8 The Challenge

It was getting late. The team left Barry’s Hotel for Croke Park, mingling among the crowd like bright splashes of white in a great mass of brown and grey. A few miles away police and army trucks rattled out of barracks across the city. A boy sat in the crook of a tree at the corner of the ground above the heads of everyone, enjoying the finest view in the place. Another boy sat on the wall behind the goal. Croke Park was full. An aeroplane circled overhead and fired a flare. It was a rare thing for the crowd to see.

The teams were on the field. Johnny McDonnell was in goals for Dublin. At the other end Mick Hogan stood beside Frank Burke, waiting for the first ball. A truck crested the canal bridge outside. Over a dozen trucks filled with Black and Tans and Auxiliaries stopped behind it.

The men inside the trucks smelt stale from sweat and liquor. Their minds were clouded by anger and fear. They expected trouble in Croke Park. Some hoped for it. This was war without rules, waged against an invisible enemy on quiet country roads and dimly lit streets, nurtured in farmhouses and the hearts of once mild, modest men. Their orders were to search the crowd. The men checked their guns, leapt from the trucks and ran towards the gates. If Croke Park became a battlefield, conscience wouldn’t make cowards of them.