HURL

Written By: Paul Grammatico

Another Saturday at Liam's Grandad Rowan's house, they watched his seanathair's favorite game—Irish hurling—on the flatscreen. Every weekend, without fail, he never missed a match. It was an absolute wonder how a man in his mid-seventies could find these matches among the hundreds of cable channels. You would think that Liam, a tall, handsome man in his early twenties, would be hanging out with friends and partying from dark to dawn instead of watching sports with this raggedy old man.

This Hibernian lacrosse-field hockey hybrid game involved a ball and a long flat stick, with the skill of balancing the ball on the stick while opponents, using the same type of stick, tried to take the ball away to score. Liam liked the sport, but he loved spending time with his Grandad.

"All these players are so soft now with their helmets, facemasks, and whatnot," Rowan grumbled, "Not the way I played it back in my day."

Liam enjoyed hearing his Grandad spin his tales of his glory days as a hurler in Ireland.

"I played for Cork," Rowan stated proudly, " One of the greatest hurling teams in all of Ireland. Thirty championships! Thirty! I was the greatest full forward that ever played the game!"

Liam smiled at his Grandad; he was a tough old bugger from the Emerald Isle, who, after his playing days were allegedly over, came to reside in New York. 

"I see you smiling at me that way," Rowan growled at this Grandson, "You don't believe me when I said I was a great hurler?"

"It's not that, Grandad," Liam replied, "But I think you exaggerate a bit."

"E- exaggerate!" Rowan exclaimed as his mouth gaped open.

"Well, yeah," Liam said matter-of-factly, "I'm sure you were a good player, being professional and everything, but great?"

Rowan quickly grabbed the remote and turned off the television. He went to Liam with a look of resentment in his bloodshot eyes.

"Get up out of the chair. I'll show you what I say ain't no exaggeration!"

Liam rose from the chair, wondering how his Grandad, in his fragile state, could demonstrate how great he was. Rowan walked through the kitchen, signaling Liam to follow. Rowan opened a door and descended the steps into the basement. The basement was cluttered with yellowed newspapers, scarred leather furniture, and other outdated items. Rowan was a hoarder, much to Liam's disgust, knowing he would have to help his parents when they decided to place Grandad in a home. His mom, Siobhan, told him it was only a matter of when.

At the far back wall of the basement stood a gigantic, old-fashioned console TV. Liam never understood how the hell this solid wood beast made it down those stairs, and he wondered whose back would be broken trying to get the damn thing up the stairs.

"Come over here, my boy," Rowan said, coaxing Liam toward the old television.

Liam approached his Grandad and saw his hand holding an old remote control. He watched his Grandad push the oversized button on the remote, and the television's cathode ray tube hummed to life. The washed-out color picture showed the beginning of a rivalry match between Cork and Limerick. However, this was very different from the one they had recently watched. Gone were the caged helmets. The only protection for these players was their team kits and their hurleys. Liam looked around for a cable box, a DVD, or a VCR, but there was nothing. Not even a pair of rabbit ears.

"Hey, Grandad, where's the connection?" Liam asked. 

Liam continued to inspect the console. Rowan grabbed a hurley with odd black buttons that decorated its lower blade. 

"C'mon, my garmhac, we're wasting time! The game's about to start!" Rowan shouted.

He strode quickly toward the console, bent down, and entered the cathode tube. He reached back and extended his hand. "Take my hand, boy!" Rowan bellowed. 

Liam took his Grandad's hand as they passed through the antique television. Emerging on the other side, Liam found himself seated in the front center row of Páirc Uí Chaoimh, the stadium of the Cork hurling team. Still immersed in the stadium's analog colors and the massive crowd packed to capacity, Liam turned to ask an old man what day and year it was in broken Gaelic. From what he could understand, the man said it was August of 1976. Liam thought about the history of hurling; it was the first day of August 1976. On that day, the Munster Senior Hurling Championship Final was held, with Cork facing their fierce rivals, Limerick. Liam shook his head, thinking the man was confused; he looked out onto the field and saw the green-and-white jerseys of Limerick, with players lined up as the Irish National Anthem played loudly from the blown-out speakers. Then, he turned to see the red jerseys with white trim of Cork. A young man next to him turned toward Liam and winked. As Liam watched, his mouth dropped open in shock when he realized that the man on the pitch was his Grandad, fifty years younger.

The referee blew the whistle, and the game began. Liam watched his Grandad rush down into Limerick's end of the field, fighting off hits and hooks from the opponent's fullbacks and halfbacks to get control of that damn sliotar. Rowan pressed one of the black buttons among the chaos, and barbed wire snaked along the flat end of his hurley.

I can do anything on this pitch thundered into Liam's head in the form of his Grandad's voice. He looked at the younger version of Rowan, and a grin formed on his face as he wielded the razor-wired hurley and slashed it into a defender, spurting blood from his face, and fell dead onto the grass in a pool of crimson. He pressed the button, and the wire retracted into the hurley when a bomb exploded at the far end of the stadium, causing bodies to rip apart with heavy smoke and confusion among the crowd. The smoke cleared, and the game continued, and to his surprise, Liam saw Margaret Thatcher across the pitch in a front-row center seat.

This was during The Troubles, which affected all of Ireland. Rowan's voice echoed in Liam as Rowan pressed the second button on his hurley. A wide blade shot out of its back; as much as I hate the Orangemen, those Protestant bastards had nothing on Margaret bloody Thatcher!

Rowan ran over to Thatcher, swung his hurley, which sliced through Thatcher's neck, and lopped her head clean off! Liam stared in shock as Thatcher's stump spewed blood as the crowd roared. Rowan pressed the button, and the blade entered the hurley. When the carnage died, the ball rolled to Rowan; he picked it up on his stick with a roll lift and performed a solo. He went to Limerick's goal and scored on an overhand strike past the goalkeeper. Liam gaped in awe as his Grandad became a tornado on the pitch. The ball gravitated to him, scoring goals in every way— ground strikes, strikes from the hand, and running ground strikes with every possession. Liam had never seen anything like this... not in any game he had ever watched.

***

Siobhan was in her father's basement with two burly men whose uniforms read 1-800-GOT CRAP. She had no idea where her father was or where he had taken her son. They no doubt went somewhere that she told her father was off-limits for Liam. She decided to get all this junk out of the basement today. She pointed to the old console television and cocked her thumb back over her shoulder. The men picked up the heavy television, carried it up the stairs, through the front door, and dumped it into the truck. The glass screen cracked slightly as the console slammed into the back of the truck.

***

Liam continued to watch his Grandad's expertise. He heard a sharp static noise in his head; He looked up to see that the large slit in the sky that served as their portal was shrinking. Liam reached up to the opening and hooked his hand upon it. He began to pull himself up, but the portal snapped shut, severing his hand. He fell back into the stadium and landed hard on his back upon a seat with a sickening crack. With blood showering out of his missing hand and his body going numb, the crowd panicked and trampled Liam. He could hear the shouts of this Grandad swinging his hurley as the crowd parted. Rowan reached Liam and cradled him in his arms. With life flowing out of him, Liam smiled at his Grandad, knowing he was right all along.

"Forbidden from seeing graphic films as a child and limited to edited TV movies, I received my horror information secondhand through stories from older friends and siblings. I also vacationed in a desolate cottage, raised in houses with creepy basements, and lived in an apartment with a “full torso apparition”. Inspired by my experiences, I am a multi-award-winning screenwriter and a wannabe author with an affinity for the weird and unexplained." - Paul Grammatico