I WALK down the street at 12.45pm. It is a sunny and calm winter's day. Kirkwall looks like
a town under siege, with all its shop windows boarded up. Huge planks of wood defy human entrance to side alleys.
Kirkwall is ready, as Saddam Hussein would say, for the mother of
all battles.
Young men stride purposefully towards the town centre. Dressed in old clothes and toe-capped boots, they look determined and focused, ready for action. They are prepared to give their all in the cause.
As we reach the core of the Viking town, a big crowd is assembled on the kirk green, in front of the imposing St Magnus Cathedral. In the street, an expectant group of mainly young men stand, facing each other, ready to spring. There is tension in the air. All eyes are on the Cathedral clock.
The hands move near to 1pm. The atmosphere is tingly. There are shouts from the crowd. Then, as the clock strikes one, a great roar goes up. A brown and black leather ball is hurled from the plinth in front of the Market cross. With flailing arms, the waiting men hurl themselves into action,
hands scrabbling for the ball, which immediately disappears into the heaving scrum.
The historic Kirkwall Ba' game is once more under way.
How did it all begin? No-one is sure, since the written evidence is meagre. John Robertson, the foremost authority on the Ba', reveals in his book, Uppies and Doonies, that football was played in Kirkwall's narrow streets in the early seventeenth century, and the Ba' game cannot be traced earlier than the late eighteenth century.
There are some who seek to place it much earlier. The romantics would have its origins in a ritual enactment of the ancient Sea Mither myth, in which the Mither of the Sea, the great vital and creative force, eventually vanquishes the wintry-faced monster, Teran. The Norse sagas make mention of ball games, in which the heroes exhibit their daring and manliness.
Popular Kirkwall folklore locates the Ba' game in the ancient Orkneyinga Saga, in which the Orcadian Earl Sigurd defeats his rival, Maelbrigte Tusk, and takes his head back to Kirkwall. A poisoned tooth from the saddled head stabs Sigurd, who eventually dies.
As in Sir Gawain and the Grene Knight, a severed heid makes a fine football, especially useful for dead
ball situations.
In Orkney, everything begins in history, and ends in mystery. My analytic head is with John Robertson, and my romantic heart is with the Sagas.
The game is contested between the town's Uppies and Doonies. The Uppies (Up-the-Gates, derived from the Norse ''gata'', meaning street) have to force the ball down to a particular street corner, while the Doonies have to get it into the harbour.
You are allowed to kick or lift the ball and run with it: apart from that, there are few rules. It is a ferocious game, in which no quarter is asked or given. I see people on the edge of the scrum, who shouldn't be there because of age or medical history. I meet Gary Gibson, a legendary Ba' figure, who is directing some of the action from the sidelines. Will he take part? ''No, I've made promises,'' he says. ''But remember I'm a Norseman, and a Norseman's word is not always his bond,'' he adds with a mischievous twinkle as he passes me the hip flask.
The game rages on, as some old scores are settled. People have been known to have bruises and broken ribs - and that's just the spec-tators. The crowds are partisan but good-humoured, exchanging seasonal greetings and drinks.
Some well-dressed gents who have vowed not to take part find that they have not fully overcome their addiction. They are soon sucked into the vortex. This is not new. ''Neither age, nor sex, nor rank, nor silk hat, nor white waistcoat, nor swallowtail coat, nor any other thing is able to keep a true Kirkwallian out of the Ba' game, once he thinks his side is in desperate straits,'' wrote David Horne, a local historian, in 1923.
In the middle of the steaming throng I spot Mike Drever, acting director of education, who will not see 55 again. He is giving as good as he gets as he encounters a local farm worker. And over there is Leslie Manson, the newly- appointed director, who knows how to handle himself as the scrum is pushed against the wall.
Shouting instructions on the edge of the action is David Oddie, secretary of the Friends of St Magnus Cathedral, and one of the islands' most respected accountants. These are not hooligans, just slightly crazed Ba' junkies. They are there to win.
In previous years, the ball has ended up on roofs, pursued by the slavering pack. On one famous occasion, the game raged right through the middle of a local hotel.
It stops for nothing and no-one. Who is going to win this time? It is looking like the Doonies, winners for the past six years. Then comes an amazing stroke of fortune, which will be talked about for years to come.
Local insurance man Kevin Hancock, who is not playing this year because of injury, is amazed to see the coveted ball bouncing, out of the scrum, along the street towards him. He can resist everything except temptation.
Does this personable Orcadian know that he is acting out the ancient Sea Mither myth? Does he realise that he is about to pick up a severed Viking head? Irresistible ancient history beckons him as he races through the winding Kirkwall streets, until he reaches the gable end, five hours after the start of the game. The Uppies have won! The wild celebrations can begin.
Old Firm, eat your heart out. This is more thrilling than the prejudice-riven events at Parkhead today. It is also the day when the young immortal, Kevin Hancock, should buy his lottery tickets. And a Happy New Year to you all.
