“Come brother. Put on your colors. It’s time to go.”
There it was. The call to arms. Green on white. Argent, a bend dexter vert. Donning the garment, we became standard bearers. A battle was scheduled and warriors were needed.
The trek to the field was short. No time to reflect on the coming struggles. Warriors streamed in, solemn and somber. Those in red went one way, green and white the other. There was no animosity between them yet. No conflict before the battle and after one is declared the winner, there will be none again. Not only did the combatants show up to do their part, but so did spectators. Streaming into the area, sitting and waiting for the war to begin.
There the participants stood, opposing each other. The men moved restlessly, waiting for the signal to start. They knew it would come shortly, but it was still and eternity. Then a shrill blast from a whistle broke through the silent air. It had begun.
Hurleys swung, sliotar flew, men clashed, titans fell. A steady rain came with the opening whistle, turning the pitch to mud.
The spectators cheered at every point and hit. Applauding for these men, who battled for their pleasure. Then, as quickly as it started, another whistle was blown and it was all over. All the men went back to their respective sides and left the field. They had won. Spectators stood up and discussed the days events with their neighbors.
At the pub, pints were raised, songs were sung and all the warriors of today’s battle were brothers in arms.
Eventually they all stumbled home. Muddy grubby jerseys were stripped off and left on the floor. It would not be until next week that they would hear that call again.
“Come. Put on your colors. It’s time to go.”
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