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.