cries now as he laughs. He feels the weight, the sadness, fall right through him. He wipes his eyes. He continues to laugh. Many times, Joseph made his father laugh. He remembers the sound of his father's laughter; he sees his father's face.
He laughs. He wipes his eyes. He looks at the other boys. They are looking at the classroom door.
Miss stands in front of Joseph.
He stops laughing. He waits.
He is surprised. She does not seem angry. She looks at Joseph for some long time.
—The three musketeers, she says. —In you go.
She stands aside.
Christian Kelly enters the room. Joseph follows Christian Kelly. Seth Quinn follows Joseph.
57% Irish
1 Robbie Keane's Goal
Ray Brady looked at the screen. He looked at the young man on the screen, who was looking at another screen. The young man, student, both parents Irish, was about to watch Robbie Keane's goal against Germany in the 2002 World Cup, back in more innocent times, before the collapse of the euro and Ray's near-marriage.
There was a monitor strapped to the young man's heart, another snuggled in under his testicles. His head was lodged in a comfortable brace that allowed him to look at the screen and nothing else.
The second screen gave Ray a good view of the young man's eyes. He needed the young man to become excited at the sight of Keane's goal. Not necessarily very excited, just a little, measurable bit excited – a wobble in the heartbeat, a little dilation of the pupils. But the young man was showing nothing.
Niall Quinn flicked the ball down for Keane. Keane scored. The young man yawned.
The idea – the thesis – had come to Ray in the minutes, three years before, just after Robbie Keane had actually scored that goal and Ray had hugged and kissed maybe fifteen people in the pub, and he'd found himself in the arms of a big lad from Poland. And he'd wondered. Why was this guy hugging Ray? Kissing his forehead. Punching the air. Throwing his head back and singing.
—YOU'LL NEVER BEAT THE EYE-RISH
YOU'LL NEVER BEAT THE EYE-RISH—
Why?
Because his own team was shite? (Poland had been beaten the day before, by South Korea.) Because he'd been in Ireland a while and felt that he was one of the gang? Because he wanted to feel that way?
Why?
How did you measure nationality? That was what Ray had wanted to know back then, when flags flapped on half the cars, when the week-long hangover was the badge of national pride; when, four weeks after Robbie Keane scored that goal, Ray's girlfriend, Stalin, announced that she was pregnant. Russian ma, Irish da – what would that make the baby?
—German, said his brother.
Ray went into that World Cup happily lost, no longer a student, not yet a graduate, a native of Templeogue. And he came out the other end a graduate, a screaming success, a daddy-to-be, and a native of near-Tallaght, where Robbie Keane came from.
Stalin wasn't his girlfriend's real name, just her temperament. Anyway, by the time the baby – a boy: Vladimir Damien – was born, Ray had a research grant and a title: 'Olé Olé Olé – Football and the Road to Irishness'. He'd starting off flying, reading anything that seemed useful – The Territorial Imperative, Modern Ireland, Mein Kampf and Shoot. He'd designed and redesigned techniques that would let him measure love of country via football, ways that were new and sexy and beyond scepticism. He'd set up his lab in the shed in his parents' back garden; they'd bought it especially for him.
—There'll be a plaque on that shed one of these days, said his mother.
—It's not a shed, said his father. —I paid 3,000 euros for that thing, so it's a fuckin' chalet.
Ray had shown the Keane goal to hundreds of people, and monitored their reactions – both parents Irish, male; both parents Irish, female; one parent Irish, both genders; neither parents Irish, European; neither parents Irish, non-European. And, as he measured their glee or indifference, in the first months of his study, he became
He laughs. He wipes his eyes. He looks at the other boys. They are looking at the classroom door.
Miss stands in front of Joseph.
He stops laughing. He waits.
He is surprised. She does not seem angry. She looks at Joseph for some long time.
—The three musketeers, she says. —In you go.
She stands aside.
Christian Kelly enters the room. Joseph follows Christian Kelly. Seth Quinn follows Joseph.
57% Irish
1 Robbie Keane's Goal
Ray Brady looked at the screen. He looked at the young man on the screen, who was looking at another screen. The young man, student, both parents Irish, was about to watch Robbie Keane's goal against Germany in the 2002 World Cup, back in more innocent times, before the collapse of the euro and Ray's near-marriage.
There was a monitor strapped to the young man's heart, another snuggled in under his testicles. His head was lodged in a comfortable brace that allowed him to look at the screen and nothing else.
The second screen gave Ray a good view of the young man's eyes. He needed the young man to become excited at the sight of Keane's goal. Not necessarily very excited, just a little, measurable bit excited – a wobble in the heartbeat, a little dilation of the pupils. But the young man was showing nothing.
Niall Quinn flicked the ball down for Keane. Keane scored. The young man yawned.
The idea – the thesis – had come to Ray in the minutes, three years before, just after Robbie Keane had actually scored that goal and Ray had hugged and kissed maybe fifteen people in the pub, and he'd found himself in the arms of a big lad from Poland. And he'd wondered. Why was this guy hugging Ray? Kissing his forehead. Punching the air. Throwing his head back and singing.
—YOU'LL NEVER BEAT THE EYE-RISH
YOU'LL NEVER BEAT THE EYE-RISH—
Why?
Because his own team was shite? (Poland had been beaten the day before, by South Korea.) Because he'd been in Ireland a while and felt that he was one of the gang? Because he wanted to feel that way?
Why?
How did you measure nationality? That was what Ray had wanted to know back then, when flags flapped on half the cars, when the week-long hangover was the badge of national pride; when, four weeks after Robbie Keane scored that goal, Ray's girlfriend, Stalin, announced that she was pregnant. Russian ma, Irish da – what would that make the baby?
—German, said his brother.
Ray went into that World Cup happily lost, no longer a student, not yet a graduate, a native of Templeogue. And he came out the other end a graduate, a screaming success, a daddy-to-be, and a native of near-Tallaght, where Robbie Keane came from.
Stalin wasn't his girlfriend's real name, just her temperament. Anyway, by the time the baby – a boy: Vladimir Damien – was born, Ray had a research grant and a title: 'Olé Olé Olé – Football and the Road to Irishness'. He'd starting off flying, reading anything that seemed useful – The Territorial Imperative, Modern Ireland, Mein Kampf and Shoot. He'd designed and redesigned techniques that would let him measure love of country via football, ways that were new and sexy and beyond scepticism. He'd set up his lab in the shed in his parents' back garden; they'd bought it especially for him.
—There'll be a plaque on that shed one of these days, said his mother.
—It's not a shed, said his father. —I paid 3,000 euros for that thing, so it's a fuckin' chalet.
Ray had shown the Keane goal to hundreds of people, and monitored their reactions – both parents Irish, male; both parents Irish, female; one parent Irish, both genders; neither parents Irish, European; neither parents Irish, non-European. And, as he measured their glee or indifference, in the first months of his study, he became
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