The Old Ba' Game

Once every decade or so, an uppity mainlander from Scotland moves across the eight-mile Pentland Firth and throws a fit about liability, brutality and pointlessness. But the Uppies and Doonies ignore the protests and show up at St. Magnus Cathedral to continue playing, because that in itself is the point.

Smith obsesses over each game for three months in advance, and he continued to contemplate strategy at his house until almost 10 p.m. His two sons returned home from the pub and sat down on a couch opposite their father. Sean, the family baby who weighs only 135 pounds, rubbed his forehead against his palm. He'd been wanting to confess something, he said, and the night's quaff had fortified his confidence.

"You know, da'," he said, "still not quite sure I'm playing this year."

"Hell you're not!" Kevin said, punching his brother in the shoulder. "What, you scared? Come on!"

"Naw, I'm too small," Sean said. "I could get killed in there."

"Ahh, it's not about size, never has been," Smith said. "If I taught you boys one thing about the ba', it's that nothing matters but heart and effort. Don't make a damn difference if you're seven foot tall or four foot. You're a Smith, so you'll play. And you'll play Doonie."

* * *

The sun -- or something vaguely like it -- filtered through a thick sea fog and rose over Kirkwall at 9 on Christmas morning, illuminating the epicenter of this 70-island archipelago that sits closer to the Arctic Circle than to London. It would set again in less than seven hours, leaving the town's residents in the eerie darkness that accompanies their extreme geographic isolation.

The day's ba' forecast called for temperatures in the high 30s and "a bit of a breeze," a term Orcadians use for all gusts under 100 mph. A "bit of a breeze" translates: Yes, you might have to tack sideways to make progress while walking up the sidewalk. Yes, the halogen streetlights probably would shake and rattle in their foundations. Yes, the whistling gales might lift mist off the sea and spray it across the islands, bathing the Orkneys in salty foam.

Kirkwall, though, had been built in the likeness of a fortress, capable of withstanding a bit of a breeze and more. The brown and gray walls of its single-story buildings were constructed with stone and covered with roofs of poured concrete. Streets curve radically like corkscrews to block the wind. On the day of the ba', wooden planks three inches thick cover each door and window, a precaution mandated by the town council before every ba'. The adornments made Kirkwall look particularly sinister, less like a town than a collection of war bunkers hunched against the sea.

An hour before the beginning of the ba', the streets remained still and silent, as they had since the end of October. Most residents here are fishermen and livestock farmers whose work goes dark during the winter. From early December until the end of February, these islands enter into a hibernation. Residents stay at home or, if they're feeling brave, trudge to one of the well-lit local pubs to escape the darkness.