SLAM!

25th May 1967 *


Auntie Susie opened the door to our pounding fists
and in the hall we sloughed schoolbags, jackets, caps.
We could hear the football commentary.

My brother panted, “Are we winning, Auntie?”

“Boys, your Uncle John died a few minutes bye.
Kathy’s gone for the undertaker and Fr. Collins.”

Uncle John was sitting in the armchair beside the wireless.
The Sports Section of The Scotsman covered his lap.

His head was tilted back and his eyes were closed and his mouth gaped.
The pallor of his face and the redness of his neck were fascinating.

“He’s back from Mass not an hour ago. Had a bite and came in here.”
She shook her head.

In the awkwardness my brother asked, “Will I turn the wireless off?”
“No son. Youse listen. But you can turn it down. He’s no need for …”
Her voice broke.

“He’s in Heaven now, Auntie.” I said.
“He is, son. Surely. I’ll get youse some tea.”

We sat down and listened to the match and
darted surreptitious looks at Uncle John.

In Lisbon it was ten minutes to go and the score one-each.

Electric flex veins squiggled across the backs of his labourer’s hands;
up still-muscled forearms as thick as my thighs.
Dad said he’d dragged a man from a collapsing sewer
while shame-faced workmates dithered.

My brother whispered, “We should say a decade for the Repose Of His Soul.”
We knelt and began lobbing the Rosary’s cadences back and forth.

Soon we were silenced by the commentator’s mounting hysteria.
Waves of Celtic attacks pounded Inter-Milan in the closing minutes and
when Chalmers scored, we yelled and scrambled up and knocked the armchair.

Uncle John’s head lolled, choking off our yells with his gurgling sigh.

We stared, horrified.

Auntie Susie called from the kitchen.

I said, “He must have hung on ‘til we scored.”
My brother hissed, “You daft bugger, you!” and started giggling.



* On this date Glasgow Celtic (Scotland) beat Inter Milan (Italy) 2-1 in Lisbon to become the first-ever British team to win the European Champions’ Cup.

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