the making and what was he doing? It seemed he must not have been aware of the danger associated with the position he had taken up. Perhaps he had been asleep on the bench or perhaps he might just be good on the ball. Certainly, his positional sense was not of the standard a county player on Maguire's squad should have. Well, in any other match it might have been okay, but in this game it was an unforgiveable error. Agnew had just minutes ago learned the hard way and this young lad had learned nothing.

Harrison's swing was timed to perfection. This was his territory. This was a fifty-fifty ball. Harrison always won the fifty-fifty’s. Claridge was in the way, but the ball was Harrison's. His hurl was swinging downward at full pace destined to strike the ball full face as it reached the unaware Claridge. Both hurl and Harrison were destined by momentum to carry on right through the spot Claridge had been naive enough

Reviews for The Left Handed Hurl

[sandraceltic · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I won this book from library thing.com's early reviewers give away. I was impressed with this book because I am left handed and I read almost anything about left handers. I also got to understand a little bit about Ireland and their fierce compitiveness about their sports. Also Irish descendent.

[kristincedar · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

I had higher expectations, being that I lived in Ireland for a long time, and even own a hurl, and have seen a few games at Croke Park. The book was not interesting, and did not develop for me. Could barely get through it, and was not a fan. Sorry.