Attending The Church Of Scholes...

he consoled himself with the fact that, in the real world, when he looked closely into the darkness he might find the presence of a light, damaged and bruised, but a little light all the same.

-colum mccann, let the great world spin

this writing project has suffered from neglect for the last few months as a result of the massive commitment required for my new local team as well as the busy writing season at work. i had hoped to pick it up again after the winter break and start it going strong in 2010, perhaps working some of the elements within and some of the stories floating around my head into some fiction. well, this won’t be happening. 2 weeks ago i got some terrible news. after many, many years, the pub is closing. after 14 days of sheer shock and disbelief and and anger, i am finally coming to terms with it.

it fits in with the narrative arc of hell that is 2009, but that doesn’t make it any easier on me. on any of us.

the lease did not get renewed, landlord is a prick, recession is still inflicting local casualties.

the taps are being turned off for good on new years eve. bottles stowed. perpetually-ringing payphone disconnected.

saturday morning was the last manchester united match i will ever watch there. we lost.  fulham clobbered a hapless and confused united squad 3-0.

for 4 years, pretty much every weekend, in the early morning hours, i’ve been frequenting this quintessentially western queens establishment. i started going alone, for a while i went with someone who turned out to be no one, and for the last 12 months i really fell into a community— a totally dysfunctional group of tipplers and sots with questionable liver functionality, yes— but a solid community nonetheless.

in 2009, after one thing after another piled up on me to contribute to the most evil year in existence, i knew each weekend morning that i could find solace for 90 minutes in the pub. i would groggily wake up, put on my personalized tevez and rooney shirts, and stumble a few blocks over to take my spot on one of the withering bar stools, anxiously awaiting the kickoff. during the days and weeks that blended into each other and blended into nothing, during the times that getting out of bed and pretending to be functional was a tall order, i knew i could escape the present reality of my ghosts and fractures— both metaphorical and literal— by venturing to the pub for a few magners over ice amongst my red-clad united compatriots. much of my pain was in plain view, the guys at first could not understand the breakup, neither could i. in the end it was all lies anyway. “fuck her,” they said. when the suicide went down, i was similarly visibly shook, even when i was in the pub. it was talked about, these guys had been hit by similar events both here and back home. it helped put things in perspective.

i never thought i would be writing a eulogy for the bar i just wrote a eulogy in.

in the late spring and this fall when things started looking up, the comments would fly when i would bring other girls to the pub— it was like seeking the approval of a big, extended, foul-mouthed, shit-talking, manchester united-loving irish alcoholic family. “good night huh?” “what did she order?” “just a ‘friend’ or something more?” “you know her from work or that’s just a coincidence?” “wait, did she just say she was a chelsea supporter?!?” this colorful vetting process contributed to my swearing off emotions, commitment, and relationships for the year. maybe for good.

this pub and those within it helped me get through some of the worst times. i found my new queens-based irish team and a whole new group of teammates and friends and neighbors at this spot. “we signed him from a stool at the pub,” the coach announced after my debut match against a team of fiery cypriots where i scored a wonder goal in the first half. finding and being a part of this team and playing at such a high level again was one of my few positives in 2009. i have the pub to thank.

this past saturday was painful. the understanding that the end was near, in the middle of the season nonetheless, was compounded by the absolute shit play taking place in london. paul scholes had a nightmare of a match. on his last day at the church, the little guy let me down. i imagine, somehow, that he was depressed about the pub himself and this accounted for him gifting fulham their first goal and, of course, getting a yellow card in the 5th for an patented ill-timed horror challenge. the pub fantasy league was even being abandoned early, participants talking about cash payouts. patrons, whispering about where to take up residence nearby for the early setanta games, were left dumbfounded. questions and brainstorms wafted through the chilly interior of the darkened wood-covered pub. it was like an unspoken collective sadness and fear of displacement had washed over us all.

and it had.

“is there anywhere around we can go?” “i know a place in woodside, i think.” “with setanta?” “bar34 might show them, the owner is a fucking liverpool fan though.”

nothing was really resolved.

during this exchange one of the light fixtures illuminating the bar fell, inexplicably, onto the bar and then crashed loudly on the floor, unleashing a mini-mushroom cloud of old memory-littered dust.

“well, even the lights are done with this place,” a regular exclaimed, half bemused and half visibly spooked.

there are plans for the pub to rise again, like a magners-intoxicated mythological phoenix, somewhere on greenpoint ave, at some point in 2010. “the same but better,” quipped the bartender/owner who went through his own share of shit this year on my way out.

a silver lining, no doubt.

even so, like so many other things and people in this neighborhood in 2009, it is now gone and will survive only as recollection by those lucky enough to have been a part of it. a recollection that…

we return to the moment to experience it, i suppose, but we can never really find it, only its memory, the faintest imprint of what it really was, what it meant.

-colum mccann, let the great world spin