Authors: Sheila O'Flanagan
Her relationship with the opposite sex was, in many ways, as comfortable as the clothes she preferred to wear. Unlike many of her female friends, she didn’t get tongue-tied in the presence of a boy she’d never met before, because she was accustomed to a constant stream of beefy soccer and GAA players traipsing in and out of the house, and she was perfectly at ease talking to any of them – especially as their conversation was generally about their matches, and she’d been to most of them. She knew that men weren’t mysterious creatures who would magically change your life. She knew that they could get anxious and worried just like girls – although, in fairness, usually about different things. Matt and Con were rarely anxious about their dates; they were more concerned about their matches. Nevertheless, when Con was stressing about where to bring the lovely Bevanne Dickinson the first time they were going out together, Sheridan was the one to suggest that taking her to see
Jerry Maguire
in the warmth of the cinema would probably be better fun for her than standing on the terraces in the rain watching a League of Ireland match; and when Matt was at a loss to know what to get for his girlfriend’s eighteenth birthday, she told him firmly that Melissa would prefer a dainty watch to the bulky thing with multiple functions and two different timers he was considering. The boys were always surprised when she came up with girlie tips but always grateful for what was generally the right advice. In turn, they steered her away from men they regarded as messers and not good enough for her (even though she didn’t always agree with them and didn’t solely judge prospective boyfriends on their footballing prowess).
In the end, most of the guys she eventually dated were people she’d met at one sporting fixture or another. They generally knew her parents and her brothers, and seemed to regard her as more of a friend than a girlfriend. They usually brought her to rugby matches (which she enjoyed) or to dark and gloomy bars (which she didn’t quite as much – she preferred the trend for bright, modern gastro-pubs that was beginning to hit the country). Most of them, at some point or another, would tell her that it was great to go out with someone like her, a decent sort who liked a laugh, could talk soccer, rugby and GAA and could get ready for a date in less than ten minutes.
Sheridan wasn’t insulted by being regarded as a decent sort rather than a sex symbol. After all, she didn’t think her body could ever be regarded as sexy, and her interest in make-up and clothes was fairly minimal. She didn’t mind a dash of lip gloss before she went out, but the idea of spending absolutely hours in front of the mirror, like some of the girls she knew, bored her beyond belief. Besides, she couldn’t help thinking that it was far better to be someone that men felt comfortable talking to, and who got on with them all (even if most of her relationships petered out after a couple of months), rather than one of the group of air-headed, giggling women who seemed to regard them as creatures that they would never understand and who were a prize to be won if they only knew how. Sheridan felt that she had a lot to be thankful for in that respect and was glad that the opposite sex wasn’t a mystery to her; in fact there were times she felt that she knew far too much about them and their interests. However, there were also times when she felt a bit of an outsider among her friends because she was never at ease participating in breathless conversations about fanciable guys. She wondered if she’d ever meet someone who would fill her every waking thought, or turn her legs to jelly, or make her think that an evening spent waxing her legs and plucking her eyebrows was worth the pain. Somehow she doubted it.
That feeling of being an outsider extended to her home life too, although the reasons were different. But she couldn’t help feeling distant from the rest of her family whenever she looked at Matt and Con’s trophies, the symbols of their success, which were proudly displayed in the huge walnut cabinet in the corner of the room, and totally dwarfed the only award she’d ever won. This was a plastic medal for the under-10s girls’ five-a-side football tournament (which wasn’t a proper tournament at all but was designed to give the girls the chance to kick the ball around and wear themselves out, while their mothers sat in the clubhouse for a cup of tea and a chat, and for which all of the young participants had received a medal).
She didn’t want to be an airhead but she didn’t always want to be the fallback girl that men dated when they couldn’t get anyone else either. (Matt’s friends in particular used her as a last-minute date whenever they needed someone, knowing that she’d enter into the spirit of whatever the occasion was.) She didn’t need to be a winner but nor did she want to be the perennial loser in her testosterone-filled family home. Most of the time she was comfortable in her own skin, but occasionally it was hard to be the one who simply didn’t match up, no matter how hard she tried.
Matt and Con both went to college after school, choosing to study business while hoping to get jobs that would allow them plenty of time to devote to playing for their football club. Sheridan knew that she didn’t have a business brain and wanted a job that could become a career. Alice suggested that she follow in her footsteps and become a PE teacher (you mightn’t be all that good at competing yourself, she told Sheridan, but you know how it should be done). Sheridan had scotched that idea immediately. She wanted to do something dramatically different from the rest of the family. She needed to break out on her own.
She decided to study journalism on a whim, mainly because one of her teachers complimented her on a report she’d done on the school fashion show. Miss Kavanagh said that it had been a vivid piece of writing that had brought the show to life for anyone who read the piece. Was Sheridan very interested in fashion? she asked.
It was a question that reduced Sheridan to fits of laughter, and Miss Kavanagh, realising that designer dresses were intended for women who looked like a half-decent puff of wind would blow them over rather than well-built girls like Sheridan, looked suitably embarrassed. Sheridan told her not to worry, that she’d enjoyed writing the piece because it was about something so alien to her, which led Miss Kavanagh to sigh with relief; although then Sheridan remarked that nobody would take seriously as a fashion journalist a woman who liked her food and had never been on a crash diet. Miss Kavanagh tried to convince her otherwise but Sheridan knew that she was wasting her time. All the same, she thought, maybe she could become an investigative reporter and one day have her name in big print beneath a story that could be added to the enormous file of cuttings that Alice kept documenting Con and Matt’s successes on the playing field. And maybe then she’d finally feel like a success in her own right too.
By the time she qualified, however, the economy was sluggish and jobs were hard to come by. Instead of going straight on to a busy news desk as she’d hoped, she’d ended up in the classifieds section of a daily newspaper, looking after the personal notices that covered births, marriages and deaths. She didn’t need a college qualification to take down funeral details, but she did always wonder about the person concerned, the life they’d led and the people they’d left behind. She liked the birth notices best, amusing herself by guessing what kind of life the baby would have based on the name chosen by its parents. Samanthas, she decided, would be blonde and beautiful, and marry for money. Kates had to be groomed, businesslike and destined for success. Jackies would be sporty. If Pat and Alice had called her Jackie, then she might have fulfilled whatever sporting dream they had for her.
In fact they’d chosen to name her after Martin Sheridan, a five-time Olympic gold-medallist. Born Bohola, County Mayo, in 1881, Martin had also won three silvers and a bronze representing the USA in the discus, shot putt, high jump and long jump. Pat and Alice had clearly believed that he’d be someone for Sheridan to live up to, but all that had happened was that she’d been teased mercilessly for having two surnames (she’d once suggested that simply tacking on an ‘a’ to his first name would have saved her a lot of grief, but Alice had shaken her head and told her that Sheridans were tougher than Martinas).
When she’d seen the ad for a junior reporter for the
City Scope
sports desk she almost hadn’t bothered replying. She wanted to do hard news, to report on politics and crime, not football matches. But she was going steadily crazy in classifieds and she thought that getting any reporter’s job would be better than nothing.
It surprised her, when she was offered it, at how pleased she was. It surprised her even more how much she enjoyed it.
She’d never thought that all the times she’d spent cheering on Con and Matt would be good for anything. Or that she’d learned so much from the after-match debates at home. Or that she knew as much as she did about the winners and runners-up in so many different events. It was her encyclopaedic knowledge of All-Ireland football winners that had stunned Martyn Powell when he interviewed her. But it was her analysis of a recent Republic of Ireland soccer match that had convinced him that she was the best person for the job.
‘I never met anyone as knowledgeable as you,’ he’d said. ‘You can even explain the offside rule in a single sentence.’
‘The offside rule is usually overly complicated by men who like to make it mysterious,’ she’d told him cheerfully. ‘As is most stuff about sport.’
‘If you write as clearly as you talk, I think you could have a good future at this paper,’ Martyn remarked.
Sheridan couldn’t help smiling at his words. She’d been told that she was pretty when she smiled (Decco Grainger, three dates and a lot of kissing practice, had been the one to offer the compliment), but Martyn often said that when Sheridan smiled she reminded him of a happy cocker spaniel, with her glossy hair framing her generous face, and her big golden-brown eyes alight with enthusiasm. Sheridan herself wasn’t quite convinced that being likened to a cocker spaniel was a compliment, but she supposed it was better than being compared to a Jack Russell. She’d suckered him at the interview with her smile, Martyn told her, even though she lacked the experience that other candidates had. But there was something about her that made him think he’d found the perfect addition to the team.
And Sheridan definitely was.
At first she was sent to cover local events that nobody else wanted to bother with. She never minded, even when she got lost looking for a small club in the middle of nowhere. She drove her two-year-old VW Beetle all over the country and found herself once again on the sidelines of windswept pitches, although this time, instead of cheering herself hoarse, she was making notes on the game.
Afterwards, though, it was her opinion that counted, her words that people read and sometimes reacted to, by emailing the newspaper and sharing their own views.
‘I always knew you’d find your niche one day,’ Alice told her one evening as she read the piece Sheridan had written about a League of Ireland football match between rival clubs Shamrock Rovers and Shelbourne. ‘This is a great report.’
‘Thanks.’
‘You see – all those times we took you to the football were worth it.’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m sure the goalie was sick when he gave away the penalty.’
‘So were the supporters.’
‘Did you enjoy the match?’
‘Of course. It’s kind of nice to watch and not care who wins.’
Alice looked horrified. ‘You always have to care who wins.’
‘I’d be exhausted if that was the case,’ Sheridan told her. ‘You can’t pick a side every time. People don’t want to know who I want to win, they want to know what the game was like.’
‘Hmm.’ Alice didn’t sound convinced.
‘If you were a Hoops supporter, you wouldn’t want to think I was writing from a Rovers point of view, would you?’
‘No,’ conceded Alice.
‘Anyway, Martyn Powell is very happy with me,’ said Sheridan.
‘Good.’ Alice sounded pleased. Then she took a pair of scissors from the kitchen drawer.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Sheridan.
‘Cutting out the report,’ replied Alice. ‘It’s the first one they’ve put your name on.’
‘I know.’ Sheridan hadn’t wanted to make a big deal of having her byline in the paper, but the truth was she was very excited about it. And the fact that her mother was too wrapped her in a warm glow of self-satisfaction.
Over the following years at the paper there had been more and more pieces with her byline. So many that Alice stopped cutting them all out. Sheridan didn’t mind. She’d found her place. And finally she felt like a winner in the family too.
She stopped reminiscing when Ernie Johnson walked into the room. From the look on his face she could see that he didn’t have unqualified good news to share. The rest of the staff could see it too, and a quiet murmur of anxiety rippled through them before he held up his hand for silence.
He spoke about the newspaper’s iconic status over the past thirty years and about the great stories it had broken. Then he went on to remind them that times were tough, that the print media in particular was suffering, that competition was fierce and that they couldn’t go on losing money.
The journalists were expecting the worst. The picture Ernie had painted was so bleak that they couldn’t see how the paper could possibly last another day. But then Ernie smiled.
‘Up to last week it was looking very much like the
City Scope
would fold,’ he said. ‘But I’m pleased to say that we’ve had a cash injection from an investor who has taken a stake in our business.’
The ripple broke through the journalists again. Of course there had been talk of new investors, but they’d been doubtful that anyone would be interested in the ailing newspaper.
‘That’s the good news,’ said Ernie. ‘The bad news is that costs are still an issue. I’m sorry to say that even with a cash injection there will be some redundancies.’
The ripple had become a buzz now as people turned to each other, each immediately worried about his or her own future, but equally worried about the ability of the newspaper to live up to its ideals with a further decrease in the number of reporters.