How he died isn’t important. Well, actually, it is. Monaghan was up all night drinking and doing blow and his heart exploded twenty-seven minutes into the match. Don’t interrupt. You asked for a story and a story is what you’ll get. Now the important thing is that it exploded while he was doing what he loved best. Well, hurling, of course, but he did love his Coors Light. Imagine those excruciating twenty-seven minutes before his demise. Running, leaping, striking the ball with his heart going rabitty and strange, and every second wondering if it would be his last. Did he know? I think he did. Pity Monaghan didn’t last another three minutes or he’d still be here, keeping barmen in business. He did love the game. That cannot be denied. He loved it something fierce. I’m getting to the ghosty part, don’t you worry. Monaghan’s passion for the sport was so powerful that those who pass by the pitch late at night swear they can hear the pock pock pock of his stick striking the ball. One blustery evening, long after the season was over, a local fellow, yes it was the butcher, no it wasn’t McAllister’s, the one we don’t go to anymore since ma took ill. It’s not important. The butcher took a shortcut across the pitch and heard the sound of Monahan warming up—pock pock pock, pock pock pock—even though the field was empty and the sky was as dark as a dungeon. As our man was crossing the middle of the pitch he felt something come up against his foot. No, it didn’t hurt, it was just a nudge, and when he looked down he saw a ball at his feet so he did. He picked it up and gave it a gander but it wasn’t a ball at all but a mass of skin and hair and teeth that gave the poor fellow—yes, the butcher—a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach. Well, of course, he was used to looking at bits of meat and bone and other oddments from his work at the butcher’s shop but when he looked down to see what it was he held in his hand he beheld an eye beholding him. Monaghan’s eye. Now I don’t need to tell you that… No, just the one eye. It doesn’t matter what color the eye was because… It was brown, yes, like your mother’s, the very same. Yes, of course, I miss her, sure I do, but she’s… With Monaghan? Ah, no, she’s… No, no, no, she’s not at the pitch with Monaghan. She’d have no reason to be there. My eyes? There’s nothing the matter with my eyes, son. They’re as dry as… What’s this? A tooth! In my eye! My toothy eye! Now quit your squealing and get yourself to sleep…
Jim Ruland is the LA Times bestselling author of Corporate Rock Sucks: The Rise and Fall of SST Records. He also co-authored My Damage with Keith Morris, the founding vocalist of Black Flag, Circle Jerks, and OFF! and Do What You Want with Bad Religion. Ruland has won awards from Reader’s Digest and the National Endowment for the Arts and his work has appeared in many magazines. His new novel, Make It Stop, which will be published by Rare Bird Books in April 2023.
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