The First Sunday in September by Tadhg Coakley

Author:Tadhg Coakley
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Mercier Press

Losing

The smell of sweat and embrocation filled the air, the sound of splashing water. Big men moved quietly, to and from the showers, heads downcast. Steam oozed in along the ceiling through the open partition. The treatment table in the middle of the dressing room was heaped with towels, hurleys, bags of sliotars, helmets, a sack of training kit, two medical bags, piles of oranges and bananas, a mound of spare jerseys, five bottle-carriers of water and energy drinks, a box of energy gels, an unopened plastic packet of programmes, a crumpled large white coat.

Cillian McMahon thought he heard a sob from the corner; he did not look for the source. McGrath, the coach, and Considine, the County Board chairman, argued near the door. That prick, Considine, who had tried to get him suspended over the car crash in Lahinch. Who’s great pals with his own prick of a father, of course.

McMahon looked around at the debris of his team. Quinn, the toughest full-back in Ireland, sat beside him, elbows on knees. Keane and O’Connell stared into nothingness, their jerseys off. Lost us the game, those muppets. James Clancy unwrapped endless bandages from around his knee and muttered to himself. Most of the others were shedding their gear. The singing and whooping of the Cork players in the distance could be heard whenever the door was opened.

Doctor Jim, crouched on one knee, stitched a gash over Shane O’Connor’s eye.

‘Keep still, Shane, just two to go,’ he said.

‘Fuck!’ Quinn shouted, coming back to life. He stood up, and peeled off the inside-out Cork jersey.

McMahon opened his laces. The boot on his right foot wouldn’t come off. He had to hold his shin and tug the boot free. He gasped with the pain from his ribs. Probably fucking cracked.

He’d been paid €1,500 to wear those boots. They looked stupid now with their garish lime-green fronts and orange laces. The insoles were completely destroyed. How could blades have done so much damage? He shoved them into his bag, out of sight.

He fought off the raw memories: his four wides, dropping that ball in the first half when he was clean through, being moved off Culloty to corner-forward, the constant mocking of Crilly, the smug look on Sullivan’s face afterwards. He shook his head violently, once, like a horse shaking off flies on a hot day.

He pulled down his right sock to the heel. He tried to pick the cloth near the toes and yank it free but it wouldn’t budge. Instead, he unpeeled the top of the sock with his left hand, wincing at the last, as some skin came away with it.

The sole of the upturned foot was a mess of weeping blisters and bulging sores. The ruptured skin had yellowed and slid aside, yielding the remnants of a watery red ooze. He watched it trickle down towards his heel. The uncovered fleshy patches were a vivid, blotchy red.

He pressed his thumbs into the soft inflammations and felt nothing. He placed his foot on the matted floor and pushed it down hard.

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