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Danger, Kids! 1
Danger, Kids! 1
Danger, Kids! 1
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Danger, Kids! 1

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Two years before the Berlin Wall crashed down the greatest event in attempts to unify Europe was led by a little known school football team from Dublin. Unrecorded in accepted history, the boys of St. Matthews plundered their way from Ireland to Poland, and back, leaving no doubts in the minds of their hosts that the only way to defeat the Irish was through a strong, non-political union.

Team manager, History teacher and hopeless romantic Paul McQuillan, or Supermac, has failed to fulfill his footballing ambitions and is freshly dumped by his glamorous girlfriend. Aided by his assistant and Geography teacher Denis O'Halloran, he is tasked with controlling 13 hormonally charged teens who give new meaning to the term young offenders.

Stepping bravely into the Irish malestorm is the attractive and mysterious Clara Witter, their translator and tour guide, and all round good East German Communist. While all in the group fall to her feet, only Paul tries to remain detached. Clara finds it even easier to stand apart. But with 2 weeks to travel and constant contact to come, will the Iron Curtain fall before they return to the West.

Based on a combination of real events from the period and after, Danger, Kids 1 proves why Ireland has become central to all European and World policy, Ireland and the Irish have to be contained! The battle to confine them starts here!

LanguageEnglish
PublisherAlan Moore
Release dateJul 11, 2013
ISBN9781301172344
Danger, Kids! 1
Author

Alan Moore

I am an Irishman based in Russia, working as a sports journalist, radio host and commentator. A Dad of 2 (Anni and Timmy), I've been outside of Ireland for quite some time however Ireland has always been inside me. I volunteer with our local Moscow Shamrocks GAA Club and am PRO for Gaelic Games Europe. Oh, and I make a nuisance of myself on Capital Sports (Capital FM Moscow) and weekly on "This Sunday's Game" the GGE podcast.

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    Danger, Kids! 1 - Alan Moore

    Danger, Kids! 1

    By Alan Patrick

    Published by Alan Moore at Smashwords

    Copyright 2012 Alan Moore

    To AK77, thank you for breaking my brain to make this happen and not letting me give up as per usual.

    To Anni and Timmy, you two inspire me.

    To my parents, brother, sister, relatives and friends, enjoy what’s to follow.

    Preface

    The 1980’s didn’t just offer some of the best music and movies ever made. They offered a time of massive change. Empires wobbled and what many of us were born into disappeared seemingly overnight. However until the end of the decade we lived through an arms race where movies and media heightened the chances of a nuclear holocaust taking place. We had readiness tests for when the warning was given of nuclear launches, which now seems a little silly given that on the island of Ireland we had bombs, bullets and beating to greet us with each meal. The 1980’s were about taking sides, you were for or against Communism, for or against the Free World. So much good came from such an insane decade.

    More than anything else the 1980’s offered the last glimpse of the exotic. Before the internet and mobile phones ruined the imagination of people who got their information from books, newspapers and actually finding out about other cultures. The 1980’s was the last decade in human history that can honestly be termed an era of adventure. James Bond was able to battle baddies, spy novels and movies could be believed, while sitting behind the wheel of a Lada or Yugo truly was an adventure for those of us on the other side of the Iron Curtain.

    Sports during this decade were as corrupt, drug fuelled, exciting and involving than now. Superstars were made because the era of 24-hour rolling news and sports access hadn’t yet diluted the talent pool and enjoyment of pure pursuits. Collecting stickers to fill up albums, standing at football matches, listening to radio reports and sitting down on a Saturday afternoon to watch a match that probably held as much interest for you than watching two flies walk up a wall. But that was it, the exotic. The hero worship. That era has gone and will never return.

    This story is based on a number of trips, some exploits and some real events brought to life by a teacher from a North City Dublin school with more to gain from going than any of the players. Reading the dialogue needs to have an idea of the Northside Dublin accent being available in your head. The area and time the boys come from is now being relived in modern Ireland. High unemployment, drug addiction, family problems and crime, all contributed to what later became a golden generation for Irish Sports, Culture and economy. While the recent focus was on the bankers and high flyers, the bulk of the economy came from those who were at the bottom of the pyramid in the 1980’s and who left or battled their way to the middle class, or higher, as the millennium dawned. It is from this same social grouping that the next Irish boom will come. A group that has always shown the genius to survive, thrive and make Ireland work again. The life blood of Ireland is its people. The salvation of Ireland will come from this blood.

    The adult leads in the story come from different backgrounds but are brought together by the boys they look after. The male lead, Paul, is a composite character of the Irish male – idiosyncratic, odd, gentle, funny, mischievous, loyal and most of all the same mental age as the boys he’s looking after. Clara, the lone woman, is the archetypal female lead, in control, able to command and importantly the dominant force in the story. She could be from any country and proves the point that women lead by kicking their men into shape. Without Clara there is no trip, no Paul and no story. Helmut and Denis are men of a generation, a little jaded, more capable of seeing life as not so serious, and have the perspective of experience that age can give to make disaster seem like a gentle Summer breeze. I hope that they combine with the boys to make your reading more entertaining.

    Enjoy.

    Prologue

    Paul. No Answer. Paul! Silence. Paul, it’s time to get up. You’ve to get to the stadium.

    In a minute.

    No! Now. C’mon, we’ve slept in too much. It’s almost ten thirty. Paul rolled onto his right side and watched her stretch her catlike body. She checked out her clear eyes in the mirror then turned back to him. It’s after ten thirty Paul and it’s a twenty minute drive there so please get a move on.

    I know honey, but maybe I could call in sick. I feel lousy.

    That’s just nerves. You always get them before a game.

    But today’s different. I feel he shrugged something. Her hands landed on her hips as she stood waiting for a challenge.

    What? Sanja waited for a second before pulling on a t-shirt and reaching for her jeans.

    A sense of, foreboding. She laughed and kept getting ready.

    I told you that Philosophy class would screw your head up. Big words and little brain. Just get up and ready. I’ll drop you down. She sat down on a chair to pull her sneakers on. Paul went over and knelt next to her.

    Sanja. She looked him straight in the eye.

    What? There wasn’t much love in the question, more annoyance at his delaying tactics.

    Sanja, if I was to retire, in a year or two

    Or three or four. Or ten! You’re only twenty-two for God’s sake Paul.

    I know, but if I did, would you stay with me? She shook her head in disbelief.

    As long as you’re here in California, yes. Otherwise I’d have to say no. My life is here you know. I mean, where else could I get regular movie and TV work. And the modelling gigs are great, plus I’ve got a year left of grad school that I won’t throw away.

    I know Sanja, but we’ve been together four years and you wouldn’t follow me?

    Not to Ireland. Or Europe. Maybe New York, or Florida. Or Paris maybe. No, it’d have to be somewhere warm. All that rain in Dublin would drain my energy and mess up my karma. I need my spirit to be balanced and you know that with that cold weather my aura would be seriously messed up! I nearly died in Indiana, stupid weather.

    You’d love Ireland. She tied the sneaker laces before looking at him again.

    No I wouldn’t. But don’t talk about that right now. You’ve a game to play and tonight we’ve got the movie release tonight. Life couldn’t be better, right? Paul smiled, kissed her cheek and got ready to go. Life couldn’t be better, even if he wanted to go back to bed and sleep for a week.

    This has been yet another outstanding game for Paul McQuillan. The number sixteen draft choice of last year has been a revelation for the division leading L.A. Weststars. This rookie with four goals and ten assists from twelve games has played magnificently under head coach Bob Paschke. Seattle are on the break. Fernandez beats one, two, but yes, it’s McQuillan yet again. Wonderful sliding tackle robs the fiery Mexican. And away he goes. Fernandez tries to tackle back but he flicks it away before the tackle gets in. Suvalo, oh beautiful swerve. He’s been a solid addition to last season’s bottom team too. Down the line to Enike. The Nigerian brings it right to the corner flag, cuts back in, a little flick to McQuillan. Johnson tries a tackle, held off. McQuillan gets inside, lays it back to Enike, back to McQ… yes! First time volley and it’s one-nil to LA. But it looks bad Tommy, that was some collision between Aquilar, Johnson, Fernandez and McQuillan.

    Certainly was Jack. The Irish lad was very brave there. Totally accidental from the three Seattle players but it still means Paul is out for the count.

    Aquilar took a fair bit of a knock to, looks like he’s holding his knee. I can’t quite see what’s wrong with Paul though

    The trainer’s called on a stretcher for him I think. Yes, the medics are driving over on the cart. Aquilar’s up on his feet and checking on the LA midfielder. Yes, I think he’s okay. Fernandez is stretching his back, Johnson is grabbing a bit of a drink, but it looks bad for the Irishman.

    We’ll see the replay here again Tommy, great move and lovely finish but it seems as if his right leg got sandwiched between the keeper and Johnson. It was the keeper that caught him fullest, right on the calf.

    That was very hard Jack, very hard indeed. Young McQuillan got it in a bad way and he’s struggling it looks like to stay conscious. He’s getting oxygen now. Let’s just hope as they roll him onto the stretcher that he’ll recover quickly and fully. Such a classy youngster doesn’t deserve to be badly injured for too long.

    Chapter 1

    The loss of the Bismarck was a huge blow to the German war machine but we must remember that the u-boats were a constant source of nuisance for the Allied Powers. Now, for your assignment. Multiple groans and muffled cries of despair washed over the room. For next Tuesday, which is in four days as today as we all remember is Friday, for Tuesday, remember there’s a weekend to get your work done, I’d like for you all to write an essay, of no more than two pages, about the Second World War. The titles you can choose from are as follows. Number one, how could Germany have won the war? For these you have to give two reasons and I want you to have one reference from a book or other source. The second title is, why was the Bismarck so important to the German war effort? Again two reasons and one of them a reference from a book or source. And finally, imagine yourself to be a German soldier or sailor and describe the conditions of your service. Now for this use the textbook, other books or movies. But list what you’ve used. That’s very important. Also. The bell for end of class sounded joyfully. Wait for it. Bodies froze. Also, you can’t use a direct movie, use your imagination. Right, any problems? A chorus of no’s raised the roof. Just what I wanted to hear on a Friday afternoon. I’ll see you all on Monday. Have a good weekend guys.

    On the way home Paul stopped at his brother’s restaurant for a cup of tea. Looking at the luxurious surroundings he wondered if something like this could once have been his. On the walls photos of him smiling in victory made him melancholic. So long ago. Memories of memorable times that seemed to have been merely dreams.

    Four-time All-American. Retired your number at the University, top draft pick. Who’d have thought that of little Paul McQuillan? He received a warm hug from his brother.

    Hey Pat. I don’t know why you keep those silly things on the wall. Can’t you afford antlers or posters of famous people?

    Can’t a little brother be proud of his big bro?

    When the big bro achieves something then that’d be okay.

    Ah get off your back for once. Here, look. He pointed to a photo of Paul receiving a trophy. Now read what that says. Paul shook his head. Okay then I will. Paul McQuillan lifting the NCAA Division I Trophy for Indiana, and you won it the year before too. Paul, who from Ireland can claim that, now look at this. Pat drew his attention to a head height glass frame with five green felt caps within. Five of just thirteen you won from under-fifteen to under-twenty one. Why wouldn’t I be proud of you? The whole family is proud of you. Not just because of football, but because you were always a good lad.

    I don’t know bro, he sighed. All the memories that never gave him cause to smile. Is there still a free coffee or tea for a two-bit secondary school teacher?

    Any time Paul, he replied clasping his shoulder warmly.

    They sat down and began catching up on what had happened in the fortnight since they’d last spoken. It was through no fault of either brother as Pat had just come back on Tuesday from 10 days in the sun, and Paul greatly envied his bronzed brother’s Moroccan tan. From what he made he could well afford it.

    You’re off to Europe this day week, right?

    Unfortunately, Paul laughed.

    Come on Paul, nothing unfortunate about that! First the delights of Holland, then the cheap beer and women of Germany and then the cheap beer, we’ll say nothing about the women, in Poland. I can’t comment on East Germany, apart from the cheap beer! You’ll have a ball! Oh, did I mention the women in Poland?

    Literally have a ball. And yes, you mentioned them. Though I heard a joke in the staffroom, what do you call a good looking woman in Poland?

    I don’t know, but you’ll tell me.

    A tourist. Pat smiled.

    Yes, literally. Though they will surprise you, once you get through the crusty commie exterior. Listen, how are you for cash? He hated to ask but Paul was on a low enough salary and would never put his hand out even if he were destitute.

    I’m not too bad. I’ve been putting money away since November so I’m fairly okay.

    Well as long as you’re not struggling. Is herself happy about it? Paul shrugged.

    She figures I should stay and keep the money for a holiday for us. Head to Jamaica or something, or Spain.

    Caribbean me arse. She would say something selfish like that.

    Ah now, she might have a point. It’d be nice to have a sun holiday. Last year we spent a wet fortnight in Wexford, not even strawberries were shining. Sunny south east be fecked.

    Come off it bro, she’s a grinch. A wench. Sorry to say it again and again, but it’s true. She’s a vampire. But instead of blood she’s after your money and energy. Paul finished his tea and sat back. Paul, she may be beautiful, smart and well off. She may be your heart’s desire, but all she cares about is number one and always will. I’m surprised she’s stayed around for so long. No disrespect to you of course.

    Of course. Anyway, I’d better go. He stood up; Pat caught his arm and stood up too. The more he challenged Paul on Myra the more his brother felt he had to defend her, which didn’t help him see through her game.

    Paul, he took his hand and placed a bundle of cash in his palm before folding his fingers over it. Buy yourself some new threads. Get a haircut and shave. Then go away and go wild. You deserve it. Paul regarded the money then handed it back.

    I can’t take this.

    Paul, Pat slipped it into his brother’s jacket pocket You are my brother and I love you. I do owe you money and I won’t be able to repay it all yet, so this is a down payment because I can afford it.

    No you don’t owe me money.

    Who gave me the cash to get this place? Who brought me so much business in the first place? You brought all the teachers here for lunches, spread the word and even had your other half, no matter what I might say about her, open the place. I haven’t been able to pay you back or have the opportunity to make it up since.

    Pat you being my brother is enough. Now take this back. Pat covered his pocket.

    No, it’s not even near what you gave me to buy this place. And nowhere near the profit you’ve generated. Now go to town and get yourself in order. It might even make you more attractive!

    I don’t think anything could help there Pat. Except the slap of a shovel in the face

    I agree. They laughed and hugged. Go on Paul, the shops shut in a couple of hours.

    I’ll talk with you later.

    Have fun! Paul left and stood on the corner wondering what to do. He took out the money and looked at it, put it back into his pocket and smiled.

    Maybe, just maybe. Then he went to the bus stop and caught a bus to the city centre.

    That night a new look Paul McQuillan arrived at the one-bed roomed flat he shared with his girlfriend. Gone was the choirboy hair-do, the beard and schoolteacher clothes. He struggled up the 2 flights of stairs with his multitude of plastic bags. He’d bought two new pairs of jeans, was wearing one of them, two new shirts, and was wearing one of them, a new jumper, in a bag, and a new pair of shoes, on his feet. As accessories he’d picked up new underwear, socks and a polo shirt. He hadn’t felt as good since, since his last shopping spree on Rodeo years before.

    As he was about to fumble for his keys the door opened. He looked up and smiled.

    Hello my Nubian Princess!

    Yeah, good. A curt reply was the norm with Myra, but there was menace in her perfected swivel this time. Like a puppy dog he followed her into the apartment, shutting the door and dropping his bags behind him.

    Good day on the shoot? He asked as he tried to kiss her cheek in vain.

    It was fine. He noticed a suitcase in the corner and a beauty case on the counter.

    Have you a gig this weekend?

    Yes. She looked out the window.

    Ah that’s grand. I was worried you were doing a runner or a bunk or something for a second. She didn’t answer. So what do you think of my new look? She glanced away from the window for a moment. Paul did an exaggerated twirl.

    Nice. Paul smiled again. So she was mad, he thought. He put his bags in the bedroom then went to her side; she pulled away slightly from his embrace.

    What’s up gorgeous? She turned away and went to her case, Paul noticed a taxi had pulled up outside. Ah, gotcha. Taxi’s here. So, he walked after her when are you back? She wouldn’t look at him.

    Next Saturday.

    But I’ll be gone on Friday! She slipped on her coat.

    I know.

    But I’ll be gone for a fortnight after! She narrowed her eyes and looked straight through him.

    I’m only coming back to pick up the rest of my things.

    What, we’re moving? He hadn’t quite grasped what she meant, or at least didn’t want to. He shook her head to clear it of confusion.

    No, I’m moving.

    Where?

    Out. Away Paul. Away from you.

    You’re leaving me?

    Finally! She threw her hands in the air to exclaim the point then picked up her luggage. How dumb can one human be?

    But three years. Almost four. We’ve been together for so long. Why?

    Too long Paul. We’re in a rut and there’s no way out.

    But we’re happy.

    Were happy Paul. Were! When we got together you were a big hero. You came back from America and had everything. Your leg operation was good and you signed with Orient.

    I know, that was the start. He tried to hold her but was shoved back.

    Exactly. You were on the up and had a life ahead of you. You helped them win promotion to the second division and then, just as it was all taking off, you retire.

    I had to. My leg was too bad!

    Too bad for you to go running every morning? Too bad for you to run about with that bunch of snotty ragamuffins you teach? Too bad for you to say, only one week ago Paul her eyes narrowed for the knock-out punch that you could almost go back playing again!

    We’re okay for money though. I bought this place with the insurance money and we’ve plenty of cash to see us through, and there’s both our work.

    But when do I see it? You gave Patrick twenty thousand for the restaurant and five thousand to the school for books. Two thousand to an old folks home for a garden.

    What are you, my accountant? Paul went to hug her, she pulled away.

    YES! As well as being a part-time model Myra worked full time with a local haulage company as an accountant.

    Oh, yeah, sorry. You balance the books. Sorry. But please Myra, let’s talk about it.

    No Paul. You’ll seduce me with your eyes and hugs and kisses and we’ll be back in bed and in the same old rut I’ve suffered for three years.

    Oh come on Myra, you’re tougher than that. He wanted to believe she was faking this time; he wanted to believe that this was just a tantrum, but any other time had no meaning or malice behind it, this was different.

    Goodbye Paul. I still love you but it’s over. She struggled out the door with the cases. Paul hovered nervously, hopping from foot to foot; bowing to his upbringing he took two of the cases from her and followed blindly.

    Please Myra, don’t go. I’ve changed. She wouldn’t look at him.

    Goodbye Paul.

    Please Myra, please. He pleaded down the first flight of stairs. Begged down the second. Offered the world as she went out the hall door and at the taxi door he begged again, this time on his knees. Please Myra, I love you. Please don’t go. Don’t leave me I need you. I love you. For the first time in a long while she showed some human warmth. Leaning out of the taxi she softly rested her right hand on his cheek.

    Paul, I love you in many ways too, but not enough. It’s just not right for us. One day we’ll meet walking down the street. You’ll be with some beautiful woman who’s totally and completely right for you and you’ll be a big success in whatever you do. A big success Paul. You’ll look at me and wonder why you ever shed tears for us, we’ll laugh and go for coffee. But we’re not good for each other as partners. We both deserve better. She moved closer to him through the open door and kissed his cheek so tenderly that for a moment he thought she’d change her mind.

    Please Myra give us one more chance. I’ve never asked you for that. I don’t want anyone else, nobody. I can never love someone as much as you.

    You have before Paul. When you retired from football. When you took up the teaching post. You’ll love again Paul, I will too. She sat fully into the taxi. I haven’t got the energy or time Paul. I’m twenty-four and my career has stalled. I’m in this backwater and going nowhere fast.

    But that German magazine, your calendar. Your job. You’ve all that and other stuff to kick in. We’ve a great future. She shook her head.

    Sorry, Paul. Goodbye. She shut the door. Paul knocked on the window and begged some more.

    Please Myra, please. Don‘t do this to us. Please. Tears rolled down his cheeks, loneliness engulfed him for the second time in his life. She never looked at him as the taxi pulled away from the footpath, leaving Paul all alone in the chilly March evening, as if on cue it began to rain, but it rained often in Dublin. What a way to start the weekend, was all he would think, if he could think. This wasn’t how it was all meant to go when he arrived home.

    Chapter 2

    The pile of essays to his left seemed to grow every time he removed one of them. The night was dragging by and he had yet to start packing his luggage for Friday. That had to be taken care of a.s.a.p. because the rest of the week would be mayhem. Sitting back from his desk he looked out across the square. Rain pelted off the rattling window frame as cars sloshed by below. Myra had called on Sunday, giving him hope for reconciliation, but it was only to remind him that the telephone bill was due. He asked if there was a chance of her coming back, her response was to tell him firmly It’s over.

    He hadn’t slept alone for a long time and something wasn’t right. Maybe Pat was spot on, the trip was what he needed. A break from work and stress, to clear out the cobwebs. Looking at the twenty odd assignments to be corrected made him feel tired. He decided, for a change, to forget about his work and have an early night. To sleep, perchance to dream. Or some other such lie. Instead he lay staring at a ceiling in need of a paint job and each time he closed his eyes he saw her, heard her voice, felt her touch. How many times had he promised to change, to take a chance, to finish his certs, to go back to England. In the painful darkness his thoughts ran free. His fears went off the leash and he felt his teeth grind. The sun rose and he was still without sleep so at seven he got up, made tea and sat looking at the relics of his life in a timeworn scrapbook. History was his, the future someone else’s. He put the folder away and stood in the middle of the kitchen, lost in decisions.

    Thursday afternoon was lunch with Denis, the mad Limerick man who was the co-manager of the team. He toasted the trip at least five times, before Paul had even arrived. In the snug he slid a glass of whiskey to Paul and toasted again.

    I’m telling you Paul, this is the best trip we could ever hope to go on. Once we pack the young terrors off to bed we can go and enjoy ourselves.

    From my experiences last year in Galway with them I doubt it’ll be so easy.

    Ah sure it will! Now. Go through the itinerary once more and I’ll name the best places for you. Paul had heard this spiel four or even five times over. Denis spent two student summers on the continent and had the place down pat, or so he claimed.

    We fly into Amsterdam,

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