Our Emeral Isle - A Lot of Bull

Our Emerald Isle – A Lot of Bull

He pranced around the arena in triumph with his head held high in a majestic pose that called out to everyone that he was superior, he was dominate, he was courageous.  He was as bold as he was black.

When I was a young man I was not what you would call a good athlete but I was able to rise to the pinnacle of a mediocre career in one sport because, as my football coach said, “You don’t mind getting knocked down.”  The ability to get up from a pounding can serve a person well in the journey of life but one can not play the game after a certain age.  Ask any NFL player.

Now my brother Brian on the other hand was the type of young athlete that participated in the type of games that he could play into adulthood.  If you were choosing up sides for almost any adult team event he would be one of the first ones picked.  But regardless there comes a time when one has to hang up the jock and leave real competition to the young and think in terms of coaching or managing or just watching.  There in lay the crux and subject of this muse.

Brian and I were closing down the pub one evening and he looked a little forlorn.  I asked him what the problem was and he said it was getting close to October and it had just occurred to him that this past summer was the first summer in a very long time that he had not played baseball and that he couldn’t play basketball this winter due to there being no basketball court in Dever.  In fact, he said, that other than an occasional dart game there was absolutely no competitive or even non competitive games taking place anywhere in the village.

I could tell he was still pondering the situation while we kept cleaning and when we were through for the evening I decided we ought to dirty two glasses.  Over a black and tan or two I thought I would try to lift his spirits.  It was my duty as an older brother to give guidance and solace and care to my younger and weaker siblings. (Which also brought to mind that I was going to have to have a talk with Traci-she was staying out way to late these days - but to continue about cheering up Brian.)  I suggested that perhaps we could sponsor some sort of athletic event.  He thought that over for a moment and then said that was an excellent idea. (Most of my ideas are excellent and I am sure I stand in front of my kin and peers while they look at me in ah.)  So we started our planning process, which consisted first of drawing another black and tan.  Now what kind of sporting event should it be?

Football and basketball came to mind, but neither of us could name an Irish football (perhaps with the exception of Pat O'Brian) or basketball player, must not be in the blood.  Besides outfitting a team and preparing a suitable playing area would be very expensive.  Baseball was out because it reminded the Irish of cricket thus reminding them of the hated English.  Golf took to much room; boxing was not seriously considered due to the fact that there were enough fights on Saturday and Friday here at Dever’s and at every wake and funeral around the community; and Soccer and rugby were dismissed because we figured no one wanted to work that hard.  Boat racing was a possibility because of the lake near by but the boats at the wharf were more for commercial fishing and cargo and not for sporting.  Swimming?, to cold most of the year, volleyball?, too many short people due to intermarrying with the leprechaun county to the north and in the same token we both agreed that Dwarf tossing was a little insensitive and might alienate some of our customers.  Horse racing might have been a possibility but those who owned horses used them to pull carts and plows.  We thought we came up with a winner when chariot or plow racing sprang to mind, but the carts were old and rickety and I am not sure plow racing is even a sport.  If Bev, Abdul, or Taci were at our meeting, bocce ball, camel racing, and spin the bottle would have been suggested, but they weren’t so they weren’t.  Like Brian said, “Who can get excited over someone throwing big balls at a little one and most of the town wouldn’t be able to climb on a camel because they are so short and Traci would cheat.”

Brian eventually grew tired and said, “You know this is all just a bunch of bull, I am tired of wrestling with the problem.”   ‘Epiphany!’ or would ‘Eureka!’ fit better?

 ************

It was billed as the Dever Bull Wrestling Championship.  The village butcher donated an old bull just long enough for us to use it in the championship before it went under the knife.  It had just arrived by cart transport which as I found out later was the standard mode of transporting a bull in rural Ireland whether it for butchering or breeding. 

The bull appeared rather docile and walked around the pen like a whipped pup.  He really could be lead by the nose.  I think he must have been depressed because he realized that when there were no cows waiting for him in the corral, the end was near.  The fight had gone out of him.

The object of bull wrestling, Brian and I decided, would be sort of like regular wrestling.  The bull would be thrown on its back and made to stay there for 10 seconds one way or another.  Now we realized that no one man could take down a bull by himself so keeping in the spirit of having as many as we could participate we decided that there should be teams of a 5:1 ratio - five humans to one bull.  There was no particular reason for the number 5.  It was selected because we had five fingers on one hand.  Given that reasoning I guess it could have been 10, 15, 20 or in some cases 21 to 1 if all digits were counted and a male was doing the counting but 5 sounded about right.  I know too much information.

Seven teams entered in all.  All were sponsored by local entities.  The Catholic Church had a team of young seminarians who “just happened” to be transferred to Devere prior to the event thus making them eligible.  The police department fielded a team even though they had to use two who were serving a 30 day sentence for non support.  There were thee family teams whose sons were very large.  Being an election year the mayor sponsored a team that consisted of two women and even though he was applauded for his diversity it was thought he had very little chance.  And of course there was a team representing Dever’s Pub.

Among the odd makers it was wagered that Dever’s Pub would finish last behind the Mayors team.  They were probably right at the time because none of my regulars were in any shape to man handle a bull and those who were, were already on one of the other teams.  Brian and I were not eligible because we sponsored the event, Abdul was not a citizen he claimed, and Bev and Traci just right out refused.  Through guile and coercion and free drinks for a month we did manage to drum up four sods but were stymied on who would be the fifth. 

We were having a training and strategy session around the bar one morning, when a stranger walked in and ordered a pint.  He sat at the end of the bar and listened to our ‘going no where’ banter, which mostly consisted of trying to figure out who would be the fifth man on the team.

“Excuse me gents,” the stranger interrupted, “But I seem to understand that you are looking for one more team member.  I might be able to help given some sort of consideration.  I just arrived in town and know a little about bulls.  You see I am a Bull Baller, the name is Sandy.”

******* 

Dever’s Pub’s, team lead by its captain Sandy, having been duly elected by the team members, with a little help of a pint of two provided by the sponsor, was the last team to try their luck.  All other teams had failed.  No team even came close.  What appeared to be a docile creature when he arrived in Dever had regained some energy when a shipment of cows were herded into the corral next to his.  It sort of gave him some vim and vigor and like all lecherous old men he thought he might have one more time in him.  He needed to show off some is what I guess.  Typical male, but we Alpha males have no choice, it is our DNA.

I really didn’t think our team had any chance at all given the plan Sandy laid out but what did I know.  As the bull was prancing about flaunting his stuff four of our team, Sandy was no where to be seen, entered the arena ever so cautiously.  Instead of approaching the bull they stood by the fence separating the bull and the cows.  The bull kept alternating his attention between the intruders and the cows behind them.  He must have been concentrating very hard on if the new additions to the corral were a threat or perhaps he was just wishing they would get out of his way so he could gander on the cows and make his selection.  Regardless he was not paying attention behind him.  Sandy walked up behind him very stealthily and took the bull’s @#%& in his hand and started massaging them.  It looked like he said something out loud as he fondled the bull’s @#%& and then with a nod of his head, the bulls, Sandy nodded his head and the other team members approached.  Each member took a position by a different bull leg and gently bent each leg at the knee and the bull slowly sank down, first on all four knees, then on its side and eventually rolled over with a little nudging.  All the while Sandy was massaging the bull’s @#%&.

All climbed on the stomach of the bull, took the 10 count and all but Sandy jumped off and walked out of the arena.  Sandy positioned himself in such a manner as to make a fast get a way when he let go of the bull’s @#%& and ran towards the fence.  The bull jumped up and went in hot pursuit.  The bull might have gored Sandy but with great timing the butcher opened a gate leading to the cows.  This immediately got the bull’s attention and must have confused him some.  He looked at Sandy, then at the open gate and made a decision.  Instead of running Sandy down or even running though the gate like a young bull and having his way with one of the heifers, the wizened old bull walked over to the opening, through the gate, and, how should I say,  “A good time was had my all.”

During our celebration at Dever’s Pub that evening I got Sandy aside and asked him what exactly happened and how he did it.

“Well you see sir, I come from a long line of bull ballers.  You not being from these parts I suspect you don’t know that when ever we transport a bull from one breeding function to another we have to do it by cart.  Some bulls can get very obstinate and cause a lot of havoc, so a bull baller is hired to sit in the back of the cart, and place a bull @#%& restrainer on the bull’s @#%&.  You can imagine that in and of itself that can be sort of awkward.  But though a series of touches and massaging that have been handed down father to son over many years a technique has developed that enables the bull to realize that after the touch and massaging is finished one of two things are going to happen.  He will either be let loose to breed with a cow or @#%& clamps are going to be put on him.  If he protests the clamps come out and put on and tightened and the more he protests the tighter the clamps become.  A bull as old as the one this afternoon knew the drill very well and even understands the human voice.  He also knew me.  When I took his @#%& in my hands he recognized the touch and I told him to behave himself, do what he was instructed and I would not get the clamps out like I had on the way down.  See I was the bull baller who came into town with him.  So when he noticed the cows in the pen and my hands on his @#%& he figured out that if he did behave himself he would not receive the clamp and get to visit the cows.  Bulls are not stupid you know, they are like men.  Both can be lead around by their nose but are much more willing to behave if some one has them by the @#%& and a woman is waiting on the other side of the fence.