Don't tie the knot.

You can’t open a paper these days without having to look at a young GAA inter-county player tying the knot with some decent looking cailin from a neighbouring county. It’s the happiest day of their lives apparently, the caption states. That is probably true as it is all downhill from there on in. We’re not at the level of selling the wedding photos to Hello magazine yet for a seven figure sum but we mightn’t be too far away. There are very few high profile players nowadays who can get away with a quiet wedding. If they make money from the occasion, more power to them. I’m not a jealous guy. What I am though is a practical one and as soon as I cast my eye over that picture I shake my head each time. For that is the beginning of the end.

After Tyrone won their third All-Ireland there was a rash of marriages in the squad. I knew there and then that they’d not be adding to that tally as soon as the first young one arrives. Recently a couple of Derry players got hitched, probably signalling the end of their days in the GAA sun although they’ll not know it til they kick a ball in anger next year. It’s a well known tale that when Mick O’Dwyer was building his majestic Kerry side of the 70s, he made sure they were bachelors. If any player even courted the same woman twice he was threatened with expulsion. It wasn’t until the lads could hold out any longer and started the wedding bells clinging that their era was at an end. The same scenario seems to have occurred in the Tyrone camp.

For me, Down is the next big thing. If McCartan sticks it out, the Mourne lads could lift a couple of the big ones. In order to do that, he needs to monitor his players’ romantic tendencies, even if it means sitting outside the Canal Court in a darkened jeep on a Saturday night. That should be the height of his control over these talented lads, maybe with a few spies around the other side of the county too. The reason for this restrained advice is that Wee James could be unfortunate enough to make the same mistake I did.

I was in charge of a north Antrim hurling side in the early 80s. I had closely monitored their progress since their early teens. They won the league and championship double every year since they were U12s. By the time they were ripe for senior hurling, I was sure that I had assembled potentially the greatest hurling club side in the country, of all time. Having blooded them all into the senior team at the one time, we won the first five league games by no less than ten points on each occasion and sure we hadn’t started training yet. I was also aware that one of my star players, Jaz McKillop, was to marry at the age of 19 to his childhood sweetheart, who was with child. Thinking nothing of it, I attended the big day and had no reservations about returning him to the side after the honeymoon and the birth of young Jaz. The effect was tragic. The young lad had lost the ability to even connect sliotar with caman. He had also developed a bow-leggedness. It was a tragic and fantastically speedy decline. Fatherhood was to blame. At the same time I had been observing the worsening of the great Kerry side due to the influence of women and preganacy.

I decided to act, and drastically. The neutering of bulls and cats had been something that always interested me as a tactic to avoid multiple litters. Although the link had no scientific approach, I introduced the idea to the squad of a mass castration in order for these lads to achieve the greatness I knew they were capable of. We discussed it sensibly and I had to concede that it was a rather extreme measure. Some of the lads were farmers themselves and couldn’t get the excruciating idea of the clampers being used out of their heads. We agreed to look into the whole area of getting the snip in a more modern way, in the hope that a few years down the line they’d find a way to reverse the process and have sons or daughters.

After numerous and heated meetings on the subjects, we decided to head to an hotel for a weekend, get fairly drunk and before they hit the sack, I’d call the doctor in to do the needy. That way it’d be relatively pain-free and they’d be in good spirits during the whole event. I just told the medic the name of the hotel floor and he’d do the business in an hour. Things were going to plan and the lads were in great spirits that night. Also staying in the hotel was a famous country singer, now in his 50s and a great favourite with the ladies. A group of priests on retreat were also letting their hair down at the bar. It was a night of tremendous singing and dancing. The bar was dry by midnight. As the lads headed up the stairs, the doctor followed, bag in hand.

The next morning, all hell broke loose. The doc had lost himself in the whole thing and neutered two corridors, including the furious womanising singer and a collection of clergy who weren’t too bothered really. On top of that, my plan backfired. The lads lost their bite. Before the next game the bickered over the colours of their clothes and spent hours on their hair before entering the field. Lads cried uncontrollably when they lost the game, or even conceded a point. Masculinity had been obliterated. I’d gone too far and left the country for a couple of years. Wee James would do well to nip the romance in the bud but through words of wisdom only.