Born & Bred by Peter Murphy

minister, you know? He was ordained in one of those Bible colleges they have over in America. I wonder what type of Christianity they teach over there, because there is nothing but hatred and bitterness in the man—and all those thugs that follow him.” She sniffed self-righteously and left for the living room.
    “You were doing great until that header,” Jerry said to deflect Danny.
    “Do you really think so?”
    “I do and do you know what? Maybe I could start teaching you a few things—show you a few tricks and stuff. I could even show you how to head a ball.”
    Since he’d come home everything was getting better. Granny wasn’t well but Jacinta came over every Saturday and spent the whole day with them.
    “Thanks, Da. But I’m not sure if I want to stay with this team. I’m not really enjoying it anymore.”
    “Sweet mother of Jesus,” Granny called out to them before he could answer. “Come in quick—they’re after killing a priest.”
    They rushed in as the solemn voice of the RTE recounted the day’s events: British Forces have opened fire on a peaceful march in Derry this afternoon. Reports are coming in that they have killed a number of people, including a Catholic Priest, and injured many more.
    “Holy Mary, mother of God, have mercy on us,” Granny sobbed, over and over as the evening grew darker, flickering with grainy images of bodies lying in the streets, of stone faced soldiers, with rifles ready, and the terrified survivors waving dirty white hankies as they carried the dead and dying away.
    “It will mean war,” Granny pronounced, her knuckles whitening as she gripped the arms of her chair.
    “Maybe,” Jerry prodded Danny until he turned from the screams of outrage on the streets of Derry. “You should go on up and have a bath. You got soaked today and you don’t want to be getting a cold. And I’m sure you still have some homework you could be finishing.”
    “I didn’t want him to be getting all upset,” he explained after Danny had gone, but his mother didn’t answer. She was rocking back and forth, kneading her bony hands and muttering about vengeance, “because that’s all those godless heathens understand.”
    “Maybe we should turn it off now?” He was worried that she would work herself into a state.
    “It won’t change anything if we do. They’re killing our people right there in front of everybody, as bold as brass. Poor innocent people who were just out asking that they be given the same rights as anybody else. I don’t believe them when they say that they were shooting people carrying petrol bombs—they’re all murderers at heart, that lot, just like the Black and Tans.”
    “C’mon now, Mam. Let’s turn it off and have a cup of tea?”
    His mother turned slowly from the screen and eyed him coldly. “Tea? Is that the best that you can do? You should be up there, right now, defending the people like your father did.”
    “I don’t believe in violence. I don’t think it will solve our problems.”
    “And what do you suggest we do? Sit on our arses and sing rebel songs?”
    “And what’ll be gained by fighting back? Sure, we can kill a few of them but then they’ll come back and kill some of us and then the killing will go on and on for years.”
    “It’s the only language they understand for all their talk about fair play and all.”
    “But Mam, the problem is that the working people have to see that they’re all the same no matter which side they’re from. And they have to realize that it’s their masters who’re the real enemy, not each other.”
    “That’s fine talk coming from you. Is that what you learnt in your one and only year in university? Well let me tell you something. You can’t talk to the British. They’ll never listen to us. Violence is the only thing they ever understand, mark my words. That was how we got the twenty-six counties back. We fought them until they were brought to their knees. Only then would they agree to