College Skulduggery

On St Patrick’s Day most of the attention will be on Croke Park and Crossmaglen’s quest for another title. Or maybe you’re a hurling aficionado and will be cheering on Clarinbridge in the first match. But, for me, the crucial piece of action taking place that day will be played out in the Athletic Grounds in Armagh. For there, St Colman’s of Newry take on St. Patrick’s Dungannon to see who’ll lift the MacRory Cup and be labelled the best footballing college in the province. It all sounds a rather nice affair with families getting a day out watching their son or sibling play out another school game that will probably be forgotten about within six months. How wrong can you be? I’ll be casting a cold eye on proceedings, trying not to visit the old memories and haunted feelings I endured as a lad sitting through A Levels in the days when they were relatively difficult.

The school’s management team, despite starring for the county minors the previous summer, overlooked me. That was an unusual occurrence in any school. Anyone who could kick a ball straight gets on the school squad, a group usually numbering something like forty-five lads. Back in those days, parents turned a blind eye to the odd hammering from a teacher as long as the son got in the squad, especially for the photo on match days. It took me a long time to work this out. To get back to the first predicament, the reason I was overlooked for the MacRory side was simply a clash of interests. The manager taught Latin. Any lad who wanted a place on the side chose Latin for A Level. I was a man of my own mind and took on Woodwork, Greek Mythology and Sums.

As it turned out that year, the entire MacRory team were made up of lads who spoke of ‘post mortum’, ‘anno domini’ and ‘alma mater’ yet hadn’t a notion of how to add the scores up after a game. I accepted that injustice as there were plenty of other things to keep me interested at the time and there was no chance the school would ever win the thing anyway. However, that carefree attitude came back to bite me later in the year when I was rejected from every university I applied to, even though I was guaranteed fine grades. It didn’t take long for the penny to drop. One day in school, shortly after our boys exited the MacRory at the quarter-final stage, the big midfielder grunted to me that he’d been given a place in one of the top universities in Ulster, to study Law. Now, this wasn’t the cultured midfielder who could read a game before the first ball was thrown in. This was your plodder who barely moved form the middle of the field, grunted during games and was told before each half started what way he was playing.

Soon, players of similar ilk were full of joy at the news that they had been accepted into third level institutions onto high-class courses. What took the biscuit was when The Brain was celebrating his acceptance into the Study of Classical Arts course in Belfast, a most sought after place. The Brain was nick-named that so for two reasons. Firstly it was a term of affection. He had the tendency to score 0% in every exam. With lads being cruel at that age, he was labelled The Brain which he accepted readily, oblivious to the intended mockery. Secondly, his real name was Brian but on almost every piece of paper he signed, he misspelt it as Brain. The Brain never actually got any game time that season on the school team. He was simply there to intimidate the opposition whilst sitting on the bench. He had that look of ‘Lurch’ from the Adams Family.

It dawned on me eventually that having ‘MacRory Cup player’ written on your CV was your ticket to academic progression. Universities would fall over themselves to secure the services of anyone with supposed footballing pedigree as it kept the name of that house of learning in the national spotlight if their sporting teams did well. A few years later I attending the College All Stars awards and was shocked at the behind the scenes shenanigans that went on. University representatives offered all manner of shiny and glittering goodies to MacRory footballers in return for a decision to attend their institution. Watches, women and wealth were dangled.

I was foolish back then. If only I had taken on Latin and accepted the weekly beating from the maniacal Master, my MacRory team membership may well have led to greater riches. Instead, I sat back and worked tremendously to achieve modestly good grades, especially the B in Sums. Yet, the likes of The Brain was already secured a golden ticket despite turning up on the wrong day for each of his exams. I’m not bitter now and I’m sure times have changed. The lads on this year’s MacRory teams, I’m sure, don’t get the same privileges The Brain did. You couldn’t get away with it now. Whistle blowers have more confidence in the 21st Century. Yet, it’s hard for me not to look back and think of what might have been. Optimum est pati quod emendare non possis; it is best to endure what you cannot change.