It’s easier to be negative. If you’re standing in a queue and the fellow in front is stranger, to make conversation you’ll talk about the horrible weather or the price of spuds being over the odds. That’s the easy way out. If you commented on how nice the punter’s jumper was you’d more than likely end up picking your teeth off the floor. It’s the nature of the beast in this country. You only have to read the columnists on here. Every week Brolly or Burns are griping about some decision, team or official. It’s only when they’ve nothing else to complain about do they maybe churn out an article on a bit of charity or the like. The more you read those boys, the more you buy into that mindset and I’m wary that I may have added to the general gloom. Well, not anymore. This last week I made my way to a small club on the western shore of Lough Neagh, straggling the Derry and Tyrone border, just above Moortown. They are a club who have revived themselves in recent years after a 20-30 year lay-off.

I have fond memories of this club from the 70s and 80s. On the field they were a savage outfit. If you came away with anything more than a defeat, you usually lost a man in the process. We had four players disappear without a trace somewhere between the changing rooms and the bus after winning a game. During the game, you had to contend with the abuse from the sidelines from mothers and wives, often getting a poke from an umbrella whilst soloing up the field. But at the time, it was simply part of the whole process of playing football in Mid-Ulster. You knew before you arrived that anything was possible at these clubs, and that excited the blood. This was real GAA. This club, which shall remain nameless as they have yet to inform the authorities that they’re active again because of a fall-out in 1979 with the county board, will sadly never again be able to recreate their on-field approach due to the stuffiness of the rules set out in 2010.

Yet, as I found out, there are more strings to their bows. I was invited up this week to make a speech at their Late Winter Sports Day. After I made the keynote address, I sat back and marvelled at what a community can do when they club together to foster the unique spirit of years past. Their events schedule brought a lump to my throat. Immediately after my inspired performance, they held the bull boxing competition. I hadn’t witnessed this since my last visit to the club in 1982. In this discipline, they inject a bull with a type of calming drug which makes the beast placid for a couple of hours. One by one, men and women would line up and give the bull an unmerciful left or right hook to the jaw. I understand that the RSPCA would be up in arms over this but that’s just their way down there. A bull has never been terminated during this competition. This year, the chairman’s wife took the honours, managing to keel the bull over with an explosive left-handed uppercut.

Other traditional events were revived such as ‘The Hanging Granny’ where women who have grandchildren would hang by their hands from the crossbar with the last woman standing declared winner. Tractor reversing, pipe-smoking, turf-clodding and bog-snorkling all rekindled glorious memories from yesteryear. For me that’s the real GAA. They’re a long way from the grey super-clubs of St Gall’s or Crossmaglen who conform to modern society’s rules and regulations. Yet, it’s not just the events that made the heart glow. More importantly, the people have remained the same.

I bumped into a man called Paulie. The last time I set eyes on this man was during a friendly game in 1979 between the side I was managing from Antrim and the club in question. He was one of those characters you get at every club. He never played the game but was more of a clubman than anyone else there. He’d wear the jersey to Mass and in bed. He attended every game at every level, roaring encouragement and berating every referee, even at an U8 match. Paulie was such a key figure at the club that he was allowed to stand on the sideline beside the manager as long as he didn’t talk. He came to my attention that day because of a hilarious event that’ll remain long in my memory.

The story goes that one of the players had a problem with his sugar levels. Paulie was given the instructions at the start of the season to buy a Marathon (Snickers for younger readers) before every match and be prepared to run onto the field in case the player’s sugar levels dropped and to hand him the chocolate bar. After 20 games and no call, Paulie got complacent. When the call came from the player, all eyes turned to our man. Unfortunately all that was left of the bar was the chocolate remains dripping around his chin. Paulie had been eating the bar every week out of boredom and nervousness.

Paulie was distraught at having let his beloved club down and vowed never to be unprepared in future. Another two months passed without incident. Then, on the day I was there, the same player went down to the sound of a blood-curdling crack. It was obvious that his leg was broken. The players all signalled to the dugout to get the stretcher or ambulance. Paulie, desperate to make up for his previous error, misread the signal and manically sprinted to the player before everyone else. He proceeded to shove the Marathon down the player’s throat, despite the poor man writhing in excruciating agony at his shattered leg. It was a moment of sheer hilarity. On meeting Paulie last week, he was just as keen and made sure everyone was having a tremendous time with his encouragement on the loudspeaker during all events. It was men like Paulie and the bull-boxing that set us apart from the others and it still exists if you look hard enough.