Free The Ball by John Fox Page A

The effort, in either case, was useless. With occasional counts of “One, two, three . . . heave!” the pack would surge a few inches in one direction or the other but with little change in position. I spotted Graeme’s bald head bobbing up in the thick of the scrum. At his age, and having won his ba’ years ago, I’d have thought he might retreat to the perimeter and let younger men take the brunt of it. But there he was at ground zero.
    After my last brush with near death, I planned my own escape route down a side alley strung with clotheslines should the pack break suddenly in my direction again.
    Watching the gridlock in the alley, it struck me that this game is as much about moving the pack as it is about moving the actual ball, which had been out of sight since Davie first threw it in over an hour earlier. Finally, there was a ruckus and hollering up ahead. A break was on, mercifully not toward me this time. The Doonies were on the move again. They’d forced the ba’ back to the corner of Albert Street and a fierce struggle was on in front of the Frozen Food Grocers. I watched fists fly and bodies hurl against the thick wooden barricade bolted into the window frames, the only thing standing between the men and freezers full of ’nips and tatties (turnips and potatoes, the national vegetables of choice). Parents with small children backed away cautiously, anticipating the worst. The pack made a turn toward the water and began to bounce its way along stone walls and shop barricades. But the Uppies managed to force the ba’ off the main street once again—this time into a six-foot-wide dead-end alley between the local bank and photo store.

    Fewer than half of the players could squeeze into the alley. Several young players ran around the back of the building, shimmied under a low driveway gate, propped a Dumpster against a wall, and scrambled onto a flat roof overlooking the alley.
    One Doonie surveyed the scene below and reported out to his mates and supporters, “The Uppies have it wedged under a staircase.”
    A more seasoned player, clearly upset with this turn of events, shook his head and scuffed his boot on the ground, “Ach, it’ll be in there a good long while now.”
    As though on cue, an icy drizzle began. Umbrellas came out and hoods went up as spectators and players alike settled in for a long “hold,” as they refer to periods when the ba’s movement gets shut down. Several Red Cross medics came running down the street. One of the players in the alley had passed out from lack of oxygen. A few men heaved against the gate blocking the entrance to the roof until the latch gave way. The medics rushed in and were waiting for the man to be handed over the roof when a red-haired lad ran over.
    â€œIt’s okay, he’s woken up!”
    It was now 3:15 and, being just 50 miles of latitude south of Greenland, the midwinter darkness was already settling in. As the Christmas lights flickered on and the drizzle gave way to a lashing hail, the madness of it all came over me. I was standing outside a miserable gray alley with hundreds of other people, soaked to the bone and shivering, watching grown men risk life and limb to get a ball out from under a staircase. It was irrational, utterly pointless, and absolutely thrilling.
    D id the ball first evolve from stone projectiles used by early man in the hunt? Or was it a symbolic stand-in for their prey—the object rather than the weapon of pursuit? Back in Europe’s Paleolithic days—long before Maes Howe and Skara Brae were built—hunters from competing bands followed and tracked the same herds across plains and forests without reference to boundaries or territories. The band that was fastest and strongest and smartest won the day. And the hunter who led the way and outsmarted both prey and challengers was hailed as a hero. As depicted in the dramatic cave paintings of