The gambler Dallan laments the loss of the road bowling score by the Irish champion to a German nobody. The pub keeper Redmond serves as his counselor.
DALLAN
This is where it starts — in the heart. It starts with every beat, every gush of blood, shooting life through every last vessel until the day it stops — and it will. The heart makes the man, his passion and conviction, everything he is — doesn’t stem from the brain. It’s pumped: pumping and churning and always burning inside of you — this heart. It’s what you follow because it’s a force. It is a force. It’s where God lives inside us.
You fight it, you’re a fool. It’s such a force that when it stops beating, its power lives on through your soul. You think it’s still beating inside you. You can feel it. (DALLAN pats his chest three times.)
And don’t think it’s a coincidence that the heart is shaped like Ireland — not on your life. The heart of the worker, the farmer, the heart of Ireland — this heart. But even we lose heart, you see, we’re human, we lose things. And when we do, the soul is our safety net made from every beat, every passion, thought, deed, desire, the subconscious conscience, the blueprint of us.
When there is a soul, death is not the end. But for those without heart to begin with, how can their soul save them? Without a heart as a foundation, a soul is as useful as a paper shield. That boy has no heart. I know it, you know it, Ireland knows it. Yet, we want to believe in him. His blood is noble. His father fought for Ireland with every last breath in his body. And time and again, his lack of heart breaks yours. You don’t ever expect someone to break your heart. A broken heart comes upon you like a thief in the night. I can’t escape this feeling, though, that when my heart breaks, I’ll know that thief’s name.
REDMOND
It was a tough shot.
DALLAN
I know it’s a tough shot. He makes it. Tough shot? We are tough people and we do the tough! The tough is afraid of us, not the switch of it. We lost to a Jerry, Redmond, a Jerry — on our own road, at Big Corner, that slithering stretch, swallows men whole, but not our men. It has no taste for Irish men.
The King of the Road wins scores at Big Corner. When a champion is neck-and-neck with some kraut-eating nobody at Big Corner, he buries that Jerry! He turns the corner, and he buries him so far into the ground, Christ himself wouldn’t have the power to bring him back. He doesn’t throw it all away!
But there’s some excuse, obviously, an excuse, you need one. The excuses of the world can’t resurrect our bodies when some Nazi strips away our bowling championship, snatching that emerald cup out of our chest with his blood-soaked hands. He didn’t have to lie or steal or bomb us or destroy us — he just had to show up, show up and hold out your hands and all is yours, my good Jerry. And we placed the cup in his hands, raised our right arms with a warm sieg heil and a smile, and started counting down the moments until we could embarrass ourselves again.
