The Cliftonville Football Club stadium was a venerated wooden structure built in the 1920s near Belfast, Ireland. On game day it creaked and moaned like it was retelling a story of what was happening out on the pitch. Even on the days the stadium was empty you could hear “peculiar” sounds. People who asked were told it was a normal sound; wood expanded and contracted in the cold and heat. There were no spirits in the stadium.
Old Mr. Forsythe mopped the vacant coaches’ offices with a swinging, effortless motion. He was an unassuming man, small, frail with a large bulbous nose on a small face that looked sunburned. Mr. Forsythe mopped himself out of the offices and down the long hallway where the club’s memorabilia was kept. The Cliftonville club was founded in 1879 and the hallway was a gauntlet of glass cases with photos, banners on the walls, tarnished silver loving cups, old faded jerseys and autographed balls of bygone teams. A young man was standing at one of the trophy cases and Mr. Forsythe mopped right up to a pair of shoes, looked up and smiled.“Hi, my name Jimmie McCauley from the Daily Mirror, might I take a moment of your time? I’m writing a story for the upcoming season.” He was tall with wavy blond hair and wire rimmed glasses that he wore low on his nose. “None of the coaches are here. You’ll have to return.” Forsythe said and mopped around the man’s shoes.
“Yes, I understand. Maybe it is not a complicated question I’m asking.” He turned and looked closely at one of the team pictures. “Either my eyesight is failing me or those boys back then…1972…wore their hair in ponytails…and…is that a girl’s name on the roster?
The reporter looked sideways at Mr. Forsythe.
With his head down and swinging the mop in a measured cadence, he answered. “That year… the club… won the league… championship. One of the greatest games ever played at the stadium.”
“One of the greatest games?” The young reporter echoed, reaching for his pencil and notepad. He liked the pencil and small notepad, instead of the hand held electronic devices for note taking.
Forsythe stopped, wiped his brow, leaned on the mop handle and said, “Well, now… I can’t account for your eyesight. Her name is Lauren Flanagan.”
“Tell me about the game?”
“Well, that was a particularly unusual year.” He dropped his head and went back to mopping the floor.
“How so?” The reporter asked?
Without stopping to look up, Mr. Forsythe said, “You had to be there.”
“Well now… Perhaps we could sit down with a couple of beers across the street at Boru’s Pub and talk.”
“Forsythe.”
“Yes. I’ll be there when you’re done. Come along.”
A half an hour later, Mr. Forsythe walked into the pub and eyed the young reporter in the backroom. The reporter was sitting at a table. On the table was a siren of a tall glass of black Guinness. Mr. Forsythe waved and walked back to join the reporter and the beer.
Raising the glass of beer and smiling, Mr. Forsythe said, “Well, now you want the telling of the story, Mr. McCauley, the greatest game ever played in our old stadium?
“Yes sir, the greatest game ever played in the Cliftonville stadium.”
The young reporter already had pencil to paper.
Forsythe raised the glass of beer and admired it. “Well, now you see, the Troubles were happening and attendance was at a very low point, and I’m not saying that was the reason, and some of the boys got banged up and couldn’t play and it was all luck really in the end and…. But I’m getting ahead of myself.” Mr. Forsythe calmed down and took another small sip of beer. “So one day… It was an open practice at the beginning of the season where all the lads thinking they have the wherewithal to make the club. At that time Paddy Biggs was coach and…what did the lads say at the time… Paddy had been a football coach before air was used to fill the ball. He was a big man and he’d been a rugby player in his youth. He always wore a green Millars tweed hat and a brown overcoat.”
The reporter started scratching as fast as he could with his pencil.
“So, Paddy was huddled with the other coaches looking the pitch over. Boys and balls flying every which way and the Flanagan girl strides up. Lauren Flanagan was tall and boney, with hair that she wore in a ponytail and a freckled face that was a map of Ireland. Paddy knew who she was because he had coached five of her older brothers. Lauren said she wanted to try out for the team. Paddy cocked his head to one side, leaned down and smiled, “Pardon miss?”
“I want to try out for the team.”
Paddy stiffened up, grinned to the other coaches and told her this was a football club for men, and just like that she came back with, “Are there any rules about having a girl on the club?” Paddy coughed a bit and said he’d have to look at the club’s fine print. Again he asked her “Was she sure what she was asking for?”
The reporter interrupted, “Were there any rules about women on the team?”
Paddy smiled and said, “Not to my knowledge. We have a woman’s league now. All because of the Flanagan girl.”
“So what did Paddy say back?” The reporter asked.
“Paddy, out of respect for the Flanagan boys who had played for him, told her to take to the pitch. The Flanagan girl ran out there and one of the boys pointed and yelled, ‘Look, one of the Flanagan boys.’ Now, that might have caused a fight but she didn’t say anything back and you could tell she was not going to be bothered. Besides we all know the Flanagans were a…reserve clan, a taciturn family. When the Flanagan girl did get the ball she was not half bad. She had good fundamentals, considering she had five older brothers teaching her. So eagle-eye Paddy watched her for a bit and then called out for the boys to go at it. The Flanagan girl was a steady ball handler and had quick feet. Several times she dribbled around and through lesser players. After watching her for a while longer, Paddy rubbed his chin and called her over. The other coaches were huddled nearby wondering what he was going to say. To their surprise, Paddy gave her small praise about her footwork and her attitude. One of the lads, one who got dribbled through, ran over and gave his unsolicited advice that she wasn’t as good as George Best. The Flanagan girl shot back, “Who is?” Of course it was a ridiculous comment at the time and still is. Paddy laughed at what she said, gave her a little pat on the back and sent her to play with the practice squad with no promise ever she would see the inside of the stadium again. The girl didn’t say a word. She just turned and walked away. The Flanagans are not much of a talking people. Not all Irish have the gift of gab. Paddy looked over at the other coaches and shrugged his shoulders. I guess he figured the young girl would never show up at practice and give up any foolish talk about making the men’s club.”
“Hold on, hold on.” The reporter pleaded, scribbling notes as fast as he could. The band in front of the pub started up and Mr. Forsythe cranked his head around to listen to the music. He tapped the table top with a finger tip to the lively jig. The reporter paused to have a long drink of his beer, wiped his foam mustache with his shirtsleeve and stared at Mr. Forsythe. The reporter waited with pencil in hand like a bird dog ready for the hunt. Mr. Forsythe took another swig of Guinness and continued.
“So the very next day at practice the coaches put her through the drills same as the boys. Giving here no allowance for being a girl. Well, after a few days the coaches had nothing but praise for her. She was the first on the pitch before practice, the last to leave and, unlike the boys who knew it all; she took to coaching and never made the same mistake twice. After a month or so, reports got back to Paddy that the Flanagan girl was the most determined player out there. As the season went on, with every practice, she got better and better. She dribbled with both feet and was a heady player, always ahead of the next player and where the ball was going. Something she learned playing with her older brothers, who, no doubt, gave her no mercy in the art of football. And she was better for it.”
Mr. Forsythe finished his beer and the reporter quickly got up and ordered another tall black beer from the barkeep.
After a long slow drink and a smile, Mr. Forsythe said, “If there is no beer in heaven, I’m not going. Now back to me story… Meanwhile, back in the men’s league, the club was struggling, many of the boys had gotten hurt and the ranks were pretty thin. Then Coach Biggs called the Flanagan girl and some other players up to practice with the starters, a prelude for calling them up on game day.”
The young reporter looked over his glasses. “Let me guess. It didn’t sit well with the rest of the players?
“Well now, Mr. McCauley… Of course some of the lads felt it was insulting. So Coach Biggs, who was wily as they came, told the boys that there was a method to his madness. What could the boys say against her? They saw her on the pitch too. And they all knew the Flanagan boys. It was out of respect, for if it was a boy, he’d been given some of the laurels of his older brothers. Why not the girl? ”
“What did the players decide to do?” The reporter asked, leaning back and taking his beer in hand.
Mr. Forsythe raised his glass, “Like good Irishmen they adjourned to the pub and talked about it into the wee hours over a beer… or three.”
The reporter grinned and likewise lifted his glass in agreement. After a quick drink he was ready again. “Then what transpired?”
“One day they had a full-on practice like it was a game. The regulars from the men’s team didn’t think much of her, she being a girl and all that. Now, sharp eyed Paddy saw this, called her and the rest of the practice squad over, diagramed a play and sure enough, with nobody paying attention, they passed her the ball and she snuck in a goal. That’s when all the regulars started pointing fingers at each other declaring she was someone else’s responsibility. So the next time she was passed the ball every man made it his undivided purpose to see she was covered. With half the team guarding her, she passed the ball to an open player and he scored. Again, the regulars were pointing fingers and making excuses as fast as their lips could flap.” Mr. Forsythe shook his head and began to laugh to himself. “It was a darling sight. That’s when Frankie O’Connor, who was the Captain at the time, walked over to her and said so all could hear. ‘Nice pass…Flanagan.’ She was one of the boys now.
“What did the girl reply?”
“I told you the Flanagans were… As I remember, she just smiled and walked away. Now if I might pause here.” Forsythe walked with a little weave in his step toward the door to the WC. The reporter reviewed his notes and then listened to the lively music.
In a moment, Forsythe returned and continued his story. The reporter noticed Forsythe’s nose and face were very red and shiny.
“The team struggled from one game to the next. Winning on luck and good fortune. Losing like school boys to men. Somehow, with more luck than skill, Paddy got the club into the championship game. But everybody knew we didn’t have enough healthy lads to make a go of it. We were head-on against Glentoran and they had kicked our ass, as they say, twice before in league play. Two nights before the championship game he called up the Flanagan girl to the squad.”
“What was that like?” The reporter asked.
Mr. Forsythe’s voice raised and his eyes flared. “Now I have to say you would have thought he had called up Cromwell or the devil himself. When word reached our fans, someone threw a brick through the window of our clubhouse. All with any opinion believed Paddy was making a big mistake. Cliftonville fans, our fans, accused Paddy of being on the payroll of the Glentoran club and other malicious stories. There was scandalous talk he was having sex with the girl and she was blackmailing him. Even the owner of the Cliftonville club at the time, who trusted Paddy’s judgment, had a closed door meeting about his decision. Nevertheless, ticket sales climbed and, of course, everyone was saying it was a gimmick to fill the seats or our side couldn’t win and was capitulating, preplanning the excuse of having a girl on the team. Either way everyone agreed it was a bad move. In every pub in Northern Ireland the talk was we couldn’t win no matter what happened. Only Divine Intervention was possible.”
Mr. Forsythe suddenly stopped and closed his eyes and leaned back, the glass in his hand. With his eyes closed and his face redder than ever he said, “Now understand, as I said, the Glentoran club had beaten us twice in league play and their goalie had shut us going back three games. His name was Marion Morrison.” Forsythe opened his eyes, chuckled and said, “He was as cocky as they come.” He continued, “Now, I’m a Cliftonville man and not in the habit to praise a Glentoran player, but I would have to say, Marion was a steady and ready goalkeeper. But he was all chin music about the little girl on the Cliftonville team. He boasted if she scored on him, he’d quit and join the priesthood.”
The sad part is that the Flanagan girl started getting death threats. And they had to check under their car for bombs every time before they started it up. When asked, the IRA was neutral on the whole Flanagan girl proposition. The young reporter stopped writing, took off his glasses and rubbed his tired hand for a moment.
“So the day of the championship game, it must have been the bluest sky and the warmest day in all of Ireland that year. When the two teams ran out on the pitch for warm-ups everybody was confused. Our boys had their hair tied in a ponytail like the Flanagan girl in an expression of unity. At first it was hard telling any of the players, boys didn’t wear their hair in ponytails.”
“Right,” the reporter said. “It was the 1970s and boys wore their hair longer back then.”
“Yes, they did. Even our fans were a bit confused, having never seen the boys with their hair in pony tails. In the stands, the Glentoran fans were screaming at the girl and some had signs that read…well, they’d be too crude to mention.
Even with all the Glentoran fans yelling down insults, she didn’t blink an eye. She’d look up into the bleechers and give them that big Irish smile and that infuriated them even more. Out on the pitch during the warm-up, our boys joked with the girl, trying to make it easy on her with all the hell coming her way.” Mr. Forsythe laughed and smiled. “The one thing everyone agreed was the Flanagan girl was the best-looking player out there. With her fine red hair, freckled face and bright white teeth, you could see she was a pretty girl. Even the Glentoran fans agreed on that one. Unfortunately, we weren’t in a beauty contest. She was in with the boys now.”
“When the game started, our girl was warming the bench and everyone thought she was called up to sell seats and that was that. Well now…the first half of the game our boys were quickly down two to nil and even though we were playing our hearts out, well, heart was not going to carry the team far enough to win. At halftime, when our players trotted off the pitch toward the clubhouse the fans were yelling at Paddy he should play the girl because she couldn’t do any worse than the boys. At the start of the second half, the blue Irish sky turned gray and cold and the wind rose up in the face of the Glentoran club, which was encouraging. But the second half was more of the same—our boys just couldn’t get a break in the pitch. With less than five minutes to go and the end of the world looking our team straight in the face, Paddy called the Flanagan girl off the bench and into the breach.”
The reporter closed the notepad and leaned forward listening. “What happened then?”
“Now I’ve been to many a football matche and I swear to the Almighty above…” Mr. Forsythe blessed himself with emphasis. “…when she trotted out into the pitch you couldn’t tell who was who, and what was what. I mean to say, fans from both sides of the stadium were cheering and booing. It was a peculiar sight. As soon as the Glentoran players saw her, they all started acting silly. Marion Morrison pranced around the net in a sissy way, fussing with his hair and throwing his head around like he was some darling diva.
When the action started, all eyes were on the Flanagan girl. She got the ball straight away and a Glentoran defender quickly took the ball away from her. Soon the fans forgot she was out there, I guess they were more worried about the two nil score and the poor way our boys were playing.”
Mr. Forsythe quickly took another drink, lowered his voice like he was in church and leaned forward across the table. The two men were face to face.
“So our boys worked the ball down near the Glentoran net, and what can best be described as a scrum with everybody kicking, pushing and shoving, the ball rolls out, and the Flanagan girl is in the right place at the right time. In the blink of an eye, she chipped the ball into the back of the net. It happened so fast every player out there, including the referees, weren’t sure what happened. Even Paddy on the sideline craned his neck and asked one of the assistant coaches did he get a better look. With the signal of a referee, the stadium went absolutely wild and I was afraid the old girl was coming down. Our boys rushed over to the girl and gave her gentle taps on the shoulders and arms, as if they were a wee bit confused what to do. Marion pointed his finger bellowing she was lucky and it won’t be happening again.”
Mr. Forsythe chuckled to remember. “As a wee reminder he was going to quit and become a priest, our boys filed by one by one and genuflected in front of Marion’s net and blessed themselves like they were in church.” The referee came over to warn the boys about their antics.
The reporter suddenly remembered he wasn’t taking notes and reached for his pencil.
“Not more than a minute later, our boys worked the ball down again and somebody, I think it was Patrick O’Malley, kicked the ball back out to the Flanagan girl.”
Mr. Forsyth paused again to remember.
“Now the shot she took was a little too long and under most circumstances had a snowball chance in hell of finding the net, but the ball sailed through a forest of legs and kicking feet, and defied the laws of thermodynamics into the net. This time I knew for sure this old wooden stadium was coming down it shook so much. People were stamping their feet and jumping up and down and you’d thought we’d won the World Cup, and gone to heaven. Again, after she scored she didn’t show any emotion. She just trotted out to her position and stood there. Our boys were afraid to jump on her after the first goal, but with the second goal every man went out there and grabbed her in some way; all of them proper Irish men, not sure how to properly approach the subject. By now the Glentoran fans were yelling and cursing and threatening the referees with bodily harm. Then they started throwing bottles and tins and even their shoes out onto the pitch. And the Flanagan girl, she just stood her ground and smiled up at the shouting and cursing. It was a darling sight. The young woman was, excuse my metaphors, eating it up, staring with a big smile up at the opposing fans, and the fury coming down on her. The referees had to stop the game and clean the rubbish. Two police officers stood in front of the crowd to restore order. Paddy called the entire team over to the sideline out of harm’s way. Then on account of the cold he took off his overcoat and put it around the girl.”
“Trying to keep his star player warm?” The smiling reporter asked.
“You might be saying that Mr. McCauley. When the players took the field again you could feel the momentum of the game change. Everyone knew something electric was going to happen.”
Mr. Forsythe stopped talking again and took some time to think and compose himself. The young reporter took a deep breath and stared at Mr. Forsythe.
Mr. Forsythe lowered his voice to a hushed whisper. “To take nothing away from the boys from Glentoran, they were tired. And the Flanagan girl who didn’t play the first half and most of the second had a little more spark in her step. So, the Glentoran boys worked the ball down and got off a good shot but it was blocked by our goalie. Then all the tired players faded to about midfield, hands on their hips, dead tired, gray breath coming from their mouths on the cold day. Our goalie kicked a high arching ball one of the Glentoran players got under and tried to head back, but the ball glanced off the back of his head toward their goal. Once again our gal was in the right place at the right time and took the ball in full stride and made a breakaway toward the Glentoran net. Two Glentoran defenders were there, one ran after her but was too tired to catch her. As for the second defender, she just dribbled past him, with nothing between her and the net except Marion Morrison. That’s when every man, woman, child and God above, held their breath in wonder amazement. In silence she dribbled the ball straight toward the Glentoran, Morrison, crouching low, his arms spread out and a determined look on his face. When she got close enough, she stutter stepped, Marion went one way and the ball the other way deep into the net. This time she pumped her fist in the air and fell to her knees screaming like a banshee. Our boys mobbed her in a large pile on the ground, the whistle sounded and the game was over. Berserk fans from both sides surged into the melee like marauding Huns, women were screaming and pulling their hair, old men were crying and fist fights broke out. Someone said they heard several gunshots.”
Mr. Forsythe abruptly stopped talking and sat back with his eyes closed, his face flushed and sweaty. The young reporter took a second to finish his notes and then rubbed his cramped hand.
”What happened to the Flanagan girl?” The reporter asked.
“Very soon after that game she got married and moved away to Scotland.
“And she never played another game?” The reporter asked, cocking his head to one side.
“No.”
“Do you ever see her again?”
“She’ll wander back with her children to watch a game and cheer the lads on from time to time.”
The reporter closed his pad. “That was some story,”
Mr. Forsythe rose up in his seat. “The greatest games ever played in that old stadium. In my humble opinion. Never take it away from what a girl can do.”
It was dusk outside the pub when the men shook hands and the reporter walked back across the street in front of the old stadium. The sun had given way to the twilight of long shadows and the streets were quiet. The young man stopped to remember a small detail and reached for his notepad and pencil. That’s when he heard the creaking sounds coming from the old Cliftonville stadium.