Furry Murphy sat and watched Bowser Gilroan.

   “Are you taking a kick in the penalty competition,” the young kids inquired, their wide eyes shining. The

finest Gaelic footballer in Killahill smiled smugly, his father Bowser Senior, basking in the adulation. Mick

Tully mopped his brow and let out a shout.

   “Furry will you check the axle on the wheel of fortune.”

Furry spat out the last segment of his Apple.

   “Break a leg Bowser,” he hissed through clenched teeth.

It was Saturday the Eleventh of July in the summer of 56, closing night for Tully’s Carnival. A light bed of

White puffy clouds, cradled a warm Red Sun. Furry Murphy rolled off his battered peaked cap and stared at

the rusty spoke. A hunched figure sat with his head in his hands on an upturned orange crate.

   “Mick,” Furry called nervously, “you okay.”

 Mick Tully spoke his voice quivering.

   “Freddie broke his arm this afternoon; he won’t be in goal for the competition.” 

Furry shook his head in dismay. The competition was the highlight of the week, a huge crowd was

anticipated. Freddie banks had played in goal for Killahill for fifteen years, and never let in a goal. Mick

rose wearily   his shoulders slumped.

   “It’s too late to get a replacement Furry, I will have to cancel.”

   Furry knew cancellation would ruin the ailing Carnival; it had been a bad year for profits.

   “I will go between the sticks Mick,” he offered.

   “Furry it’s been five years since you played in goal, you haven’t touched a ball since the Minor County

final” ……

Mick Tully’s voice faltered for a moment.

   “Nobody blamed you for that,” he whispered, his eyes avoiding Furry’s.

         Furry Murphy screwed up his eyes and fought back the tears, for a few moments he was back there.

The time on the Cathedral clock was One minute to four; a heavy shower of rain had departed over the

Clunee Mountains to the right. A bright sun burst through the emptied clouds, as the county minor football

final entered its dying embers. Killahill were leading Dunbar by two points, the referee checked his watch

 

one last time. A high ball sailed into the Killahill square, Furry Murphy jumped confidently to grab it. The

Sun emerged fully, as the last wisps of cloud ebbed away. Furry blinked as the harsh ray's blinded him

momentarily, losing the flight of the dropping ball. The ball sailed in over his outstretched arms.

It bounced once, before nestling in the back of the net. Furry turned in disbelief as the shrill blast of the

whistle ended the match, and shattered Killahills dreams.

    Furry Murphy swallowed hard and steadied his shaking hands; Mick Tully put a consoling arm around

the slight figure.

   “I kept your gloves kid, one day I knew they would come in handy” he beamed.

Furry Murphy smiled, for as long as he could remember, Mick Tully had been doing things like that for

him. Furry Murphy the game had been everything. Pride in your jersey, for the honor of your village. How

could a man be complete without honor?  Six kicks, one each from the finest Gaelic footballers in the

province. Furry stared at the narrow patch of flat ground that Split the belly of Nallons field. Six men stood

between him and redemption.

   The last of the suns rays petered through the pale blue caravan window. Furry Murphy laced up his

boots, and glanced at the crowds filing into Nallon's field. They had come from all over the parish, to see

the six best forwards in the province, face the legendary Freddie Banks. Furry slipped on his jersey,

sometimes a goalkeeper was the loneliest person in the world. He felt alone now, alone with his thoughts

and fears. He also felt alone with the words of Bowser Gilroan Senior, the words that ended his Gaelic

football career.                                                                                                                                                                                   

    “You will never play for Killahill again” he pronounced triumphantly, “You’re too small to be a

goalkeeper.”

    Furry Murphy put his head in his hands as the manager walked away. He wanted the ground

to open up and swallow him. Bad enough to be at fault for losing a county final, now he was about to lose

the game he loved so much. Ever since he had been a young boy he had dreamed of leading his native

village to the holy grail of club football, a county final. He had sat in the stand in wonder as Killahill won

their only title in nineteen forty three. Dick Kelly’s trusty left boot had curled over the winning free with

seconds remaining, to spark wild scenes of jubilation. Furry’s father wept openly with pride.

 

 “Some day son, it will be your turn,” he said.

 After the fateful day, furry left Killahill to join the carnival.”

 

 Stay and fight for your place “his father had pleaded; Furry knew Bowser Gilroan would ensure he never

wore a Killahill shirt again. Furry picked up his faded gloves and pulled them tightly over his sweaty

palms. A sharp knock on the caravan door, made his heart pound faster.

“Furry its time,” Mick Tully called, “Are you okay.”

Furry took a deep breath, and walked to the door.

   The sea of faces waited in expectation for the competition to begin. All eyes were fixed upon the

caravan, waiting for the bright yellow jersey made famous by the great Freddie Banks.

Their was a loud gasp as the slight figure of Furry Murphy trotted into the goal, and touched the post for

good luck.

 Bowser Gilroan Snr blinked twice in horror.

“Well Ill be dammed” he howled in fury turning to Mick Tully. “This is an insult to these great players.”

Mick Tully never replied, instead he uttered a silent prayer that his gamble wouldn’t backfire.

    The first penalty taker stepped forward and placed the White leather ball carefully on the spot.

Cannonball Williams had the hardest shot in the province; he was powerfully built, with legs like tree

trunks.

A hush fell over the crowd, as Cannonball eyed the goalkeeper with the look of a hungry gunfighter.

Furry did not exchange the glance, fixing his gaze on the Football. Cannonball Williams took ten

steps back, and charged like an angry bull. Mick Tully could not bear to watch. Cannonball let out a grunt

as he connected, catching the ball on the meat. It thundered through the air like an arrow, heading for the

top right-hand corner of the goal. Furry Murphy sprang like a cat, flinging his body across the goal. It

looked like a vain pursuit, the rising leather sailed over his head. With a last despairing lunge he clawed at

ball, finger tipping it onto the crossbar. The Wooden plank split with a mighty groan, as the ball crashed to

the ground into the grateful arms of Furry Murphy.

 “Saa-vved,” the crowd shouted in amazement,

Cannonball Williams shook his head, hardly believing his eyes. Mick Tully sank to his knees, and

 

pummeled the ground in delight.

   The next twenty minutes were just a blur for Furry; the ground crew hastily replaced the battered

crossbar. He saved the next four kicks, some with his arms, some with his legs. Every time he guessed

right, it was as if he had been here before. Each time the cheers grew louder and louder. The crowd realized

they were witnessing a man inspired. Then came the moment of truth, the sixth and final penalty, to be

taken by Bowser Gilroan Junior. The watching hordes held their breath. The two gladiators faced each

other, in a manner of seconds one of them would be a hero, and one would be vanquished.

   Bowser Gilroan Snr trotted over to his son’s side, and whispered in his ear.

 “Its time to put this clown back where he belongs, behind a carnival wheel.”

Bowser's son smiled his smug smile “This guys not in my league dad, I am the greatest footballer this place

has ever seen.”

“ Come on Furry a lone voice rang out, it was followed by another and then another.

Mick Tully turned to Bowser Senior, as the voices swelled.

“Looks like the crowd has deserted you Bowser.”

 Bowser looked like he’d swallowed a wasp.

“It will take more than a crowd to save your boy now Mick “he hissed.

    A rusty  can rolled across the penalty spot, as Bowser Junior began his run up to t he ball. He stopped in

Mid-stride, and waited for the can to rumble away. The murmur from the spectators rose above the

freshening wind, which rolled in from the towering mountains above. The penalty taker pulled a handful of

grass, and tossed it in the air. It swirled around and sailed away to his right. Bowser paused for a moment

and considered the impact of the wind upon his kick. Furry Murphy’s face wore a worried look; the wind 

could do strange things with a football. Bowser Gilroans words circled around his head.

 “You’re too small, you will never play for Killahill again, and you’re too small.”………

The Ball left Gilroans right boot, bending away from the right hand post. It seemed destined to go well

wide, and then it dipped and swerved viciously. Furry's  heart sank, he had dived to cover the shot, and he

cursed as he realized the wind would curl it just inside the upright.

“Goal,” Bowser Senior shouted, flinging his hat into the air into the air in

 

jubilation. Furry Murphy’s body seemed to stretch like elastic as the ball sped past him; he flung himself

straight at the post. A bony hand deflected the spinning leather around the upright as he collided with the

post, with a sickening thud. Mick Tully raced across the narrow strip of grass.

“Furry, Furry, are you all right.” he cried. The carnival owner’s heart skipped a beat; the young goalie was

not moving. Furry's arm moved slowly, he opened his eyes.

   “Did I save it Mick “he said weakly.”

   “ Aye lad you did, you saved them all.”

Mick replied thrusting a cup into Furry's hand. Furry gulped the mixture down and promptly spat it out.

   “Jeepers Mick what’s that,” he said.

   “Pretty strong eh,” Mick laughed. “It’s my mothers special brew, clear your head in no time.”

Freddie Banks walked towards Furry his hand outstretched.

   “That was some display young man “he said with a broad smile.

   “How’s your arm Freddie “Mick inquired.

   “ It’s badly broken” Freddie replied.

   “I was retiring this year anyway, so it will speed my decision.”

 He turned to Furry with a twinkle in his eye.

    “Anyway it won’t affect my role as manager of Killahill senior football team.”  

Mick Tully clapped his hands in delight.

    “Id say that decision went down a bomb in Gilroans house.”
 
   “Bowser's leaving and taking his son with him,” Freddie continued “there joining Knockacrusha Gaels, our

old enemies.”.

   “Good riddance,” Furry's father whooped.

   “ I’ll see you for training on Monday night Furry,” Freddie said warmly, “that is of course if your boss will

let you off !”

   “ Hellfire wouldn’t hold him Freddie,” Mick Tully quipped.

   Bowser Gilroan Snr walked forlornly past with his hands dug firmly in his pockets. Furry Murphy

 

watched him go past. Furry's father called out as the downcast  figure marched by.

“Hey Bowser, he isn’t too small now!”

Bowser Gilroan's face clouded over. He looked like he’d just swallowed a wasp!