The story behind the real GOATS of Beale Street
If the Memphis Grizzlies’ Ja Morant wants to be Beale Street’s GOAT, he’ll have to lock horns with two baaad competitors.
They’re not as internationally famous as The Peabody hotel’s ducks, but in the nearly 30 years since Silky O’sullivan’s opened on Beale, the pub’s “Irish diving goats” have become legends in their own right. Over the years, they’ve swilled beer, broken sports curses, predicted boxing matches, weathered challenges by the health department and animal rights activists, and are in the process of surviving a bar-shuttering pandemic.
“We get questions,” said Joellyn Sullivan, who opened the Beale location of the pub with her husband, Silky Sullivan, in 1992. “‘Why do you have goats?’ And the only answer Silky gave was, ‘We’re an Irish pub, and we should have goats.’”
“But I’ve been to Ireland,” she added, dryly, “and I’ve never seen any goats in pubs.”
Memphis as puck
So how did a Memphis pub come to decide to keep goats? Sullivan traces the tradition back to Ireland’s oldest street festival in the County Kerry town of Killorglin in Ireland.
In 1991, Sullivan’s husband, who died in 2013, took a trip to his ancestral home in Killorglin accompanied by friend and business partner W.S. “Babe” Howard. Howard, who died in 2008, was a huge fan of goats and had founded Millington’s Goat Days festival two years before. In Killorglin, they participated in the annual Puck Fair (”puck” means “he-goat”), where the townspeople crown a goat “King Puck” for reasons that aren’t clear. A popular explanation — and Joellyn’s favorite — is that long ago a mountain goat running into town alerted the the townspeople to an invading army.
Whatever the origins of Puck Fair, the festival cemented the pair’s plans for a second location of Silky Sullivan’s, which had one location, in Overton Square, at the time. The new location on Beale “had to have goats,” they agreed. And so, they opened Silky O’sullivan’s (the “O” means “son of” in a nod to the first location) in 1992. Silky’s first goat was Sir Killian, a frisky red and white who lived in a doghouse on the patio, who was later joined by the docile Lord Guinness, whose coat was a solid black.
“The reason Silky’s is open on Beale Street is really because of a goat and a fateful visit to Puck Fair,” Joellyn Sullivan said.
The Sullivans soon bought out Howard and another partner, Bub Cole, but kept the “goatkeeping” tradition. In 1998, after 25 years, the Sullivans closed the Overton Square location. They also owned a Silky O’sullivan’s in New Orleans from 2000 to 2005.
As for Sir Killian — because he stank as only he-goats do, he was taken to what turned out to be a “nefarious” veterinarian to be neutered, she said. He never came back. Instead, the vet gave them another, younger goat who looked like Killian but was half the size. When he was confronted, the vet claimed Killian had died in the neutering process, although Sullivan said she personally believes he sold the award-winning stud instead.
If you can’t bleat ‘em ...
The presence of the goats has long puzzled Beale Street visitors.
“You’re cute,” said Mary Matz of Tampa, Fla., as she petted Lord Guinness, according to a 1994 article in The Commercial Appeal. “But I don’t know why you’re here.”
Turned out, the health department inspectors were also puzzled. They eventually butted heads with the Sullivans, after which five “Kgb-looking guys in suits and with briefcases” showed up and ordered the pub to lose the goats, Joellyn Sullivan said. Silky’s response to them was, “Have you talked to the goats’ lawyer?” The health department officials pointed out the goats were defecating near patrons. “What poops the most, five ducks or two goats?” Silky replied, referencing The Peabody ducks.
Eventually, the health department backed down and the Memphis City Council in 1994 agreed to give O’sullivan’s the same exemption The Peabody has to the city ordinance that prohibits “livestock” from being kept in places serving food.
But the goats and their “goatkeepers,” which have been described as a “poor man’s version” of The Peabody ducks, never really took off the way the ducks and their duckmaster did — at least, with the exception of one “magical” goat, Maynard.
The luck of the ‘Irish diving goat’
The one-horned Maynard was the GOAT (“Greatest of All Time”) of the goats, known for his penchant for guzzling beer and — when goatkeeping was less stringent — munching on cigarette butts.
“Maynard was the best beer-drinking goat we’ve ever had: he held his own bottle,” Joellyn Sullivan said. (If you’re wondering: yes, it’s safe for livestock animals, which metabolize alcohol faster than humans, to drink a couple of grain-based beers.)
But what made Maynard “magical” was that he was considered a lucky goat.
In 2002, ahead of the Mike Tyson and Lennox Lewis fight at the Pyramid, comedian Dave Chappelle toured Beale
Street for “The Tonight Show” and Maynard correctly predicted Lewis’ victory. That same year year, after a dismal 0-13 start to the season, the Memphis Grizzlies had Silky trot Maynard and a bag of shamrocks (more commonly known as clover in the U.S.) around the Pyramid. The next game, the Grizzlies defeated the Washington Wizards, which at the time included the legendary Michael Jordan.
The Grizzlies were impressed — so impressed, in fact, that the team brought in Maynard for the 2003 NBA draft lottery. At the time, the Grizzlies had the sixthworst record in the league when it came to the draft, and they were hoping against hope that they would get the No. 1 pick to bring Lebron James to Memphis. And it was ever so close: The Grizzlies and Cleveland were the last two teams alive for the final pick. But Maynard’s luck eventually ran out and the Grizzlies got zip. “Tomorrow, we’re planning a sacrifice,” said a disappointed Jerry West, president of basketball operations at the time.
Later that year, after learning about the Chicago Cubs’ infamous goat-related curse — brought on by a fan who was forced to leave after buying himself and his goat tickets — Silky reached out to the down-on-their luck Cubs. He flew with Maynard to Wrigley Field, did the same routine, and the Cubs made it to the league championship series. They might have gone even further except for a fan interfering with a foul-ball catch.
Maynard also helped the New Orleans Saints at one point, and was an honored guest at the city’s Mardi Gras parade, Sullivan said.
Maynard’s luck-o-meter finally ran empty in 2006, when he died at the premature age of 7, of an undetermined sickness.
The goats have come and gone over the years: the Sullivans have owned about 10 altogether, including the two current residents, Angelina and Zena. The goats, which are half Tennessee fainting goat and half boer goat, live more sedate life than predecessors.
They haven’t tried to break any sports curses lately. And, because the Sullivans put up a barrier to prevent patrons from feeding beer to a past resident who had a medical condition, the goats are strict teetotalers now. Cigarettes are also out. There’s no diving (and never was). The complaints from People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (PETA) have stopped since a PETA vet gave the Sullivans flying colors for their care of the goats. Instead, the two goats quietly spend their lives in their pen, which they’ve called home for more than a decade now. Their monotony now is only broken up by the occasional saltine cracker thrown up on top of the tower that’s in their pen, which also has an elevated walkway that wraps around the back of the building.
Asked for comment, the goats only shook their heads.
Ryan Poe is a columnist and storyteller who writes The 901, a weekly commentary on all things Memphis. Reach him at poe@commercialappeal.com and on Twitter @ryanpoe.