Leave The Kids Alone

I was talking to a boy who was on his way to the gym earlier in the week. He was a well-known inter-county footballer from Derry and not fond of referees. I enquired as to why he was bothering with something like a gym when this time of year is for resting up after a long season from the year gone by. I can remember from my own playing days that no one ever trained from late August until the following Easter. By the time the end of the summer had arrived, your club was either out of the running for any silverware that there was no point in running around a field twenty times on a Wednesday night, or they were playing enough league and Championship games to keep you naturally fit anyway. Training was only for the early part of the season to trim down the belly and get the lungs at full capacity. Teams still won All-Irelands and county championships back then so it must have been an alright strategy.

Nowadays the pressure is on young lads to train eleven months in the year. The player I was talking to said his individual training was vital as if he didn’t do it, the management would know. He said they take a blood sample, urine sample, hair sample and a photograph of you naked to make sure you’re alcohol and drug free as well as toning up your body. That’s a world gone crazy. I’m led to believe that Canavan is a great man for the drink abstinence of his players at Errigal. I’d say the same boy was living it up rightly in his early twenties running around Omagh or Cookstown at the weekend. These middle-aged managers are some craic, forcing some kind of Chinese military regime on their players when they themselves were half cut at throw-in.

What has happened to the carefree days of seeing how many cowboy suppers you could fit in, in a week, without piling on the weight? It was some feat, back in the day, finding a balance between calorie and alcohol consumption without the manager suspecting an over-indulgence. I know of a few players on the great Monaghan team of the 80s who had the diet of some kind of American Texan oil baron and still managed to make the weight on any given Sunday. I’m told that nowadays that personal gym training you have to do in January is a litmus test for modern managers. They apparently attend secret training sessions that inform them of how to read eye and body language to spot the spoofers in the camp.

I’m also led to believe that Baker Bradley can look at a man from ten paces and tell if he carried out his two-dozen bench presses within the last 24 hours. The likes of Bradley, O’Rourke and McCartan are as good as the mind-readers you get on the television. It’s the first think county boards look at before they appoint a manager; do they have supernatural powers. Chancers haven’t a hope of hoodwinking these lads. I don’t know how true this is but apparently Mickey Moran used to condemn anyone caught neglecting their personal training to his Room of Shame. In there, he’d tie the spoofer to a chair and encourage the locals to berate him with insults regarding his playing ability, manhood and family history dating back centuries. Muldoon subsequently never missed a gym session til Moran headed off to Mayo.

But that’s the way things are and rarely to sports revert back to how it used to be. The fear is that things get worse in terms of preparation and what is expected of our young playing members. I hope we don’t suck the individuality out of them. I fully understand the need to self-assess and improve though. Take the Gaelic Life newspaper for example. It is roundly viewed as a good read on a weekly basis. But editor Bogue should maybe be looking at how to move it to a level of greatness. And how to you do that? – monitor his team. Bench presses and the like are no use to pen-pushers but abstinence from harmful substances can clear the mind and help create moments of great clarity and insight. It wouldn’t be an altogether ridiculous idea to perhaps invest in some kind of physical assessment on a Monday morning with the threat of disciplinary action hanging over their weekend activities. I’d include Brolly, Devenney and Burns in that although the Mullaghbawn man will be a hard one to nail He’s keeping his nose clean for bigger fish. You wouldn’t catch him making disparaging remarks about female lineswomen. There’s a skeleton there somewhere, we all have them, but it’ll take a bit of digging to reel Burns in.

But you see what I’m getting at. Our young lads are often criticised in the media for being self-obsessed, lazy and mannerless. Little do you know what discipline they possess in order to earn a starting jersey every Sunday at all club levels. Whilst you have the Loup’s full forward running a lonely 10k on a Saturday morning for the love of a game, Ronan Scott is ordering a Variety Meal from KFC to soak up his hangover before driving to Keady to watch a MacRory match on soft seat thinking about his hourly wage. There’s something wrong there.

Waltzing Matilda

I think the Australians get a raw deal. You get the feeling that the resentment many hold towards that great nation is the result of two things. Firstly, the fact that they have a Union Jack on their flag gets a few goats up as you know flags are deemed important in this part of the globe. Secondly, they live the lifestyle we all aspire to. They play something close to what we do in terms of a national sport, but do so in fine weather all year round. They’re better looking and are naturally stronger and fitter. We may harp on about the hardiness of a bog man or the stamina of a lad who dungs out the yard but these lads from Down Under are born like that before lifting a shovel. Let’s face it – we’re fairly jealous of our cousins from the southern hemisphere even though many of them were rogue ancestors of our own, sent down on a boat for being a bit of an eejit.

I speak with authority here on this subject. It’s not a period of my life that I’m overly proud of but it’s worth the telling if it makes the average yokel change their views on the Aussie nation. Back in 1959 the convict boats were still in use even though it wasn’t common knowledge. The Irish Government turned a blind eye to the Guards turfing a few lads onto a prison ship and pointing it in the direction of Circular Quay. I had been playing a bit of Rugby in Blackrock at the time and living the life of a handsome bachelor. Unfortunately I feel in with a middlin crew and began to ape their mannerisms, turning my back on the hard-working Presbyterian ethos instilled in me by the Northern way.

Missing Mass soon turned into bad language. I togged out for Drumcondra GAC one Sunday morning as a ringer in the Dublin Championship and was torturing the Glasnevin full back with a torrent of verbal abuse in a strong northern twang. I’d never seen a man as intimidated. I was also probably one of the strongest men in Ireland at that time, having spent weeks honing my muscles outside the pubs of Dublin. My job was to lift inebriated women home up to four miles away. I was feared throughout the county and beyond. Unfortunately that sense of infallibility got to me completely and I embarked on a period of complete disregard for anyone I encountered in authority.

It all came to a head when I was lifted by the guards for stealing a bag of Greek spuds and apple tart from a small vendor outside Quinn’s, five minutes after the act. It was 8pm when I was taken. By midnight I was sailing.

I’d rather not go into the details of the journey apart from the fact that everyone on the boat had heard of by feats on the field and I won the bare knuckle competition as I had no willing opponents. By the time the ship docked in Australia , the locals had been well clued in about my arrival and before I had time to draw breath, two contracts were set before me by the now defunct Sydney Swallows and Perth Packers. That apple tart seemed to have awarded me with a ticket to fulfil the dreams of most red-blooded Irishman, getting paid abroad for playing a bit of ball.

The Swallows were my choice and I arrived bright and early next morning for the first training session of the season. The squad seemed a bit stand-offish at the start, perhaps afraid of my fearsome appearance and reputation. I was also quite confident having been the King Dick of Dublin County football for the previous season. To me, the Aussie game seemed a little easier what with points for wides and taking a breather for a few seconds every time I fielded the ball. I thought I would lord it.

In an unprecedented fall from grace, that notion of rugged Irish toughness outperforming beach-toned Australian muscle was shattered when the first ball came my way. I was unceremoniously flattened on the Australian grass with a gentle shoulder by the Swallows’ captain Brett Dinkum. For the next hour the hard man from Ireland was made fun of, humiliated and tortured by every member of his new club. Even the female physio cracked me a swift left-hander when I complained of double vision. I screamed a woman’s scream.

In order to save face and return some pride to the country and association I was representing, I decided to do a bit of slagging off the ball. My ‘your blade’s a glipe’ was met with blank stares. The level of sledging back then wasn’t what it is now. Those were more innocent days.

I never returned to the club and signed up to doing toilet duties at the Grand Opera House for the next three years. Mickey Harte has often lambasted our relationship with their game. He’s right. They’ll only expose us for the white-skinned, freckle-faced, jelly-legged sports men we are. Those fellas are serious. They haven’t wasted years toning useless muscles stooling in the mosses across Ireland . At the age of five they’re in the gym. All we can do is complain of their brutality whilst secretly harbouring a serious resentment that they have it all. Compare Kylie Minogue to Foster and Allen. Barbequed chicken to a plate of beans. Jason Akermanis to Colm Parkinson. I thought I was the GAA’s High King in 1959. Over there I was just a Joker.

2011 GAA Prospects

After years of campaigning, letter writing and general nuisance making, I finally received the call. When the letter arrived on Monday morning with the Dublin postmark I knew straight away that the men with the power had finally come to their senses. I have been given the position of general overseer of things in every county. They officially call me a trouble-shooter. My first remit is to sort out the footballing situation in Kilkenny with the target being a league point, or drawn game, in 2012. It’s a mighty task but one I’ve already begun looking into by finding jobs in the county for retired footballers from decent counties. The downside to this is that I have to leave aside all other GAA related business which includes this column so as not to compromise the secretive nature of my new career.

So as these are the last words I’ll compose for this fine organ, I thought it’d be in the best interests of our provincial hopefuls if I bluntly lay it on the line. Previous to this, I’ve had to hold my tongue as a negative reaction could harm the whole publication as well as endanger my being. Let us start with the Saffrons. This lot get my goat most of all. This is a county with an abundance of resources. Belfast is full of people. The glens of Antrim offer acres of fields to practice on. This county should be challenging Kerry and Kilkenny for the right to be labelled the Kingdom of Ireland. Yet what do they do with that space – open chip shops and fight amongst each other over the merits of city and country life. Baker Bradley looked like the man who’d sort that out and he did for a while. But rumours have surfed that the Glenullin man has succumbed to the delights of a steakette bap. It is a deep fried battered burger in a soft round bread roll. I have also been told he has started ‘slegging’ the city lads. It’s a great disappointment altogether and, in my new role, I would advise that the search needs to turn to a more fearsome character. Step up Martin Rogan.

Armagh I’m not so worried about. They’re slowly emerging from that permanent high under Joe Kernan. Armagh were always a once-a-decade team. Under Big Joe they were annual contenders, changing the mindset of the average Armagh supporter. They expected success and that didn’t sit well with me. There was something endearing about seeing old Armagh jerseys being pulled out from the attic when they’d win Ulster after a decade in the doldrums. Now, every Armagh fan has a new top. They boo when they lose and demand managerial change. Back in the day you could have managed the Orchard for twenty years, win one tournament and be labelled a legend. However, I feel the bad times are about to return and a sense of equilibrium will be established in the county. Nothing to be done here. As for Cavan, it’s a daunting task. I’d favour the Wexford model from the last few years who just got the ball to Mattie Forde and see how far he could take them. The same goes for Seanie Johnston. All Cavan needs is 14 hod carriers.

Derry need Baker. It’s as simple as that. Can you imagine the sons acting up? Could you even contemplate the Ballinderry players throwing a huff and sitting at home whilst the Oaks take on Laois in the league? Bradley used to prowl the lanes of Derry as a youngster, lord over all he viewed. It’d be like The Don returning to Milan after a 30-year exile to reclaim the old turf. Donegal may well be on the up under Jim McGuinness. I honestly hope he doesn’t attempt to change their natural ways in the process. There’s something unique about a team winning matches with no drinks ban. St Gall’s have shown it can be done in the modern era. If I’m posted out to the Hills of Dungloe I’ll be slipping the lads a dram after training.

Down are in fine fettle. This is a county we all manage to get behind unless you’re from the Orchard. Their feats in the 60s will always remain dear to those of a certain generation. Ulster needs a good Down team and under McCartan they should be about for another while. I’d leave this crowd untouched. Perhaps I would advice a form of anti-Australian ethnic cleansing in the county, as they seem to be a target for the Aussie Rules scouts. I suppose it is closer to Australia on the map. Fermanagh on the outside appear to be a county in turmoil. They’re not. It’s a clever ruse to keep the county on the back pages. That keeps the sponsors happy. Don’t forget, Fermanagh are barely a county. They’re doing alright.

Monaghan have never won the All-Ireland. They never will. I don’t think they really care either for a very obvious and understandable reason. In Wikipedia it says, “In 1930 Monaghan beat Kildare in a semi-final to reach the All-Ireland final, where Kerry beat them by 3-11 to 0-2 without their goalkeeper touching the ball.” Seriously, I’d advise the Farney Board to stay away from even attempting to compete in the All-Ireland final, as that stat will only be brought up in the build-up.

Finally, onto Tyrone. They would provide me with the most work. Phasing out the old hands needs careful management and whilst I acknowledge Harte’s ability to do so, it’s like a father cutting the lads out of a will. He grew up in adulthood with them. They provided him with the pride and pleasure you’d associate with a da. Harte simply cannot be asked to break the bad news. That’s where I’d come in. I’d call Dooher et al into a room and hand them a letter saying the game’s up. I’d integrate McMenamin into normal society.

Despite all the above, aren’t we, up here, in a better position than we experienced during the bleak 70s and 80s. Ulster GAA is healthy and although they lose this valuable tool, I still might come knocking. Good luck.