ORLA

Many years ago, when I was in secondary school (I guess I was about 13) my best friend was called Orla.   Orla had beautiful red hair, pale skin and light blue eyes.  She was a sweet person and I was very fond of her.   Orla came from a deeply religious family who prayed together every evening and she was a somewhat pious person considering her young age.

I went through various sporting phases at school.    Hockey (too rough and all that bruising); Netball (very energetic and sweaty) and Tennis (the love for which stays with me still).   

During my Netball phase, Orla and I were on the same team.  We played in the Dublin Girls Schools under-14 League.  So every Saturday, our school either hosted a team from another school or travelled to another school located anywhere within the confines of Dublin City and County Dublin.  In those days parents never came to the game to watch and cheer and we would travel with our team mates unsupervised on some bus or buses to the destination.  Yes the whole team, in our uniforms, with our bus fares in our gym skirt pockets to such exotic places as Rathfarnham (part of the city now but considered rural in those days) or along the Howth Road to a school called Santa Sabina somewhere in Sutton.

We got to the semi-finals (much to everyone's surprise) and we travelled to Mount Sackville School in Chapelizod to play this important match.

As you can imagine, we were excited and tense and the more competitive girls on the team huddled together working out our strategies and contingencies.

In the first half, the momentum was with us and going to the half time whistle, we were 8 baskets up.

This caused complacency to set in and 10 minutes into the second half, they scored - followed five minutes later by another.    Soon it was 8-5 ....  how did that happen!

And the momentum shifted.    Suddenly we stopped attacking and guarded defence play was all we could seem to do.

They became gladiators; ducking, weaving, passing the ball around with impunity.    What happened to us!  .....  the conquering heroes from South Dublin.

Very soon it was 8 all with one minute to play.  Their captain came into our half aimed and found the net.   9-8 to them.   Silence fell on the hall - we could scarcely believe it.    Even the winning team was speechless as the shrill sound of the full time whistle vibrated around the hall.

Then out of nowhere, I heard a cry of rage and frustration:   BLOODY BACKSIDES;   BLOODY BLOODY BACKSIDES    followed by a scream of anguish.     

All eyes turned to Orla.    Holy, well mannered, grace before meals Orla screamed the worst obscenity she could think of.   It was at once primal and comedic at the same time.

I hugged her as she wept uncontrollably.    'Jean' she said 'I'm so sad we lost and I said those terrible words.   The worst words I have ever uttered.  I am so ashamed on myself'.

I didnt know what to say.   When you are 13, you never know what to say.

Orla's family emigrated to Vancouver in Canada 3 years later.  We wrote for a while but sadly lost touch

I remember her with fondness and affection - even more so, because she showed herself to be not perfect - to be prone to rage and frustration just like her less than perfect team mates.


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It's a nasty day in Dublin and I have been dossing around sketching, eating and watching telly.  I am currently watching The Armstrong Lie on Sky Documentaries.    Lance was a nasty piece of work.   Great documentary though.  I would recommend.