Cormac O’Connell—Twelve Years Earlier
“Whatcha cryin’ for?” I asked the skinny blond kid. He was sitting with his legs dangling over the side of the riverbank. I could tell he’d been crying because he was sniffling and rubbing his eyes with the back of his arms.
“Feck off,” the kid told me. Fucking charming. I’d only been in my new school a couple of weeks. Since me da left, Ma had been moving us from place to place, looking for a replacement husband I guess. I didn’t want a replacement da. I just wanted to stay in one place for a while so she could clean herself up. Some clothes that fit me would be nice as well. I was getting sick of scavenging about in Ma’s loose change when she’d passed out after a drinking binge, then stretching the money between food and charity shop clothes. Every new school meant new kids making fun of the way I looked. I didn’t like talking much so, when they started on me, looking for an easy mark, I punched them in the face and stopped them talking. I was a pretty big kid, and you didn’t have to punch that hard to shock most people.
“There’s no need to be a dick about it. I was only trying to help,” I said to him. I don’t know why I was wasting my time with this kid, ’cept maybe because he was Irish too. I’d heard him and a couple of other boys talking in class, and they all had Irish accents. Outside of my parents, I’d never met any Irish before. He looked me up and down then stared at me hard. Finally he said, “You can sit down if you want.” I don’t know why I shrugged and took a seat next to him. I wasn’t looking for a friend or anything. I was just curious I guess. This kid usually looked like he didn’t have a care in the world.
“Where are you going?” he asked me.
“Me ma’s out so I was going to try and get something to eat.” I didn’t explain that I was looking for some food to steal. There was no money left in Ma’s pocket when I found her passed out this morning.
“You can come to my house for dinner if you like. Me ma always cooks enough for about five people when she’s stressed.”
“Okay,” I agreed. I didn’t know this kid or his ma, but no way was I turning down a free meal, especially if it was hot.
“Why’s she stressed?” I asked. He kicked at some stone embedded into the grass, and I didn’t think he was going to answer.
“We just found out that me da’s sick. His chest is bad from breathing in some shite at work. Doctors don’t think they can fix him,” he explained quietly.
“That blows,” I said. I didn’t know what else to say. There was a gravel path behind us so I gathered up a pile of stones and dropped them down between us. He looked at me sort of confused
“See those beer bottles down there?” I asked indicating the empty bottles someone had thrown down the bank. “You wanna see who can smash them first?”
“Why?” he asked.
“Why not?” I answered. “Breaking shit always makes me feel better. Might work for you too.” I don’t know if it did, but he didn’t talk about his da anymore. Instead he talked about his friends and the stuff they got up to, what comics and television shows he liked. I didn’t say much. The picture on our television was shite, and I didn’t have money for food let alone comics. I liked that he didn’t push me to talk. Hell, when this kid got going, you couldn’t get a word in edgeways anyway. When I’d smashed all the bottles, ’cause he couldn’t throw for shit, we got up and walked back to his house for dinner. I was so hungry that I was practically dragging him. “What’s your name anyway?” he asked me.
“Cormac O’Connell. But everyone just calls me Con.”
“I’m Kieran,” he replied. “And me mates at school are Tommy and Liam. You can sit with us tomorrow if you like,” he offered.
“Okay,” I said. “What’s for dinner?”
“Chicken, roast potatoes, and veg, I think,” he told me. He turned his nose up at the last part, like veg was something disgusting that he was forced to eat. My mouth watered, and I dragged him a bit faster.
* * *
That was pretty much the day that Kieran Doherty became my best friend. The sicker his da got, and the worse things got for me at home, the more trouble we got into, mainly ’cause we were letting off steam. That and I never let anybody fuck with us. Hitting someone who deserved it made everything seem better. I couldn’t or wouldn’t hit me ma, and Kier couldn’t hit the people who made his da sick, so we hit anyone else who gave us shit.
“You ever been to that gym John Callaghan trains at?” I asked Kier one day.
“John Callaghan in year six?” he said.
“You know any other John Callaghans?” I replied sarcastically.
“Seven others, including him,” he shot back straightaway, and I rolled my eyes.
“I heard the guy who owns the place is Irish too. You reckon he’d let us train there?” I asked him.
“Why would he? We can’t pay him nothing,” Kieran said.
“We could sweep floors and do jobs and stuff,” I suggested.
“I don’t see why he’d go for it, but we could try,” he agreed. The idea of actually learning to box properly made me excited, and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been excited about anything.
The next day we headed to John Callaghan’s gym after school, and after hanging around outside for a bit, we built up the courage and went in. It was four in the afternoon and already pretty busy, mainly with older boys like John, who was already changed and going at it on one of the heavy punch bags. I itched to join him. Finally some guy noticed us and stared suspiciously.
“What do you two want?” he asked us.
“Can we train here?” I called back.
“No, you’re too young. Owner’s rules are you need to be at least sixteen.” I wanted to tell him to fuck off and that we were sixteen, which we weren’t, but I couldn’t risk pissing the owner off if they were friends.
“That’s it then,” Kier said as we walked back down the steps.
“Fuck him,” I said. “He doesn’t own the place. We’ll just hang about for the owner to get here. I’ll offer to do jobs for him and see what he says.” ’Course we weren’t known for our patience, and by the time the guy actually showed up, we were scrapping outside the doors.
“What the feckin’ hell are you two little shites doin’?” the owner asked us.
“We want to train here,” I told him. “We ain’t got money but we both hit good and we work hard. We can sweep up and do jobs and stuff to pay our way,” I told him in one great big rush, trying to spit it all out before he stopped me.
“I don’t train kids. You’ve got to be sixteen to fight here,” he said and walked past us, through the doors.
“Can we go home now?” Kier asked. “I’m starving.” Kier’s ma cooked like nobody I ever met. She let me eat with them almost every night and I think she must have known how things were at home. She never said anything but she came to parent teacher meetings for me or, if the school ever called, backing up my story that Ma was really sick. Never one to turn down a meal, I went with him but dragged him back every day for a week until the owner, Danny, gave in and let us train there once. After that he couldn’t get rid of us. One night there and I was totally addicted. After a couple of months, John was scheduled to fight one of the boys from a gym across Canning Town. The night before the fight, Danny told all of us to grab our coats, and he dragged us to church. We knew some of the other kids had to go to church before a fight, but he’d never asked us to go before.
“What’re we doing here?” I asked.
“He goes to church to clear his head and get ready for the fight. You want to be part of this gym, then you go too or you don’t get to train. That’s the way this family works.”
It was clear that Danny wasn’t messing around. So I sat on the bench with my hands in my pockets looking bored, and Kieran sat next to me the same way. Finally Father Pat came out to get me.
“So, Cormac, Danny tells me that you like to fight,” he said as he showed me to my seat.
I wanted to tell him that of course I liked it, why else would I hang around at Danny’s, but I didn’t think Danny would appreciate me being sarcastic to Father Pat and I couldn’t afford to piss him off.
“You can call me Con, Father. Everyone else does,” I answered. “And yes. Makes me feel better.”
“About what, son?” he asked.
“About everything,” I answered.
“I understand that it’s getting you into a bit of trouble at school though,” he added. I shifted about on my seat wondering how he could have known that.
“I don’t need school anyway. Me and Kier are going to leave as soon as we can. Get a job in construction before I become a boxer full-time.”
“I see,” he said with a smile. “You have it all worked out then.” I nodded in answer. “Being a professional boxer requires a great deal of discipline you know,” he told me.
“I ain’t afraid of hard work. I can train as hard as the other boys do,” I argued.
“I’m sure Con. But that’s not what I meant.”
I frowned at him, pissed off that he thought I wouldn’t be as dedicated as the older kids. I could kick half their arses now.
“You know, there’s a story of an old Cherokee man who told his grandsons, ‘There is a battle between two wolves inside us all. One is Evil. It’s anger, jealousy, greed, resentment, inferiority, lies, and ego. The other is Good. It is joy, peace, love, hope, humility, kindness, empathy, and truth.’ The boy thought about it and asked, ‘Grandfather, which wolf wins?’ The old man quietly replied, ‘The one you feed.’ I don’t know who said it, but it’s a good story.”
“I don’t get it,” I answered, confused. “What does it mean?”
“It means, Con, that you’ve been dealt a bad hand in life. But one day, you have to decide what kind of man you want to be. You have to choose which wolf you feed.”