Toughen Up Lads

Hernias, cruciates, groin-strains and mental breakdowns. In my day the only complaint you heard from a player was that his leg or arm was possibly broken but that they’d see it out til the end of the game and then get her looked at afterwards. I remember an ageing centre half back for Fermanagh losing half a hand during a McKenna game in the 50s when he collided with a cement pillar with 9-inch nails hanging out of it after a fair shoulder. He looked at it and says ‘sure it’s only the left one anyhow’ and went on to notch 2-8 with the blood pouring out of the wound, the ball seeped in red and half the Down defenders blinded with the lad’s plasma. He had it looked at the next day. Never played again. But the point I’m making is that today’s player is undoubtedly more susceptible to the odd scratch compared to a few years ago. I’m not claiming they’re imagining the damage now, but there’s no doubt that players were less brittle in the days of Joe Lennon, Iggy Jones and Jim McKeever.

I’m not the first to relate this to the lifestyle of the modern inter-county player compared to that of half a century ago. Last weekend you had the Antrim and Tyrone squads probably ferried from their home by car to their team bus, bussed to Clones and a similar return journey. It wouldn’t surprise me if some of those Tyrone lads hired limousines or were carried by hammock from the bus to the changing rooms. I can remember having to cycle from my house to Emyvale (45 miles) and then walk the rest of the way to Clones to stretch my legs before a minor hurling game in 1945. You only have to look at old photos from games back then. The players had thighs as wide as their waist. Their calf muscles were akin to bricks tied to the back of their shins. Today’s players look, from a distance anyway, like matchstick men, ready to be snapped in two by a crunching double shoulder. But that’s just the way things are and during Sunday’s game I began to think of whom Antrim and Donegal would draw in the back-door and that wasn’t it great to be touring the country seeing all the counties you’d only encounter on the odd holiday.

There’s no doubt that Donegal and Antrim will have the best of transport to Sligo and Offaly and so it should be. But I remembered back to the old national league games when it was badly run and you’d be travelling the length of the country on saddle only to return in the early hours of the following morning with an hour to throw breakfast into me before the turf. Probably the most popular mode was bicycle. It was a great spectacle some Sunday mornings as 4-500 cycles freewheeled their way to Dundalk or Mullingar. Depending where you came from, the state of the cycles was variable. The county Down lads always had the best set-up and would be hammering past supporters of other counties with their gears and their horns. They were the aristocrats in more way than one. The mid-Ulster lads (South Derry/North East Tyrone) would be the opposite end of the scale with oul rickety models barely holding together. There’d be a couple of lads on the handlebars and maybe a youngster on the cyclist’s shoulder. Added to that balancing act, it wouldn’t have been uncommon to possess an absence of breaks so the heels would be fairly hot by the time all and sundry reached the ground.

Fermanagh lads tended to travel by donkey. You always hated drawing Fermanagh at home as you knew the joint would be in some shape by the time they left. At around midday you hear the braying in the horizon and before long the noise of their asses would be drowning out the chapel bell. They’d be eating hedgerows, flowers, nibbling at local children and leaving their mark all over the lanes. During the game it wouldn’t have been unusual to have one of the Fermanagh players’ donkey saunter onto the field, recognising the owner and just standing beside him in the half forward line throughout the game. It was some hindrance. Sure it’s no wonder Fermanagh won the ’59 All-Ireland Junior.

The Donegal men were walkers. Even if it was Cork , they’d merrily set out half way through the previous week and in high spirits slowly make the 400 mile jaunt. You couldn’t annoy them. They were glad to get away and never complained. Even if they didn’t make the game in time, they’d just shrug, turn around and walk back, admiring the hay or birds. Armagh were a frightening bunch to behold. They’d mostly travel from the south of the country and used horseback. Maybe on the odd Sunday, sets of supporters would cross paths and there was nothing more impressive than seeing the Armagh lads gallop by through the walkers, cyclists and donkeys. There was something regal yet outlawish about them, a fearsome sight as their ‘yee-haw’ and ‘’yup, ye boy’ chants reverberated across the landscape. You were always waiting for the sirens behind chasing them. When you look at Francie Bellew, place him on the horse at full pelt, maybe his red straggly hair uncut for a decade, you can picture the fearsome band of Armagh fans arriving on your patch.

So, the times have changed. Next week you’ll have organised buses making their way to the games in Tullamore and Sligo . You’ll see BMWs, Volvos and Datsuns arriving in pristine condition. It’ll probably only take you a couple of hours at most. But out of those motors I’ll just see the skinny legs and pale complexions and thank the Lord that the likes of myself and the players of my generation were made of sterner stuff. There was no such thing as a keyhole surgeon in 1956. Managers should maybe take note. It’d give me great pleasure to see Aodhan Gallagher get down off a thoroughbred or Kevin Cassidy dandering past Killybegs on the Thursday with a pair of boots over his shoulder. If they do, they’ll last the 70 minutes. I guarantee.

Time To Spice It Up

Technology isn’t what it’s cracked up to be. I’m starting to pine for the days when half the parish would be crowded around the one wireless at Widow Quinn’s kitchen listening to Cavan winning another All-Ireland or any of the other Ulster sides getting hammered by Kerry or Dublin . No one really thought that much about wanting to be at the actual match. The craic was great in the parlour and there’d normally be a punching session or two out of badness if the game was a bit dull. It was all innocent stuff. Then along came The Sunday Game and that was a bonus. They’d show the four All-Ireland semis and the two finals. It was a good reason to get a TV and turn it on in September.

What we’re witnessing now is an overdose. It’s a bit like the food. In the 50s/60s you’d never have seen an obese child unless he had travelled over from England or was the landlord’s son. You ate your dinner, your breakfast and supper and that was it. On a Friday there was the chance of a packet of sucking sweets. Now there’s larders packed to the brim and children are eating their way through the day. I see boys eating cakes on bridges without a smile on their face as if it’s something they do everyday. At Mass last week a child suffered the embarrassment of his vestment garments bursting open at the seams. The previous week some young buck asked the PP if he could have a couple more of those communions.

The same is happening with the football and hurling. RTE and TV3 are trying their best to keep us happy but in their panic to cover as many games as possible, they’re overdosing us. We see so many games that unless something outstanding occurs, it’s all much of a muchness. Now we’re demanding to be entertained, the same way as the young lad club barbecue last week demanded that he get beef, pork, chicken and fish on his plate at the same time. When he was told there was no fish, he lifted one of the corner flags and proceeded to smash the media box to pieces. The response to this by the mother was ‘ach sure, get the lad some fish’.

This need to be entertained has spread to the pundits and they’re now like a bunch of pre-programmed robots each week, feeling the need to criticise the product to keep us happy. There has been much debate about rule changes and the like in order to improve the Games. If the powers took time to look back on old footage of the games, they’d see that back in the 50s, we had one hell of a product. The playing rules were the same but it was the peculiarities that made us different. I’d perhaps encourage that the following is given its rightful consideration at congress next year.

A tradition that was one of the highlights of the games back then was the throw-in. Instead of the ref tossing the ball up between the four midfielders as you see now, a dignitary would’ve gotten the pleasure and exposure of carrying out that task. Often it was high-ranking clergy that performed the task. It was a great opportunity for any of the players who had perhaps been excommunicated for parking in the PP’s space the previous week of for not giving anything towards the upkeep of his house during the collection. The clergyman would throw the ball up between the four midfielder and all 12 half forwards. In a split second all you could see was a dust storm as ceremonial robes and even the mitre swirled in a frenzied torpedo in the middle of the field. Eventually someone would emerge with the ball and as the haze settled, a semi-naked, bruised bishop would sorely trudge his way back to the sideline, a broken man. Now imagine the viewing figures and talking points such a custom would create now if we reintroduced the celebrity throw-in. Picture this: Joe Brolly has been selected to throw in the ball at the start of a Fermanagh v Monaghan game. You’d have 16 lads licking their lips manically with poor Joe, barrister’s wig and gown on him, shaking with fear as he stares down Dick Clerkin’s deathly frown. The mayhem that’d ensue would create great discussion in the pubs and living-rooms across the country.

The possibilities here are endless: Ronan Keating, Patrick Kielty, Mary Harney, Martin McHugh, Colm O’Rourke, Graham Norton – the choices are mouth-watering. Just imagine Spillane standing there, quivering uncontrollably, at the start of an Armagh/Tyrone clash. Hub Hughes, Gormley, Dooher, Vernon , O’Rourke, McKeever all rubbing their feet like bulls waiting for the ref’s whistle.

That idea would be a start. Forget about abolishing the square-ball, 13-a-side, limiting the hand-pass etc. There are other practices from half a century ago that would need serious consideration that would prevent the public from becoming completely desensitised because of the amount of games we’re being exposed to on the television. The old-time heavier brown leather ball would be an attractive introduction. That would cut down on the amount of wides as you’d only realistically shoot from 14 yards out. There’d be less hand-passing as holding onto that boulder would take it out of you over the course of a match. That’s just an indication that there’s little wrong with the rules, it’s just the customs that have maybe diluted the product a bit. Less TV, heavier balls and get the clergy back onto the field.

The Antrim Curse

Kevin Armstrong, Harry O’Neill, Tony Best and Joe McCallin. To punters under the age of 60, finding the link between those names will leave them flummoxed. If you add to that Paddy O’Hara, Mickey Darragh, Sean Gallagher and Ray Beirne, you have over half of the last Antrim side to left the Anglo-Celt Cup, back in 1951. Antrim were a decent side then and a relative heavyweight in Ulster . They’d won the title in ’46 and reached the finals of ’47 and ’48. So, unlike this year’s final, they were no potential flash-in-the-pan. What is remarkable though is that it would take another 19 years before they reached the final again. That day, in 1970, also represents the last time they walked behind the parade for the Ulster Senior Football Final. So how did it all go so wrong?

You’ll not find this in any official yearbook or compilation of results. But I’m a man who knows more than your average scribe. There are a few secrets I’ll carry to the grave but I didn’t think I’d see the day when Antrim could contest another Ulster Final. The reason for that goes right back to the night of the 1951 title celebrations. Having beaten Cavan in that decider, and with Cavan being All-Ireland contenders at that time, hopes were high that the Saffrons would make a breakthrough on the national stage. Their footballing adviser was a unique Meath fellow called Herbie Hynd, a man who dabbled in the spiritual side of sporting preparation, a bit like Brother Ennis or Fr McAleer. However, Hynd’s powers were regarded as going a little beyond that. He could heal, like herbalist Sean Boylan, but it was often said that he could dabble in the dark arts too. When they defeated Cavan in the final that year, the Breffni full forward was clean though in the last minute with an empty net in front. Inexplicably, he capsized head-over-heel and threw the ball back to the Antrim keeper. Hynd was said to have been on his knees at the time, bent over with his head pressed to the ground although there is no photographic evidence to back this up.

His native county, Meath, were also on the rise as a power and had as recently as 1949 defeated Cavan in the All-Ireland final. There were strong rumours that Hynd would return to his native county to help turn them into the super-power that Kerry became in the 70s. He made no secret that his heart lay with the Royals but still showed tremendous loyalty to Antrim during his spell there. He had been called in after the ’46 All-Ireland semi when Kerry bullied Antrim into submission, despite being an inferior outfit to the Saffrons. Hynd brought that bit of self-belief and general all-round steel. Things were rosy that Ulster title day in 1951. Antrim had regained the title and were about to commence an assault on Sam Maguire, meeting Meath in the semis.

It all changed that night. The stout was in full flow in the Casement clubrooms as the Anglo-Celt was passed around the Gaels of Antrim. The merriment was a tremendous sight. Hynd, not being a drinker, frowned a little on the alcohol abuse but was prepared to overlook it as long as it didn’t get out of hand. Unfortunately it did. One thing led to another and before long the poteen and ether were produced and the rows broke out. Men from the glens were boxing city lads and there was general mayhem. Hynd sat at the back of the room, shaking his head in disbelief. He had preached the need for discipline and self-respect yet here were his charges and their supporters violently revelling in an Ulster title, when there were bigger prizes on the horizon. In the early hours of the following morning, and when the fighting had died out, the Saffrons found common ground when they decided to sing unfavourable songs about their next opponents, Meath, forgetting it was the home place of their spiritual leader.

Hynd listened to a couple through gritted teeth but it all became too much for the guru when they sang to the air of that famous Orchard ditty, ‘There’s One Foul County in Ireland , the county of An Mhi .’ Harmless stuff indeed but Hynd’s passion for the Royals was much deeper than most knew. At 4am, having listened to three full verses of the above mockery, he exited the building and walked straight into the middle of Casement Park . There, he dropped to his knees, reached his arms to the Gods and uttered an unmerciful howl followed by a few words in Latin. Being a scholar of all languages, I was fully aware of what he was concocting. He put a curse on the county that they’d never win another Ulster title in his lifetime, or if they played any of their championship matches at Casement after that.

At the time I was sceptical of his powers such was the talent in Antrim’s panel. As it turned out, the Saffrons would only appear in one more Ulster Final in the 58 years until now. Last year, I read the sad news that Hynd had passed away in his native Meath at the age of 107. Antrim have yet to see Casement action in this year’s championship. The ingredients are there for the lifting of the curse. However, that night in Casement in 1951 contained one final detail. Hynd claimed that the Antrim curse could only finally be eradicated by hitting three goals in an Ulster final. I’ll be there this Sunday. The Saffrons know what they have to do or Hynd’s legacy will continue to drape its shadow over Casement Park . The Tyrone full back line stand between a half-century curse and Antrim lifting their 11^th title.

Women and GAA

They say behind every great man there is a great woman. We all know that’s codswallop. However, behind almost every great achievement or event down through history there has been a man or woman sitting in the background with a smirk on their lips, happily living in the obscure background whilst the figureheads take all the plaudits. I’m one of those unknown heroes. In 1980 I met Johnny Logan at Downings. He said to me as he left his caravan at the end of the summer, ‘another 12 months til we come back then’ with a forlorn expression. I shouted over, ‘sure what’s another year?’ The following year he lifted the Eurovision with that thought and the country went on to take another few titles after Logan had bravely led the way. When Ireland failed to make the finals of that song contest this year, my eyes watered at how the mighty had fallen and my part in making the home nation what it once was. Those feelings of regret returned last Sunday when I watched Dublin obliterate Antrim in the hurling. In my day if you saw a Dub with a hurl in his hands you phoned the guards.

Back in 1988 I was chasing a girl from Cushendall. She wasn’t the prettiest of blades but I once watched her dig out the founds of a sizable patio on her own with a thin shafted spade. How many wemen would even know what a spade is today? Anyway I won her affections when I entered the poc fada at the Glenariff Games and lifted the competition handsomely with a puck of 500 yards. Also watching the competition were the management of the Antrim hurling team who were about to embark on the 1989 Championship. That year the Ulster Hurling championship had been revived for the first time since 1949 after a 50 year gap. Antrim were a little bit nervous about this and when they witnessed me waltz to the Poc Fada title with arrogance to burn, it wasn’t long til they were plying me with porter in McCollum’s Bar trying to win my services for the year. No amount of stout could make me think I’m a hurler and when I finally convinced them I couldn’t run the length of myself they settled for a consultancy role.

When I attended the first training session at Casement Park I knew the size of the job ahead of me. I knew I could teach them how to shoot accurately from great distances but some players were so out of shape it could’ve passed for a darts throwing convention. I told the management I had a dietary qualification and set about compiling the day-to-day menus for each player. I kerb-crawled around the Antrim streets at night and if I caught a player exit a chip shop or off-licence I nicked them on the ear with an air rifle from the comfort of the Datsun Sunny. I also confessed to being a fitness guru and had the whole squad mowing the grass and cleaning the grave stones around Milltown Cemetery at night. I’d scare the bejaysus out of them by jumping out from behind the odd grave at midnight with nothing on me put a pair of briefs but this was all part of the conditioning plan. Within a month I had built a fearless, thin and fit group of players ready to take on Down in the Ulster Final. We won that game 2-16 to 0-9 but although the county rejoiced at such a convincing win I was unhappy.

On manys an occasion during the game a player in a better position didn’t receive the sliotar due to poor communication. Unlike Dublin last week, Antrim players hadn’t really cottoned on to using slang or nicknames for each other. During the Down match, players had been using their full names such as, ‘here, Olcan McFettridge, Terence McNaughton’s free to your left’. That was too much of a mouthful during the cut and thrust of a championship game so I came up with a few nicknames such as Sambo and the like. Before long it was all the craze in the schools and streets and Belfast hasn’t looked back since. A big worry before the Offaly game was the size of Croke Park and how they’d score points from distance as had been their forte to date since they copied my poc fada style. Again, the management turned to me before the game and asked for my advice such was my total success to date. I told them to forget about the points or shooting from the half way such was the length of the headquarters, just hit the net. For every time they goaled, I said, it’d be worth three long range efforts. In my mind that made sense, and the semi-final scoreline of 4-15 to 1-15 was a vindication of my methods and scope of thought. Whilst the player were feted and management interviewed by every publication in the country, I slipped off the radar. I ran away. It wasn’t because I was envious of the attention given to those above; it was a more heartbreaking issue that was a by-product of my involvement with the Antrim hurling team. My Cushendall spade woman had dumped me for a player from Ballycastle who also played on the Antrim team. She wanted the fame of being a player’s wife, not the girlfriend of the brains of the backroom team.

I packed up my belongings the night of the Offaly game and ran off to Carnlough where I worked undercover as a TV licence man over the next few weeks. I watched the All-Ireland Final as the Saffrons were humiliated by Tipperary from my bed-sit portable TV. I knew how to beat Tipp but I didn’t answer the calls as I couldn’t bring myself to watch the girl of my dreams cavort on the Croker turf with the left half forward.

Now, when I see Antrim fade like last Sunday against teams I would’ve had beaten in the changing rooms before the game with eye contact, I shed a tear. To see Sambo at the helm makes it worse. Never let the heart rule the head. Courting and hurling don’t mix. Sure it done for Cú Chulainn too.

The Battle of Ballybofey

Rivalry in GAA can be a peculiar yet wonderful thing. Just last week we witnessed Armagh and Tyrone, separated by the Blackwater, mingle in the Clones sun with the usual banter filling the air such as they amount of All-Irelands to getting there first to apples and bushes. ‘Twas all light-hearted stuff as you would expect in May. Fast forward a couple of months and the heat in Dublin seems to bring out a more vicious element to their rivalry. I remember in 2005 walking down the steps from the upper Hogan after Armagh had turned Tyrone over in the final replay. I was observing a couple of dejected Tyrone fans mumble dejectedly in front of me. Just at that time, a smiling Armagh supporter happened to walk back up the steps, probably having forgotten something like a sandwich box or a flask. Well, the more savage-looking one of the Tyrone couple simple lifted his right arm and boxed the poor Orchard fellow full on the nose. There had been no previous eye contact. Yer man was out stone cold. There were a couple of tuts but the majority of fans just simply walked on. I was gob-smacked. That was a brutish example of sheer animal rivalry.

Soon we’ll be having the Derry-Tyrone get-together later this month. That takes it a wee bit further. I can remember back in the mid-80s when both sets of fans would have spent the week leading up to a match shunting their motors into each other in Cookstown. Armagh/Down, Derry/Antrim and Monaghan/Cavan all have their tales of ignorant confrontation. Yet there is one social occasion that gets my pulse racing – the meeting of Antrim and Donegal. They may be a the opposite ends of the province and share no geographical landscape but a meeting of sorts over 25 years ago began a acrimonious relationship that still holds true to this day.

In 1980, St John’s of Belfast met Killybegs in a tournament in Casement Park . On the field it was a quiet enough affair. Both sides were decent outfits at the time and it may have been a draw or perhaps Killybegs won by 10 points. I can’t remember. What I do recall was the commotion inside the clubrooms in the hours after the game. Tensions began to rise when it was obvious that the Donegal fans were not for going home any time soon. Some lad from Bundoran pulled out a whistle and began a rendition of The Hills of Donegal. Soon after, the rest of the Donegal crew were singing Mary From Dungloe … ‘And by my side a bottle of wine and on my knee a lass’…

As a neutral I was pleasantly surprised at the unexpected music to accompany my stout. That pleasure soon turned to discomfort as I witnessed the Antrim contingent stare threateningly at their visiting fans. It became obvious that the locals didn’t take kindly to being out-cultured in their own patch. It wasn’t long before a young woman from Toome struck up with Roddy McCorley, backed manically by the saffron supporters, swelling in numbers by the minute.

Within an hour, the sing-off was in full swing. Donegal Danny was met with the Green Glens whilst Dear Old Donegal faced The Oul Lammas Fair in Ballycastle. This might found like a nice night to experience but let me tell you the opposite was the truth. The ferocity of the singing was frightening. During the lyric, ‘Did you treat your Mary Ann/To some Dulse and Yellow Man’, one Donegal camper smashed a pint glass against the toilet door. At midnight mayhem reigned in the Casement clubrooms as both sets of fans were embroiled in a vicious fist-fight whilst still singing, ‘Strike for your country! O'Donnell abú!’ and ‘We'll call in Pat Hamill's and have a wee drop there/Just to help us along to sweet Carnlough Bay’ simultaneously. It was bedlam.

Unfortunately, both sets of fans were due to meet at Rossnowlagh in the Ulster Championship. An Antrim-Donegal encounter had never created as much interest by those who frequent club rooms as this one. True to form, after the game in which Antrim edged home by a point, the singing started. First up were the visitors who belted out a gentle ‘Dear Old Bushmills’ which was met majestically by ‘Baidin Fheilimi’. The bar was rammed with punters peering through the windows to get a glimpse of the stand-off. As is the norm when song and drink are mixed, things started to cut up rough when an elderly man from Portglenone sang ‘Carrickfergus’. Uproar ensued when some of the Donegal contingent claimed that this song had nothing to do with the Antrim town and they may as well sing ‘McAlpine's Fusiliers’ as well as sure it mentions a ‘glen’.

As with the Carnage in Casement, the Riot at Rossnowlagh became part of folklore for those who witnessed it. The Belfast Boy was merging with the Hills Of Glenswilly as men fought toe to toe, hammering out the lyrics as well as punches with great gusto. There was something to admire here. Whereas you had your Tyrone man simply striking a fellow from Portadown in the gob unexpectedly and car-shunting outside Moneymore, this was cultural begrudgery. Sometimes a tear runs down my wrinkled jaw when I hear Daniel O’Donnell warble out the Green Glens of Antrim. Little does he know he’s betraying the generations of O’Donnell vocalists gone before him.

In just over a week both sides meet in Ballybofey. I’ve already booked my seat in McGinley's Pub for before the match even finishes. I’m sure that simmering rivalry is still there beneath the surface. Beneath my coat will be a tin whistle just in case things are a little too tame. I have The Boys of Killybegs off to a tee just to get things moving in what I hope will be the third instalment – The Battle of Ballybofey.

Let the battle commence. Kildare v Tyrone

Much Ado

Sometimes you need to get away from the TV in order to get a bit of perspective. If you had tuned in after the match last Sunday and only heard the reaction from the pundits, you’d have thought a savage brawl lasting seventy minutes had just been played out in Derry with the casualties lying up in Altnagelvin on Sunday night. I understand their interpretation though. Don’t forget, if those boys turn a blind eye to a wee bit of pushing, their wage packet may have been in doubt. But I had to ask the wife if we’d watched the same match they had been. When she replied in the affirmative, I turned the TV off and reminisced with herself about the good old days of my time in Monaghan in the early 60s, looking over the damned photographs the locals took of my escapades at the time. Boys like Dick Clerkin and Vinny Corey wouldn’t have lasted even a couple of minutes in my day.

Back in ’62 I was a bit of a wanderer. I had been unfortunately sacked as a chicken catcher in the Moy for using a shovel to stun them before the catch. With that being the third sacking in three months (was sacked as a pig slaughterer in Lisburn for getting the pigs drunk before the deed and as a plasterer in Ballinascreem for plastering my boss whilst he slept) I decided to travel the province on the bike. It was a sort of a year out. I thought it would be a great chance to see the ways of the world in all corners of Ulster . I’d take in a few games, drink in a few dens and court a few of the women. After a few months I found myself in Monaghan, gradually making my way across to Donegal before the year was out. Around that time, Castleblaney Faughs were the main attraction and that was where I decided to down the bike for a week or so.

Unfortunately I soon fell for a young maiden by the name of Duffy. She was a strong woman for the times that were in it and my first sighting of her witnessed her neutering a bull with no utensils at all. It was hard not to fall for such a fair dame. It didn’t take me long to win her affections by regaling tales of the chicken and spade, pig and alcohol escapades. She seemed to like that rawness. Anyway, it turned out that she was the daughter of the Faugh’s manager at the time. He saw in me that same rawness and seemed to take a shine to my ignorant ways. Any way, after a feed of porter the night before the league was due to start, he convinced me to turn out as a ringer for the Faughs as they needed that extra steel, having been ridiculed for possessing a ‘soft belly’ by the rest of the county in previous years, even though the rest of the clubs in the county were nationally regarded as timid and easy to roll over.

I signed no papers and was simply given the directions to ‘do what was necessary’ if I thought a match was going the wrong way. Sure enough, with twenty minutes to go in the first match we found ourselves six points down and heading towards the inevitable opening defeat. I got the wink from the sidelines and from then on the game was a blur. Whenever I saw an opposing man with the ball I’d steam straight at him, through him, over him and out the other end. Sometimes I’d have the ball by chance in my arms. At other times the ball was trampled into the ground with the player still under it. What amazed me was that the ref always played on. No free kick or even a lecture. Referees weren’t used to that type of brutality and with no cameras or extra security, he had no option but to turn a blind eye to my approach.

Castleblaney couldn’t believe their luck. Young Maisie Duffy would be swooning in the crowd. From then on I didn’t wait until I had been given the nod. From the first whistle I’d bull around the field untamed, tramping over any man who dared to get in my road or even show an inclination of wanting possession of the ball. My diet of bacon, steak, eggs and porter was the perfect concoction for my style of play. Thousands flocked to see my performances from across the country. Monaghan football had been revolutionised. They were no longer seen as the soft touch even though I never played for the county such was the illegal nature of my appearances. Their club football was now feared from Malin to Mizen as other clubs in the county knew that to counteract me they had to find other hallions of a similar build and approach. Farmers and tradesmen were being pulled directly into sides with no football skill at all in order to stand up to me. To this day, Monaghan football remains the same. Take a scoot around the Farney County some Sunday and you’ll see any amount of clifts running around the pitch, milling in to opposition players with limbs flailing in all directions. You’ll hear the slap of a collision long before you get out of your car. That was all down to me. Only for stunning the chickens with the shovel, Monaghan football would never be as feared as it is now. McCague would never have built that team in the 80s and maybe never have ended up president.

I moved on halfway though that season onto Bundoran. The authorities had caught up with me in Castleblaney and I had to whip myself away in the middle of the night. Poor Maisie Duffy never knew why. The last I heard she was dehorning in Scotstown at the grand old age of 69.

The Year Of The Melee

When a Campbell and a McNally meet on the field of play, get as far away as possible. Let me explain. As a pacifist myself I wouldn’t be fond of the fighting. At the same time I wouldn’t be afeared to take a swipe at anyone who annoyed me to breaking point. Herself would be more of a boxer and I’ve often been on the receiving end of an unmerciful hiding after absent-mindedly admitting that Masie McDonald from the back rampart was looking good in her long skirt and breeches or something to a similar effect. I now know to keep my eyes firmly fixed on my shoes when we’re out at the Mass or Post Office.

However, there was one particular year that will remain with me for the rest of my life as one that I’d rather forget. There was something in the air that May in 1954 when Derry took to the field to play Tyrone in the Ulster Championship first round. The heat was almost unbearable yet it was a cloudy, even drizzly day. The mood was menacing. Both sides had met earlier in the year in the Lagan Cup final. Four from each side were sent off as the match descended into anarchy as the crowd invaded the pitch with only 15 minutes gone. Men, women and children were battering anyone they encountered with umbrellas, high heels and hard scones amongst the weapons being used. The referee, Antrim’s Jimmy Flynn, had to abandon the game with Tyrone attacker Peter ‘The Plasterer’ Campbell from Coalisland admitted to Magherafelt hospital with a stiletto stuck in an embarrassing location by Derry defender James ‘Long Arm‘ McNally. The Derry Journal’s headline on the Monday morning said it all - “Pure Hallions”.

Getting back to the match in question, the mood for revenge was lingering all over this contest, both in the stands and on the field. On the road to Clones I noticed many cars with Derry and Tyrone number plates seemingly crashed into ditches helplessly, probably after a shunting session. Hundreds of men were engaging in bouts of boxing in fields close to the ground and women up to the age of 80 were easily spotted trailing other women by the hair up and down Clones Main Street. Things had spiralled out of control and, as a neutral, I could only look on in horror, perhaps laughing the odd time. Luckily enough an army of guards had arrived to shoo the fans to St Tiernach’s Park for the match and the prospect of a fine Championship game seemed to quash the bad feeling emanating from the tie.

Both teams took to the field in an orderly fashion with opposing players swapping gifts in an attempt to foster some goodwill between the sides. The captain of the Derry team, Brian McFettridge, gave the Tyrone captain, Jody McNeill, a spirit level. McNeill in return offered McFettridge two hammers and a wrench. An uneasy calmness settled over the proceedings as the game commenced on time with Derry leading 0-4 to 0-2 after 15 minutes. In a sweeping move, Tyrone full back James Hanna hit the ball long and hard towards midfielder John MacOscar. MacOscar noticed Campbell was free and launched a pin-point ball in his direction. To the amazement of MacOcsar and the rest of those who attended that day, Campbell chose to ignore the pass and made his way to the Derry wing back McNally, the thoughts of the stilleto not far from his mind. Reaching down into his left sock he pulled out the spirit level he had obviously nicked from the dugouts and clattered McNally over the head. A dazed ‘Long Arm’ turned around and the two of them couldn’t be seen for the dust that spiralled up as they went at it hammer and tongs. Well, that was the signal for bedlam. Spanners, hammers, wrenchs and all kinds of tools were produced from both dug outs as the game descended into chaos. Soon spectators had spilled onto the field. From my vantage point on the Hill I could see deck chairs, wellie boots, metal bins, trout, eels, spades, false teeth and tin whistles being used as weapons.

I decided to make my way to the exits, disgusted with the proceedings, when I was hit with a packet of Tunes on the back of the head. I turned and saw a 90-odd year old man grinning and beckoning me towards him for a scrap. The rest was a blur. I woke up the next morning in a field in Emyvale, covered in head to toe with manure, which was a mystery as no one was to be seen. The last I could remember was being dragged through Smithboro by the leg by a woman from Bellaghy who was herself being pulled by the hair by a group of women from Urney. The match was abandoned and both sides were reprimanded appropriately. Since then the Derry/Tyrone rivalry has simmered beneath the surface. Both sets of fans are acutely aware of what would happen if a Campbell and a McNally met on the field at the same time

The Boys From Mullaghboyne

THE BOYS FROM MULLAGHBOYNE
By Cusack

We will never see their likes again. I’m sure we’ve all heard, and probably uttered, that oft-abused cliché. Of course we’ll never see their like again as there is only one distinctive model of everyone. However, we often see a similar batch of beings a generation or two later. The Down side of the 60s were labelled unique. However, 30 years later another high-achieving Mourne crowd arrived and reached the summit. Cavan replicated their 30s success right up to the 50s with different players. Kerry keeps churning out ‘their likes’ at least once a decade. However, I can vouch for a side that I can assure you will never be mirrored in my lifetime or in any other – the Mullaghboyne squad of 1956.

Mullaghboyne was a quiet and quite surreal townland somewhere between the more illustriously industrial Cookstown and romantically quaint Ballinderry. Over the years it was gradually wiped off the face of the map for reasons I will soon address in his lengthy diatribe. The GAA club was founded in 1950 and they were well served by the local families in the area, the Dohertys, Mulligans, Bells and Faloons. Between them they had 20 boys and men capable of forming a relatively decent team that was immediately granted permission to compete in the Derry league, straight into competitive action in Division Four. In their first season they played 12 league games, winning them all by a healthy margin of no less than 16 points. The most noticeable characteristics of the Mullaghboyne side were their long kicking and high catching. Paddy Faloon, the keeper, could score points from his own goalmouth. Aidan Mulligan once kicked a ball from Ardboe to Moortown, with the ball bouncing just the once. Noel Bell could jump higher than anyone in Ireland, sometimes jumping over cars and tractors for the amusement of on-lookers at Sport’s Days or the like. Peader Doherty, against Limavady, jumped over a player on his way to scoring a point from 90 yards out. The Derry league had never seen such athleticism and many wanted to know what they were feeding the young in Mullaghboyne.

The following year the Derry County Board investigated the cultural aspects of the area when Mullaghboyne, now affectionately known as “The Mulla”, won the Division Three title winning 15 games out of 16. What the Council discovered made peculiar reading. A typical daily breakfast in the area included the meat from badger leg on brown bread, washed down with cuckoo spittle. On Sundays they didn’t eat meat but instead ate garden grass, pasted on top of a mixture of barley and buttermilk. A daily lunch would include fried mink and battered otter with side orders of pike eyes and pig trotters. Sunday lunch included the licking of a cow’s tail and honey. Although highly unusual, the County Board could spot no foul play and just put it down to some archaic Celtic customs that had remained untouched by modern-Ireland’s hand. By 1955 The Mulla had finally reached the top flight, squeaking past Knockloughrim in the Intermediate final. However, reports of a rather horrid nature were seeping through the country as to the physical appearance of the Mullaghboyne team.



The following report was taken from the Cookstown Chronicle at the end of 1955;

“I had the utmost pleasure of being asked to temporarily dwell in the townland of Mullaghboyne in the week leading up to the Intermediate final in order to soak up the local atmosphere. After one day I had to leave. My first, and as it turned out only, engagement was to witness the training regime of ‘The Mulla’ as they prepared for the biggest game in their history. As I watched from a rampart bank, the manager sounded his whistle to commence training. On cue, the players emerged from the changing hut, sprinting towards the midfield position. What greeted my eyes still haunts my nightmares once in a while. The most noticeable player was the captain, Petesy Doherty. At first I thought it was some attempt at a prank but when no one batted an eyelid, I almost collapsed with horror. Petesy seemed to be covered from head to toe with thick brown hair – similar to your man in Star Wars. Barely visible were his eyes and mouth. Although a good player, it seemed he was easily hauled back by the simple tugging of his flowing body hair. Their goalkeeper suffered from horrendous amnesia and often found himself making daisy chains or reading the Bible when facing a penalty or one-on-one goal chance. Another player, the corner forward, seemed to be growing wings, such was the amount of feathers left blowing in his wake as he sped towards goal. A final abnormality appeared when I conducted an interview with their prolific full forward, Terence Mulligan. Having asked him how he thought preparations were going for the final I looked up at him for a response. His eyes appeared to be rolling in his head as he uttered complete gibberish ‘She’s a quare size Peter, skin her and ate it.’ Unsurprisingly, I took to my heels and ran out of Mullaghboyne, and I’ll never return.”

Mullaghboyne completed only two matches in the senior grade. Having won the second, beating Lavey 0-16 to 1-6, the hairy captain was chased out of the ground by a bevy of knitting women. Apparently his unique body hair had been secretly cut by an opponent in the previous game and sold to the Priest’s maid who knitted a splendid tunic for the P.P. - which brought gasps of admiration from the local female fraternity. They all wanted this material and were prepared to hunt Doherty for it. The last that was seen of Petesy were his hairy heels sprinting towards Ballinderry with up to 300 women with pikes running after him. The keeper, Faloon had to retire as during the Lavey match, when the ball was at the other end, he took out a table and four mahogany chairs from behind his nets, placed them in the penalty area and laid on a supper of mink and milk for himself and the three full backs. He was substituted immediately. Jody Bell, the feathered corner forward, was reportedly floating in the air for high balls in, using his now apparent wings to an unfair advantage.

With the captain on the run from knitting women, the keeper admitted into an institution and the corner forward banned for unfair practices it was decided to wind up the club before other abnormalities were uncovered. Rumours had begun to circle about a player who forgot his own name, another who couldn’t forget anything, another who could only run and walk backwards and another who thought he was already deceased and risen from the dead. The club ceased to exist in March 1956, having won 98% of their matches. The area itself wasn’t even mentioned in the census of 1988 as families had either left, or just stopped breeding.

Who knows what they would’ve achieved. At the same time, the side-effects were bordering on dangerous. Was it the unique diet or just an unusual yet harmless generation of footballers from the Mulla? One thing’s for sure, Derry GAA wasn’t ready, and may never have been, for the Boys from Mullaghboyne.

The Games That Mattered

A man of my experience and bottomless intellect doesn’t have it easy. Rare are the occasions when I can enjoy a quiet drink in my local, The Mongrel Calf, without a punter approaching me requesting a yarn regarding games of old, be it in the Polo Grounds or the time Iggy Jones lapped Croke Park three times without a glove touching him. Sometimes I take herself out to the pub with me but that normally ends up a disastrous decision. She loses the cool after my fourth or fifth tale and has been known to wreck the bar in a fit of temper. So, in order to avoid future publican’s bills, I have decided to summarise the games I am asked most about – my crème de la crème.

1982 Ulster Final

Armagh 0-10 Fermanagh 1-4

Not since Adolf called it quits had I witnessed the Erne County battle it out for Ulster’s finest trophy, the Anglo-Celt Cup. Herself was born in Tempo, growing up not knowing the English Language and washing the odd time. I educated her over the years and you can almost make her out now though she still prefers the grunting. Anyway, that year she was on a permanent high from May until July. Victories over Derry and Tyrone had propelled the Wet County into a Clones showdown with Armagh, a fearsome Orchard team with an eternally burly Kernan terrorising defences and Moriarty pulling the orange strings. That didn’t prevent herself from maintaining the blind faith. At night, amongst the unbearable snores, she’d be calling out “McGinnity ye boy ye” or “Keep’er lit Peter Greene”. Well, how else would a man feel hearing that? I wanted Fermanagh OUT. I didn’t want my amorous advances to be repelled with the likes of “Hasn’t Ciaran Campbell strappin’ arms” for the rest of the season. As we made the approach to Clones on Ulster Final day the mood couldn’t have been more strained. She was leaping about that morning like a child on Christmas day before the opening, whilst I prayed to Cardinal O’Fiach that if there was a God at all he’d be wanting the Cathedral City to win the damn thing. At 5 pm she cried in my arms, her dreams crushed by John Corvan. I kissed my orange scapula.

1960 First Round

Down 0-14 Antrim 1-4

I’ve always had a soft spot for the Saffron men, even though they broke my heart in 1912, losing to Louth in the All-Ireland final. I had 5d on them. Earlier in the year in 1960, I had watched Antrim blitz a poor Down team 5-17 to 0-3 in the Davidson Cup. I was spellbound. A youthful Sean McGourty, aged 22, ripped the Mourne defence apart that day, ably supported by a spritely yet deceptively tall Aodhan Hamill and the Albino-featured Jon MacManus. This forward line was unparalleled in my eyes, not since the days of the Breffni’s Mick Higgins, Peter Donohoe and Phil ‘The Gunner’ Brady had such an array of talent graced a playing-field in Ireland. Down, on the other hand, had a wayward Paddy Doherty, the lacklustre Kevin Mussen and the weak-link, Sean O’Neill. It was Saffron men against Mourne Boys. I shouted from the roof tops in all the local papers that this could be the biggest annihilation since The Battle of the Blackwater. I re-mortgaged the house and pre-spent on a holiday home in Maigh. A few of the neighbours trusted me, sold off a few organs and the like to lump it on the Saffrons at a tasty 3-1. Down were perhaps the worst side I had seen in my lifetime, I believed – incapable of stringing together 2-3 passes and completely unaware of the need to knock the ball over the opposing goalie’s crossbar for a score. They were lacking the basic skills a primary school child would possess. This was no contest and it was a matter of how many All-Ireland titles Antrim would want before they got bored of travelling to the capital. As it turned out a last minute goal prevented a 10-point embarrassment for the Saffrons. Down went on to win the All-Ireland. And the next year too. I never returned home that night. I never returned home again. Under the cover of darkness, I left Newry a poor man. She still brings it up around Cheltenham time, just in case.

1995 All-Ireland Final

Dublin 1-10 Tyrone 0-12

Fours years of Ulster success had made the province dizzy. Anything was possible. All nine counties were jockeying for position to see who would next step up to the winner’s podium. After maiden success for Derry and Donegal, and a couple more Sams for Down, Tyrone Gaels thought they’d have some of that. Being a Fermanagh woman, herself wasn’t overly fond of that idea. In fact she once yelled at the TV when Tyrone nailed the Erne county “ away a that a ye yiz wee leprechauned runts”. I suggested a tour of the O’Neill County in the week before the All-Ireland in order to soak in the atmosphere of expectation. Unfortunately I’d lost the licence the week previous due to a small incident of road rage when I encountered Sean McGourty walking and the memories of 1960 came flooding back. Herself had to drive me to Tyrone – and it put her in a foul mood. Parish after parish, pub after pub, from Moy to Strabane, we were met and greeted with obvious excitement and merriment, and this only made herself worse. Our last stop was Ballygawley to buy some buttermilk. Lo and behold, who was shopping in Centra only the man himself, Peter Canavan. He was purchasing Jocob’s cream Crackers and a tin of Spam. As he left I tapped the great man on the shoulder and said “ye’ll do it, Peter”. He smiled back. I was amazed when herself repeated my actions, but even more so when she said “llab eht luof uoy epoh” and turned herself around three times. Peter shrugged his shoulders and ran out of the shop. I just took it that her medication was wearing off. Another surprise was the fact that herself came with me and watched the match, in Croke Park, that following Sunday. Despite it being a poor spectacle Tyrone were in the ascendancy at the finish and it looked like the great man was going to fulfil my prophecy. Suddenly, as Peter approached the ball with a minute to go, herself got to her feet and uttered the same words she mouthed in the Centra in Ballygawley, “llab eht luof uoy epoh” and this time spun around repeatedly. Sean McLoughlin’s point was ruled out as Peter was adjudged to have committed a foul. I looked at her as she smiled a manic grin. I have never looked on her the same way again. She’s not as backward as I thought – or is she?