The Magic of Reading and Writing

 by Jordan McCarthy

a hot chocolate with marshmallows

I discovered the magic of storytelling at a very young age. At bedtime, my father would always read me a story, which would fill my mind with images of faraway lands and magical feats. Sometimes, I would ask him to tell me a story without the book. Perhaps that was an early sign of my hopes to create fiction myself one day! Mam would take me to the library or the newsagents after school and on weekends, where I'd browse the latest children's titles. A book, as it still is now, was a gift like no other. 

One of the first series that I can recall becoming really engrossed in, aside from that of J.K. Rowling's larger-than-life Harry Potter series, was The Saga of Darren Shan. I remember a school friend was reading the first title in the series, Cirque Du Freak, one afternoon in class. The book had a tarantula navigating a spider’s web on the cover. I learned that Cirque Du Freak was the tale of a boy, who had stumbled across a freak-show-type circus and who was blackmailed to join forces with a vampire. I was fascinated and I immediately set along on the twelve-book trek! I devoured that first book, along with The Vampire's Assistant, Tunnel Of Blood, Vampire Mountain, Trials Of Death, The Vampire Prince....all the way up to book number twelve. 

I can still vividly recall the characters from Darren Shan's series. There was Larten Crepsley, the vampire who transforms Shan into a half-vampire in return for saving his pal. Evra Von was the 'snake boy' in the freak show. I also found it fascinating that the vampires in the series weren't just typical vampires from other stories. No, these guys were alive and could be killed. They didn't have fangs, but they drank blood by opening a vein in someone's hand, and could then spit saliva on it to heal the wound. They climbed walls with their razor-sharp nails. They flitted, too, which is basically like an extraordinarily-fast run that took vampires from one place to another in a seriously-quick time. 

I loved the smell of a new book. As I flicked open each page, a fresh bookish smell filled my nostrils. I would lie on my bed and read, glasses on and fully immersed in a world of fantasy. I think that is when the creator inside of me grew curious. I wonder if I could write a story like this…

Sport has always been a passion. Even before reading novels and school textbooks, I would sit down on a Sunday morning and skim through the back pages of the News of the World. The 'Transfer Gossip' section was undoubtedly my favourite. I would relish reading about the latest European starlet Manchester United were scouting, or which  'Galactico'  was rumoured to be joining the Premier League that summer. 

I didn't really take on writing until early adulthood, but the desire to write, both fiction and non-fiction, had long been ignited. When I later discovered the majesty of the writing of authors such as Dan Brown, and the intrigue generated by a peer writing about sport for the college magazine, I felt determined to write.

Now, as a writer, I know that my work has been influenced by my reading, dating from the days of growing up. I've realised that without writing, we wouldn't have any great reading material. And without a demand for reading, we wouldn't have any need for great writing. Read. Write. Write. Read.  Come to think about it, Read & Write was the name of the shop where I purchased a lot of my books and magazines back in those days. Or more like where they were purchased for me! 

About the author

Jordan McCarthy is a writer, podcaster and producer from Cork, Ireland. He has written sports features for The Echo and The Irish Examiner.  Read his blog, 'Tipping Away', at thejordanmccarthyblog.wordpress.com or check out his podcast, 'Leeside Lives'. 

 

The Colour Of It All

 by Jordan McCarthy 

a ruby red stout

The majestic gates of Cheltenham racecourse rise in front of me. Big, golden letters arc above the welcoming pillars, bordered by a blue sky, dotted with cotton clouds. The welcome sign glistens in the March sunlight. Getting here is a rite of passage; I’ve reached the biggest festival, the greatest show.

The natural amphitheatre that is Prestbury Park is magnificent. The modernised stands alongside the track gape out over the theatre of grassy plains and rolling hills. The course is flanked by the wonderful Cleeve Hill, which stands over the racecourse as the most beautiful backdrop; the shades of green and hues of gold along the hills make me feel like I’m on an otherworldly adventure.

It doesn’t feel like Cheltenham is just a hop across the water. Nope. This is like another planet. It is like a magical land, kind of like the stuff you hear about in fairy tales. Except that this is real. Cheltenham does exist. I can now vouch for that, even if I never thought I’d get here.

But, I always knew it existed. Sure, you’d hear about it on the news on RTE; the late, great Colm Murray giving his daily updates on how the Irish were doing and what our best chances of a winner were for the following day. Names like Istabraq and Beef Or Salmon were familiar to me, but I wasn’t sure why.

 I think I officially caught ‘Festival fever’ when I was a 13 year old pupil in secondary school. Some of the lads were talking about horses that week.

‘‘Can we watch the Champion Hurdle, sir?’’ one of them asked, on a spring afternoon.

 I thought he’d be told ‘no chance’, but the small antique television flickered on. The teacher reached legendary status. He also started my yet-to-be-ignited passion for horse racing. Brave Inca was one of the horses running that day. I heard one of the older lads in the corridor boasting about a bet he had on him. The guy was already a very keen punter by that stage. Hardy Eustace won the race, I’m sure. Harchibald was well up there. Rooster Booster and Macs Joy were some of the other runners; they were names that caught your attention, though I didn’t know why.

I remember having two euro on Sir Rembrandt in the Gold Cup, when he was racing against Kicking King. Take The Stand was in the line-up. Beef Or Salmon ran, as did Celestial Gold. These sounded like extravagant names. Kicking King was a character on our alphabet wall in the primary school days. Rembrandt I’d heard of in history class. I discovered that, if Sir Rembrandt won the Gold Cup, I’d get around 24 quid back from the bookies. Anyway, Kicking King was the favourite and sure you couldn’t get rich backing favourites, you had to try and be smart. Alas, Sir Rembrandt didn’t win. Kicking King did.

Nevertheless, the spectrum of colours of the jockeys’ silks, the glorious shades of bay and brown and grey galloping across the turf and the lavish odds of who and what was going to win had this lad hooked. I kind of forgot about it then for a while. Except I didn’t really forget about it at all; the famous Grand National at Aintree came along just a few weeks after Cheltenham.

‘Let’s watch it, let’s have a bet. Ring my uncle to do my bet will you, mam?’

Hedgehunter won it that year. Great name. I envisioned this horse out hunting hedges, and nothing could stop him. Nothing did stop him. Ruby Walsh was sporting the green and yellow quartered colours in the saddle. Another great name. Willie Mullins the trainer. Big name, too. I remember they had the horse on one of those morning television shows the following week. I thought it was mega. And no, I didn’t back him. I think my sister did, all the same. I picked Take The Stand, the name registered with me for some reason.

Being at Cheltenham is surreal. Commentary of iconic races rings out over the PA system. Punters are filling in to the stands; some are sipping from plastic cups of ruby red stout, while others are pouring their eyes over shiny rectangular brochures. Racing professionals trod across the spring turf, sussing the state of the ground. Cleeve Hill glimmers in the sunshine. Its aura drags me ever closer to the rail.

 Well, boy, you never thought you’d get here, did you?

I remove the race programme from my jacket pocket and flick-open the glossy pamphlet. The Supreme Novices’ Hurdle is the first race. Altior will be running. Buveur D’air too. There’s Min as well. Bellshill. Tombstone. Supasundae. Petit Mouchoir. Promising names, rainbow-like colours, and a series of form figures remind me of why I love it all so much. Sure, isn’t all a puzzle? And a colourful one at that.

The feeling of excitement reaches down into the pit of my stomach. My eyes fill, my smile broadens. Seeing the colour, the names, the glitz and glam of the race card, I hark back to the schoolyard days. We’d be showing off our collections of soccer stickers. The more swaps you had, the higher your status in the social circle. I found one buried deep in the backpack I’m using for my trip to Cheltenham. It was a Manchester United player – Nicky Butt.

The shiny stickers were worth two normal stickers. Say, if you had a shiny Coventry City crest or a sparkling West Ham United badge, then the lads would have to give you two stickers of soccer players to get you to trade. There were half-stickers as well.

Opening a new packet of Premier League or World Cup stickers was a sensation that brought meaning to my life as a nine year old. I think there were around six stickers in a pack. Cost around 50 pence. The smell of new, the smell of printed paper and plastic and vinyl satisfied my nostrils. On Friday, I might get four or five packets; that was euphoria. I’d carefully pull open the packet at the top, making sure that my tearing didn’t rip the sticker. You’d shuffle through; ‘‘have, have, have…yes, don’t have! Ohh, a shiny Arsenal one, wait ‘til I tell the lads!’’

The relief on my parents’ or grandparents’ faces when they realised that there were new stickers in the packet. It was worth the few quid to keep me occupied for a few minutes.

The following week in school, we’d show each other our collections of swaps. One lad, Dion, had around 700 stickers, clasped together in a chunky, blue elastic band. ‘‘Need two more stickers to fill the book. Derby County’s Mart Poom and Leicester City’s Muzzy Izzet. Anyone have ‘em?’’ he’d shout.   

For me, as a kid, life was packets of soccer stickers. Seeing the faces, the colours, improving your collection; it was like you were achieving something. Filling a book was the dream for years. Apparently, they had these big trade gatherings in England where people from all over would go to swap and complete their sticker books. I never did manage to fill one of the books, mind. Never even got close. Dion almost did. Dion was almost king.

‘‘Not long to go ‘til the roar, lad,’ beams a small elderly man to my right. The curled-up emphasis on ‘r’ gives him an accent which is truly wonderful; a West Country accent.

‘‘This is my seventy-fourth year at the Festival. Been comin’ ‘ere since I was a nipper,’’ he adds.

‘‘You’ve been coming to the races here for seventy four years?’’ I gush, forgetting about my mental walk through the nostalgia lane of Premiership stickers. My jaw drops. He has been going to the races at Cheltenham almost three times longer than I’ve been on this planet.

‘‘Sure ‘ave. Seen all the greats; Arkle, Dawn Run, Istabraq, Best Mate, Kauto Star. The lot. Course, ‘ave seen some mad results, too. Will never forget Norton’s Coin. Hundred to one so he was,’’ the old man reminisces.    

‘‘It’s my first time at Cheltenham. Feels like a dream, ’’ I say.

‘‘You Irish bloody love it ‘ere. Course it adds to the atmosphere. Great hearin’ the Irish voices every year. You’ll be back again for sure!’’

‘‘I hope so. What keeps you coming back?’’ I ask.

His eyebrows rise in an M, as if I’ve just asked him to run a lap of the track

‘‘Well, never really thought about it, lad. I suppose…seeing the horses in all their beauty. It’s good for the soul. The gambling and drinking followed, but the horses were first. Although my wife might say that I go racing just to avoid her! Still, I’ll always bring her something nice back,’’ he said.

‘‘Like jewellery?’’

‘‘Sometimes, yeah. Other times it might be a stick of rock or one of those women’s magazines.’’

‘‘That’s nice.’’

‘‘What is it for you, lad?’’

‘‘I’m sorry?’’

‘‘What’s your story with horse racing?’’

‘‘Oh! Am…I just love the colour of it all really. I love opening a race card or a newspaper and seeing the jockeys’ silks. The horses’ names, too. Racing gives me the same buzz that the Premier League sticker books gave me as a kid, d’you know what I mean?’’

‘‘Aye, I do lad. Used to buy some of those football stickers for my grandson, years ago. Kept him quiet while I watched the racing on the box. He doesn’t like the horses though. Not sure why. Anyway, nice meeting you, lad. I’m off to get my bet on. Altior is the one today. Have a few pound on it, son. The boys at the yard tell me that he is a monster,’’ he says, as he turns and walks towards the jungle that is the betting ring.

The roar didn’t disappoint. The crowd’s cheers reverberated across the hills. It was incredible. The race was incredible, too. Altior won. I had ten pounds on him. I collected my winnings from the bookmaker down near the finish line. Bliss!

‘‘Well done, bud. Don’t get too fond of winning now, d’you hear me?’’ he jokingly warned.

He’s probably right. I won’t. But, I was in front for now. Twenty quid in profit, to be exact. I’ve backed a winner at Cheltenham and I’m here to take it all in. I think of the amount of Premier League stickers that nine year old me could buy. Nine year old me is salivating at the thought.  

I take out my smartphone and finger the words ‘soccer’ and ‘stickers’ into the search engine. My mouth opens. These are still a thing. Wow! I scroll down through the rest of the search results and I notice that some full-albums are for sale on the second-hand buy and sell web pages. The top result is a 1999 Premier League album; Beckham, Bergkamp and Owen are on the front cover. It’s full with every sticker; all the players, logos, shiny ones, the team ‘half’ photos, the lot. €300 o.n.o. it reads. The seller is a KingDion69. Dion? Could it be? I haven’t seen or heard from him in years. Looks like he found Mart Poom and Muzzy Izzet, after all. A couple of more winners this week, and I could be paying him a visit.

About the author  

Jordan McCarthy is a writer, podcaster and producer from Cork, Ireland. He has written sports features for The Echo and The Irish Examiner.  Read his blog, 'Tipping Away', at thejordanmccarthyblog.wordpress.com or check out his podcast, 'Leeside Lives'.

 

 

The Way of the Journeyman

by Jordan McCarthy

orange juice with a dash of vodka. Sweet with a little bit of bite. 

Echoes of Corkonian voices reverberate around City Hall. There’s laughing, there’s cheering, there’s shouting. Your head hurts. It’s hot in the makeshift dressing room. There’s a fan swooshing alongside the door and it sends a refreshing wave of air across your face. You put your wallet and keys in the gearbag and check your phone. Two New Messages. One is from your service provider, telling you your bill is now overdue. The other is from Barney. Good luck tonight kid. Pop over later. I’ll have the beer in the fridge. Keep It Real.

 

You’re a creator by day, almost every day. Your sculptures are beautiful, carved to match the beauty of the world around you. The nights are more destructive. There are punches, bruises, black eyes, bloody towels. But within those wounds and stains there lies a beauty; the beauty of a man pursuing his dreams of Madison Square Garden, the MGM Grand and Wembley Stadium.

 

You wrap some white strapping around your hands.  The pattern never changes. Hints of greyish clay from this morning’s project linger on the skin around your fingertips. The strapping massages the skin of your palms. Coach Wally gloves your hands in candy apple red, the colour sported by so many great champions. The gloves are tight. You bump your fists together. You are ready for battle.

 

Being a journeyman is tough. You get lots of fights. Too many, some would say. You rarely win, if ever. You’ve battled hard for the last ten years, in hundreds of bouts. No belts, no awards, no TV interviews; not a sniff of any of that. But it’s not about the winning for you. It’s about the way of life.

 

The official tells you in the dressing room that your entrance music isn’t on the playlist. You’ve left your CDs at home and you’re not going to flick through your phone now. You give a nod, entering the theatre of fight night to some ancient beat that sounds like jungle music. You look out at the crowd of around 500, scattered around the hall. Some people are standing at the bar. Some are sat chatting. The smell of alcohol awakens your nostrils. Those sitting near ringside clap you in as you jump up to grab the ropes. You step in, dancing on the illuminated canvas.   

 

You eye up your opponent. A young lad, dreams of conquering the world still intact. He stares you down menacingly. His curly mop of hair flaps as he bounces from side to side. The ring announcer tells the crowd about your record. You don’t take too much notice, though. You stopped counting years ago. You’re just pleased that he’s called you ‘The Fletch’.

 

Your opponent is from north Cork. This is his third professional fight. He’s one of the most exciting upcoming middleweights in Europe, according to Wally. He raises his hand to the audience, when the ring announcer unveils him as ‘The Future’. Wally beckons you to the corner. He puts your gum-shield in and sprays water in your mouth. You know what he’s going to say. ‘Enjoy it, keep it simple, and let him know he’s in a fight. Show him what it’s going to take to box’.  You get a pat on the back from Wally. The referee is calling you over. You stand in front of the newbie, who bumps gloves with you. Pleasantries are acquired. The bell rings.

 

The Future hits you. It’s a right hook that connects with your left shoulder. You slightly wince but not enough to let him know that it’s your weak one. You strike back and aim high. The kid has a strong chin. You jab your way through the next round. The men in your opponent’s corner become animated. They tell him to ‘up the game’. He duly responds. He hits and he dodges well. He gets you in the corner. You find it hard to get out, but do so with the aid of the referee. Another round ends. The ice pack feels refreshing. Wally tells you to ‘go back to basics’. You wish you could…

 

The Future takes the next couple of rounds. He ekes confidence throughout. You see two opponents after he lands a power punch above your right eye. You gather yourself against the ropes. The ref might call the fight off. You tell him not to dare think about it. You want more punishment. You want to see this out.   

 

You get to the final round. You feel drained. You know you can go the distance, though. There’s a clash of heads; a nervous, tired mistake. A few more minutes, seconds even, with this hard-hitting rookie. The crowd have warmed to him, more so than you. You dodge a big right hook and respond with a shot to the ribs. You’re sure that one hurt him. You might win this round. You do win the round. But the fight has gone beyond you.

 

The bell sounds. There’s applause. You congratulate The Future on a good battle. You tell him that it’s his victory. You tell him that he’ll go far. You embrace him and remember that you’ve got a train to catch. The doctor gives you the go ahead. You tell the Coach that you’re off for an ice-cold shower.

 

The water stings your wounds but it’s a refreshing feeling. You change into your jeans and sweater, and leave the venue, gear-bag over your shoulder. The promoter says he’ll wire you the money next week, as you pass by him in the lobby. You raise a thumb and warrant a smile.

 

The train to Cobh is busy on this warm Friday night.  The family sat across from you stare, almost in disbelief. You manage a polite nod. You exhale heavily, as you hopelessly search for a seat. The aisle will have to do.

 

‘‘Would hate to see the other fella! Did ye’ win?’’, asks a man seated nearby.

 

‘‘Not exactly,’’ you sigh. ‘‘But any night you walk out in one piece and make a few quid is a win of sorts,’’ you say.

 

‘‘No belt so?’’ he smiles

 

‘‘Just the one that’s holding my jeans up,’’ you respond, bringing the headphones up over your ears and leaving it at that.

 

They wouldn’t understand. They wouldn’t understand the commitment, the frustration, the hopes, the humility, the perseverance, the resilience; the struggle. Show them the boxing glove ornament you made for a dear neighbour this morning, or the life-size horse made of recycled metals you created last summer. They’ll understand the appeal of those. But talk to them about how you’ve just lost fight number God-knows-what, yet still have aspirations to continue boxing, and they’ll scoff at the idea. Yours is the way of the journeyman. Never lauded, never celebrated. But what a beautiful way of life it is. 

 

About the author 

Jordan McCarthy is a writer, podcaster and producer from Cork, Ireland. He has written sports features for The Echo and The Irish Examiner. 'The Way of  the Journeyman' is his first piece of fiction. Read his blog, 'Tipping Away', at thejordanmccarthyblog.wordpress.com or check out his podcast, 'Leeside Lives'.