13
Emily K.
Salt Lake City, UT
7/14/2022
How is this spectacle not televised?
The Super Bowl. Monaco Grand Prix. Tour de France. March Madness. The World Cup. DON’T WASTE YOUR TIME. If there is one sporting event you attend anywhere in the world, make it the Annual Football Rounders Grudge Match on Inishglass in Ireland. Never heard of it? Imagine a kickball game at Woodstock. This is a full-on experience. You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, you’ll cheer, and then you’ll party your ass off with strangers who will quickly become your best friends by dawn. You’ll wake up covered in face paint and glitter with seventy new contacts in your phone. Your voice will be hoarse. Your legs will hurt from dancing. And if you pick the right team to root for, you’ll wake up a winner.
Don’t come from a loving family and always wanted to be a part of one? The Annual Football Rounders Grudge Match is a lovefest (for everyone whose last name isn’t Murphy or Doherty). Come to Inishglass the first weekend in July and they’ll welcome you with open arms.
SIDE NOTE: How is there not a reality show about the Murphys and Dohertys? It’s the ancient grudge of Romeo and Juliet meets the hotness of Kardashians with the antics of The Parent Trap . If any Hollywood producer reads this review, contact me. People would so want to watch these two families go at it. Not only are they pretty, they’re pretty brutal.
The ferry ride back to Inishglass is smooth this July afternoon. The calm before the storm, Briggs thinks, as he stands on the packed deck of the boat, looking at the island, knowing it’s filled to capacity with visitors for the Annual Football Rounders Grudge Match. Even now, people on the boat recognize him as a local celebrity, offering him good luck, a few women attempting to pass him their numbers.
The weather for tomorrow’s game seems favorable, but apps can never be trusted when it comes to Inishglass. A sunny day can turn stormy in a matter of minutes.
Last year at this time, on the same ferry ride after visiting Peggy Murphy, Briggs wanted to turn around and avoid the damn event all together. It might be good for every business on the island, but the pageantry of it all is exhausting work. Briggs is comfortable being on display behind the bar, but not in front of hundreds of spectators. Years past, the only time he’s managed to catch a break from the crowds is his morning plunge.
Briggs grips the railing, his knuckles white, willing the boat to pick up speed. His doctor told him not to run, but hell, if he could, he’d sprint across the water, find Maeve, fling her over his shoulder, and disappear into his art studio for a week. It took herculean effort to control himself that day at the shore. So much had shifted for him in just a matter of weeks. It was disorienting. First his heart diagnosis, then his father’s birthday, and then Maeve appears. Briggs had to clear his mind, and his trip to the mainland was an experiment. Would distance diminish his desire?
His findings: he’s a goddamn idiot who should have shagged her while he had the chance. Instead, he gave himself the worst case of self-inflicted blue balls known to man.
It took approximately ten minutes on the mainland to realize his mistake, but he couldn’t skip the trip, it being his mum’s birthday and all. So Briggs made use of his time in Cork and went to see his cardiologist. His surgery is now scheduled for this fall, after the busy summer months. He’s not looking forward to having his chest cracked open, his heart stopped, and a chunk taken out. In fact, he is downright terrified. But Aoife was right: if Joe had had this opportunity, he wouldn’t have let stubborn fear get in the way. If Briggs really wants to be like his father, maybe he needs to start loving people like Joe did.
Every night he was away, Briggs wanted to text Maeve. Even Peggy noticed how distracted and skittish he was. His stomach was in knots, his thoughts preoccupied with worry ... like a goddamn teenager in love for the first time. He replayed his day with Maeve over and over. He should have shown her how much he wants her. With his hands and mouth and ... every other part of him. Instead, he tried to be a goddamn gentleman.
Now, as the island grows bigger, so do his nerves. A week was too much time to think. Why in the hell would she ever want to get involved with a rough Irish pub owner whose longest relationship is with his idiot roommate, and whose life is so dull that the highlight of his day is jumping into the ocean?
Maeve is a city girl, used to museums and fancy hotel bars and live theater. Could she be satisfied with a small island in Ireland whose only theater performance is the primary school’s Christmas pageant? Maeve hasn’t experienced winter here, either. Gale-force winds, air so cold and damp your toes never warm, more darkness than sunlight. And the island gets quiet, people either leaving in search of better weather or shut in, huddled by their fires. Chicago may have terrible winters, but at least in a city that size, people have ways to distract themselves. American football games, indoor concerts, shopping. On Inishglass, you have no choice but to hunker down and wait.
What happens when Maeve misses public transportation and stores that sell nonwoolen clothing? Her favorite drink is a goddamn Negroni, for God’s sake! And who says she plans to stay? Maybe this is just a summer fling. In the end, he may have to let her go no matter what, and that guts him.
The questions are bloody insufferable!
Briggs looks down at the gray-blue water, wishing he could jump in and clear his racing thoughts. Ever since he returned to the island years ago, his life has been defined. Each day starts with a jump and ends either in a stranger’s bed or alone in his own. Now he wants Maeve in the bed with him. He wants to wake up and not leap out, but linger, spreading her legs, sinking himself deep into her until she’s satisfied. He wants to make her coffee. He wants to paint for her. He wants to eat pierogi and sing karaoke and be the reason her color-coordinated datebook is full. He wants her to be his proper girlfriend.
What the hell has happened to Briggs Murphy?
The ferry is not moving fast enough. Briggs is tempted to threaten Nigel, the captain. Move quicker or he’ll bar him from the Thatch for the rest of his God-given days. But then again, Briggs can’t just drive over to the Moorings, walk right in, and profess his feelings. There’s no hiding for the next few days. Even now, he feels all the eyes on him. And a lot can change in a week, especially with Eoin around.
Maybe it was a mistake not warning Maeve about Eoin, but Briggs didn’t want that rat infiltrating their perfect day. Bringing Eoin up would have soured everything and potentially made Maeve not trust Briggs.
“I can’t believe it’s been a year since I was here.”
Isla’s voice pulls his attention from the water and his aggravation. She’s changed significantly since her first year at university, slightly taller and more confident. Briggs’s shy baby sister stands almost six feet, her curly auburn hair now long and wavy. The sporty teenager who never wore makeup and constantly had a sprinkle of pimples on her forehead is now clear skinned, and Isla has traded her joggers for jeans, though she remains forever a sneakerhead.
Peggy suggested Isla come back to Inishglass, stay at the house for the summer, and work at the pub. Briggs couldn’t say no. When a mum recommends something, she’s really insisting. No is not an option. Of course, right when Briggs wants his first proper girlfriend, his sister moves in.
“Are you sure it’s OK I’m coming to stay? You look ... gassy.” Isla makes a pinched face. “Like you’re holding in a huge fart.” Isla’s outward appearance is more refined, but she’s still just as uncivilized.
“I’m not gassy,” Briggs chuckles.
“Then what is it?” She nudges him.
But Briggs is not about to tell Isla about Maeve. His little sister is a direct line to his mother, who has been concerned about her only son’s noncommittal ways for years. Not yet, at least. If Peggy knew he was gobsmacked, she’d be on the next ferry to the island, diamond ring in her pocket.
“Busy weekend,” he says. “That’s all.”
“Don’t worry, bro,” Isla says in an American accent, smacking him on the back. “You brought back a ringer.”
Briggs glances at his stunning sister and pictures her behind the bar at the Thatch, knowing that for all the women he’s slept with, there are plenty of men trying for the same thing. “By the way, you’re in the dish pit this summer.”
“What? I thought—”
“I can’t give family special treatment. You start at the bottom and work your way up. It’s only fair.”
“But my shoes. I can’t get them dirty.” She wiggles a foot at him.
“The island is covered with thousands of years of piled shite. You’re bound to get some on your shoes.”
Isla groans.
Briggs smiles to himself as the ferry finally pulls into port. They grab their bags and head down the jetty. People wish him good luck at the game, and a few snap not-so-covert photos. Briggs can hear giggling as he and Isla head toward his Jeep.
Hugh waits in the driver’s seat with the window rolled down. He eyes Isla and looks curiously at Briggs. “When I said bring back a souvenir, I thought you’d get me a snow globe or a collectible spoon or something.” He smiles widely and extends his hand through the window to Isla. “Hugh Duffy, at your service.”
Briggs swats Hugh’s hand away and opens the trunk. “You’re an eejit.”
Then it apparently dawns on Hugh who the redhead is, and his jaw falls open. He hangs halfway out the window to check out Isla’s pristine baby-pink crocheted Chuck Taylor platforms. “I should have known by the shoes,” he says. “Damn, someone call the fire department, cuz Isla Murphy is back, and she’s smokin’ hot!”
As Isla models the trainers for Hugh, Briggs climbs into the passenger seat and whacks Hugh on the back of the head.
“Ouch, man, what the hell was that for?”
“Just a preview of what I’ll do if you ever touch her,” Briggs says, buckling his seat belt.
Isla climbs into the back seat, feigning annoyance, and leans between the two men in the front, resting her elbows on the center console. “When you started at the pub, did he make you wash dishes?”
“Fuck no,” Hugh says, pulling out of the parking lot.
Isla glares at her brother. “I didn’t bring my best pair of Air Force Ones to be stuck in the dish pit all summer. Those deserve an audience.”
“It’s dish pit or a one-way ticket back to Cork,” Briggs insists.
“You know ... I don’t have to work at the pub. I bet Aoife would give me a job.”
Damn his stubborn little sister. Briggs has no doubt that Aoife would hire Isla in a second. “Fine. Busser.” Isla celebrates with air punches. Briggs adds, “But you’re not working behind the bar.”
“Whatever. Anything is better than dish pit.”
“So how long are you here?” Hugh says.
“’Til I head to uni in the fall.” Isla sits back, satisfied with her victory.
“So ... did Briggs tell you?” Hugh asks.
“Tell me what?”
“The Moorings has a new owner.” He levels a glare at Briggs, landing a jab of his own.
“Oh, feck, I totally forgot Liam Doherty died. Mum mentioned it, but I was deep in finals. So who is it?”
“His daughter, Maeve,” Hugh says.
Briggs feels Isla’s attention on him. “Liam had a daughter? I don’t remember her.”
“Estranged daughter,” Hugh clarifies. “She’d never been to the island before.”
“Well, what’s she like?” Isla presses.
“Yeah, Briggs, what’s she like?” Hugh nudges him with his elbow.
Briggs can’t speak about Maeve. His emotions will show, and the last thing Isla needs is more ammunition. She’ll use it to her advantage and threaten to tell Peggy if he doesn’t make her bartender. And Hugh is enjoying this too much, wearing a shit-eating grin like a well-tailored suit.
“Well . . . ?” Isla waits.
“She’s ...” Briggs settles on the only safe word he can think of. “American.”
“And speaking of the American,” Hugh adds. “There’s something you both need to see.”
Hugh pulls up in front of the Moorings, which is due to open in an hour, just like the Thatch. People are already queueing outside. Briggs looks aghast.
“Whoa,” Isla says, leaning forward.
“It’s the pierogi, bro,” Hugh says. “This has been happening all week. And she started an Instagram page for the pub. She posts a countdown on the pierogi in her story. Scarcity Marketing 101. It’s fucking brilliant. There’s even a hashtag. Irelandsmostwantedpotato. She already has a thousand followers.”
“Is that a lot?” Briggs asks.
“Compared to how many we have? Yes.”
“Well, how many do we have?”
“Let me see ...” Hugh pulls out his phone and shows his Instagram to Briggs. “ None . The Thatch doesn’t have an account! She’s changed the game on us. She took it to the web, and now she’s kicking our ass.”
Isla sits back and smiles. “This summer just got so much better. I can’t wait to meet her.”
“What do we do?” Briggs begs. Part of him is dying to leap out of the car, knowing Maeve is so close, just inside the pub. Jesus, he needs to get control of himself. He needs to play the part of a feuding Murphy this weekend, not a lovesick puppy.
“I had an idea while you were gone, but we need to act fast.” Hugh puts the Jeep in drive and heads toward the Thatch, which appears oddly deserted. The “Voted Best Pub in Inishglass!” banner is still on display, but compared to a thousand followers on Instagram, who cares?
When they arrive, Briggs notices that the stand-alone supply shed next to the pub has been completely whitewashed.
“Who the hell did that?” he asks, getting out of the Jeep and slamming the door.
“Me, actually,” Hugh says. “That’s what I wanted to show you.”
“You painted my shed white ?” Briggs snaps.
“No. I primed it. You’re going to paint it.”
“Why the feck would I paint on a perfectly good shed?”
“Uh-oh,” Isla says, enjoying Briggs’s discomfort too much. “I changed the toilet-paper brand once, and Briggs had a total meltdown.”
“To make an Instagram wall, Furphy,” Hugh explains. “It’s the best way to drum up a following! People will take pictures in front of it and tag the pub!”
“Explain to me what an Instagram wall is,” Briggs says through tight teeth.
Isla shakes her head in disbelief. “You’re the oldest twenty-eight-year-old on the planet. It’s a mural where people take cool photos and post them to their socials.”
“Hashtag fuck yeah.” Hugh and Isla high-five. “It’s free advertising, bro. A cool-ass mural painted by the owner himself. Customers will post that shit all day long, and you don’t have to do a damn thing but paint it. People will spread the word for you. If Maeve has the pierogi, we have this. Hashtag the Thatch.”
“Hashtag coolest pub in Ireland,” Isla says.
“Hashtag get beer here.”
“Hashtag shut the feck up,” Briggs snaps. He stares at the shed. Can he really paint a piece the whole town will see? More than the whole town ... the internet?
“Maeve bested us with food,” Hugh admits. “We can’t compete with those pierogi. But you have talents, too. Time to show one of them off.”
“I think the wall is brilliant,” Isla proclaims. “A marriage of modern and traditional.”
“What the hell am I supposed to paint?” Briggs begs.
“That, my friend, is up to you. But you better do it fast. We’re not dealing with Liam Doherty anymore.”
“She sounds fierce,” Isla says. “I’m gonna love her.”
“You wouldn’t be the only one,” Hugh says.
Briggs groans. “We’ll deal with this after the weekend. There’s nothing we can do now.”
“There is one thing we could do,” Hugh says. “We need our first picture on Instagram. Something to get us started. And what’s better than a pic of two smokin’ hot Murphys?”
“Just make sure you get my shoes,” Isla says, popping a pose.
Briggs might be asked at least fifty times a night for his picture, and he knows he’s all over social media, but this is different.
“Come on, man,” Hugh says. “Do it for the Thatch.”
If this is where the game is now played, he has no choice. Briggs poses with Isla in front of the pub. Hugh edits the photo and starts typing. He shows Briggs what he’s written.
@thethatchinishglass We beg to differ, @themooringsinishglass. We have #irelandsmostwantedpotato. And his name is Briggs Murphy. #thethatch #downwiththedohertys
Isla laughs and smacks her brother on the back. “Welcome to the internet, bro.”
Hugh shrugs. “What can I say? Sex sells.”