The game had slowed down. Aidan didn’t commentate for a while. It was getting dark. The game ended at teatime. If James O’Keefe was late for his tea his ma gave it to the cat. That was what she’d shouted one day when he’d been hiding behind a hedge when she’d called him in.

–James O’Keefe! I’m going to give your fishfingers to the cat!

He went in. He said later that he’d been hiding cos he thought they’d be having mince and turnips for their tea, not fishfingers. But he was always lying. He was the biggest liar in Barrytown.

Twentyseven, twentythree; we were winning again.

–My word, said Aidan.—Roger Hunt is posing problems for the Scotland defence.

Roger Hunt was Sinbad. They couldn’t cope with him. It was because he was small and he was able to hide the ball behind himself. Kevin was good at sliding tackles but we were playing on the road so Sinbad was safe. It was much easier to foul someone the same size as you. Another thing about Sinbad, he didn’t score the goals himself. He passed the ball to someone who couldn’t miss—mostly me—and they all marked me instead of Sinbad because I was scoring the goals. I’d scored twentyone of our goals. Seven hattricks.

–Why are they called hattricks?

–Cos you get given a hat if you score one.

If you played for Ireland you got a cap. It was like a school cap or a cub’s cap, with a badge on it. England caps had a thing on the top of them, like the cord on my da’s dressing gown. You’d never have worn one if you got one. You were supposed to put them in one of those presses with glass doors and people could look at them when they came to your house, and your medals. When I was sick I was let wear my da’s dressing gown.

Mister O’Keefe invented Barrytown United. I liked Mister O’Keefe. His first name was Tommy and he let us call him that. It was weird at first. James O’Keefe didn’t call him Tommy and none of us called him Tommy either when Missis O’Keefe was around but that wasn’t because Tommy told us not to. We just didn’t. James O’Keefe didn’t know what his ma’s first name was.

–Agnes.

That was Ian McEvoy’s one.

–Gertie, said Liam.

That was his and Aidan’s ma’s name.

–Does it say that on the grave?

–Yeah.

It was James O’Keefe’s turn.

–Don’t know.

I didn’t believe him, but then I did. I’d thought he wasn’t telling us because it was a name we’d laugh at, but we were laughing at them all, except Gertie. We tortured him, a Chinese burn on each arm at the same time, and he still didn’t know his ma’s name.

–Find out, said Kevin, when we let him up cos he was coughing.

–How?

–Just find out, said Kevin.—That’s your mission.

James O’Keefe looked panicky.

–Ask her, I said.

–Don’t give him hints, said Kevin.—You’d better know by after dinner, he told James O’Keefe.

But then we forgot all about it.

Missis O’Keefe wasn’t that bad.

–George Best elbows Alan Gilzean in the face.

–I didn’t touch him, I said.

I kicked the ball away to stop the game.

–I didn’t touch him. He ran into me.

It was only Edward Swanwick. He was holding his nose so we wouldn’t see that he wasn’t bleeding. His eyes were wet.

–He’s crying, said Ian McEvoy.—Look it.

I wouldn’t have done it if it had been any of the others. They knew that, they didn’t care; it was only Edward Swanwick.

–And, really, said the commentator.—Alan Gilzean seems to be making a bit of a meal of his little knock.

The funny thing was, Aidan was never like that—that funny—when he was just himself, when he wasn’t commentating. Fortytwo, thirtyeight to Northern Ireland. Kevin’s neck was getting red; he was going to lose. It was great. It was getting dark. Missis O’Keefe was the final whistle. Any minute now.

–Barrytown United.

–Barrytown Rovers.

We were thinking of names.

–Barrytown Celtic.

–Barrytown United’s best.

I said that. It had to be United. We were sitting in O’Keefe’s back garden. Mister O’Keefe was sitting on a brick. He was smoking a cigarette.

–Barrytown Forest, said Liam.

Mister O’Keefe laughed but none of us did.

–United.

–Never.

–Let’s have a vote for it, said Ian McEvoy.

Mister O’Keefe rubbed his hands.

–That sounds the best way alright, he said.

–It’ll be United.

–No, it won’t!

–Shhhh, said Mister O’Keefe.—Shhhh, now. Right, okay; hands up who wants Barrytown Forest.

Liam lifted his hand a little bit, then put it back. No hands. We cheered.

–Barrytown Rovers?

No hands.

–Barrytown—United.

The Manchester United and Leeds United fellas put all their hands up. There was no one left, except Sinbad.

–Barrytown United it is, said Mister O’Keefe.—By a handsome majority. Which one did you want? he asked Sinbad.

–Liverpool, said Sinbad.

It was so brilliant being in a team called United that we didn’t bother getting Sinbad for saying that.

–Uneeyeted!

Uneeyeted!

I’d hold my arms out straight till they ached and I’d spin. I could feel the air against my arms, trying to stop them from going so fast, like dragging them through water. I kept going. Eyes open, little steps in a circle; my heels cut into the grass, made it juicy; really fast—the house, the kitchen, the hedge, the back, the other hedge, the apple tree, the house, the kitchen, the hedge, the back—waiting to stop my feet. I never warned myself. It just happened—the other hedge, the apple tree, the house, the kitchen—stop—onto the ground, on my back, sweating, gasping, everything still spinning. The sky—round and round—nearly wanting to get sick. Wet from sweating, cold and hot. Belch. I had to lie there till it was over. Round and round; it was better with my eyes open, trying to get my eyes to hang onto one thing and stop it from turning. Snot, sweat, round, round and round. I didn’t know why I did it; it was terrible—maybe that was why. It was good getting there—spinning. Stopping was the bad bit, and after. It had to come; I couldn’t spin forever. Recovering. Stuck to the ground. I could feel the world turning. Gravity sticking me down, holding me, my shoulders; my shins sore. The world was round and Ireland was stuck on the side; I knew that when I was spinning—falling off the world. The worst was when there was nothing in the sky, nothing to grab, blue blue blue.

I only ever got sick once.

It was dangerous to do things straight after your dinner. You could drown if you went swimming. I went up to my belly button to see if anything would happen—I wasn’t going to go any further—just to check. Nothing did. The water was the same; the suck wasn’t any stronger. That didn’t mean much though. Standing in a bit of water wasn’t the same as swimming. You weren’t swimming until your feet weren’t touching the sand for at least five seconds. That was swimming; that was when you drowned if you were full of your dinner. Your belly was too full and too heavy. Your legs and arms couldn’t hold you up. You swallowed water. It got into your lungs. It took ages for you to die. Spinning was the same, only you didn’t die, unless you were lying on your back when you were getting sick and you didn’t turn over on your side because you’d fainted or something, or you’d walloped your head and you were unconscious with your mouth full of vomit. Then you suffocated, unless someone saw you in time and saved you; they turned you over and thumped your back to make room in your throat for some air to get through. You gasped and coughed; then they gave you the kiss of life to be on the safe side. Their lips would be touching your lips and your lips would be covered in vomit. They might get sick themselves on you. They might be a man, a man kissing me—or a woman.

Kissing was stupid. It was alright for kissing your ma when you were going to school or something, but kissing someone because you liked them—you thought they were lovely—that was just stupid. It didn’t make sense. The man on top of the woman when they were on the ground or in a bed.