BROTHER ANTHONY HAD HANDS AS BIG AS SNOWSHOES and a head as big as a wok. On good days he waxed lyrical about the beauty of geometry and Rocky Marciano. 49 undefeated. On his good days, we quite liked him. On bad days he could knock you across the classroom with an uppercut to the gut that left you winded for the rest of the class, and often did. They hadn't got round to outlawing the beating of children yet. They called it corporal punishment. Strands of greasy back-combed hair would free-fall across his massive pate after teaching the finer points of mathematics. One-two. Way to go, champ. His disappearance was the talk of the town.

De—La—Salle. The De La Salle Order of Religious Brothers. Some more religious than others. Not The Christian Brothers, or The Jesuits, they stressed. De La Salle, named after a Frenchman of the same name, strangely enough. The school my parents sent me to. For the usual this or that reason, but mostly because it was within walking distance. It's co-ed, they said, you'll meet lots of girls.

Head De La Salle Brother, Brendan, welcomed us all with an informative talk on how best to adapt to our new surroundings, and a couple of tips on Catholicism for teenagers. Cross your arms over your chest, boys and girls, when you go to bed at night. And if the Holy Ghost passes by he will know you are a Catholic and not kneading your noodle. Or, to the boys at least, words to that effect.

Nobody knew where Anthony was, but nobody was calling the cops. I'd moved on by then, and didn't hear till I returned home the following Christmas. He's probably run off with a nun, I said. My mother feigned shock and swore me to secrecy. Molly had called, cousin Molly from way out west, I explained to my old school buddies over pints of Guinness that same evening. Brigid was back in town, she'd explained. Sister Brigid of the Holy Order of I don't know what, Sister Frigid we'd predictably called her at school. Yep, she was back, and back in civvies, and back with a man in tow. Anthony they called him, rumour had it he was a prize fighter in the 70's. A quiet man, reflective, teaching maths at the local college. The gales of laughter finally calmed, like once back then ...

Quinn, he said.

Brother?

Quinn, people laugh at you for two reasons.

Yes Brother?

Do you know what these two reasons would be Quinn?

Eh, when you say something funny Brother?

That's correct Quinn. And the second reason why people laugh at you?

Eh, I'm not sure Brother.

Well let me tell you Quinn. Listen up the rest of you. People will laugh at you if you say something funny, it's true. But people will also laugh at you if you are a fool. And Quinn ... you do not say funny things.

We laughed, and raised our glasses to him, and agreed that going 49 undefeated was more interesting than going 50.


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