All Aboard The Showboat

I know it’s frowned upon but I refuse to make any apologies for being repetitive. Many diehard Gaels shudder at the word ‘soccer’. It probably harks back to times when that sport was banned amongst members of the Association. Any GAA man or woman caught playing soccer was immediately barred from playing Gaelic Games. Even if you attended a match you were ostracised. A great Aunt of mine once courted an ex-soccer player from Wales. When word got out she was chased around the local playing fields by a herd of nuns with camogie sticks. I was in agreement with that ruling at the time as it preserved our national games at a time when England were winning World Cups on our TVs. However, to return to my opening gambit, we have to keep looking over our shoulders at what them boys are doing as they have a great knack of winning the attention wars of our teenagers. Just walk down Andersonstown and ask any random lad who their hero is.

Last year, one of these heroes scored an overhead kick. His name was Wayne Rooney. I understand that he has Irish origins, probably from Louth or Westmeath. The English, and Irish, media jumped all over this event and made a whole week of stories out of it. I went walking on the Tuesday morning and wiped my eyes again after I witnessed my 72-year old neighbour attempting several bicycle kicks in succession on her front lawn. She was missing the ball each time and in serious danger of breaking the hip so I turned on my heels before I heard the crack. That’s the power of the newspapers and TV. They took one average passage of play and magnified it so well that even pensioners had their grandchildren crossing balls for them before breakfast. It’s quite a powerful phenomenon, the media.

But yet again, the soccer has stolen a march on the hearts and minds of our future members. The key now is to respond immediately. I written before about the social networking side of promoting our younger stars and I’m glad to see a rash of new accounts. Now, it’s time to perform feats on the field that will be repeated ad nauseum on the news and discussed in every columnist’s weekly out-pourings. Almost six years ago Owen Mulligan won over a generation of potential soccerites with his double dummy against the Dubs in Croke Park. I remember that evening having a pint in my local and the barman dummied taking my order twice in an obvious nod to Mugsy’s moment of brilliance hours earlier. A week later the PP tried the same thing when dishing out the communion and winked at me after the third dummy, always trying to go one better. That’s the impact one piece of individualism can have on all generations.

A couple of years ago, Paddy Bradley toe-tapped the ball a few times without catching it in order to rile Tyrone who were well beaten at the time. It was a wonderful piece of showmanship which had all the young lads nattering afterwards and I’m sure practicing it at some stage that evening with golf balls in Down or spuds in Fermanagh. Yet those incidents are few and far between and even when they happen we appear to be embarrassed by it, like as if a wee bit of talent means you’re an incurable show-off. We’re more likely to verbally abuse anyone who tries something different.

That needs to change, starting this weekend. Steven McDonnell is a fine footballer. For a while he used to point to his number on the back of his shirt when he scored a goal. The Armagh fans weren’t too sure what to make of that and when the Killeavy man went through a barren spell, they let rip on him. It’s in our nature to want to see the man who’s a bit different fall from grace. That’s driving our young lads away. They’re allowed to have any manner of haircut, piercings, tattoos or clothes but as soon as he pulls on the jersey he must revert to being some type of 1950s modest gentleman. Enough’s enough. McDonnell, you’re the man who can start a trend. During the NFL, when Charlie Vernon plays the ball in from the left for you to catch, turn and shoot, don’t do it. Gauge the flight of the ball and head it in, soaring through the cold February air at full pelt.

Quigley of Fermanagh – you have the capacity to be a cult hero. Division four is the place to try things a bit risky and get away with it. Round the keeper, round him again, drop the ball and back-heel it in, moon-walking in celebration. It’s time to turn the collar up and ride the initial scathing criticism from the crowd. We need GAA scores on YouTube, being viewed by families in Cambodia or Greenland. Let’s be honest, a Marty Penrose free from the 21 hardly stirs the blood. It’d be more in Penrose’s line to score a decent point from play and from his socks pull a water pistol, spraying the management in jubilation.

Rooney has shown us the way. Let us not sit back and gaze at his supposed wonderment in papers and on the television. We can outdo a boy like that with a bit of planning and youthful bravery.

Why Bother?

I just cannot excite myself with the idea of an Ulster Championship draw as I used to. Back then, probably circa 2004, you did build up a personal head of steam. It meant something. Now, well, who cares really? Antrim might beat Monaghan in Clones but the Oriel County might return the favour two months later. Antrim will lick their wounds in the Bot whilst Monaghan march on. It leaves you wondering, what was the point in the first game?

Slice of the Cake

With the news that the GPA can now go to the end-of-year ball without sneaking in, the penny is starting to drop for many recession-hit families across the country. Now I don’t really follow GAA politics nor does it affect me in my every day volunteering at the clubs who plead for my advice and input. I couldn’t care less if Paddy Cunningham or Karl Lacey are earning a million pounds a year playing for their county. It doesn’t bother me nor does it dominate my thoughts. I’m happy throwing a slap into me before heading out on two wheels to whoever is in the direst straits. There’ll always be that call no matter what’s happening down at Croke Park or Congress. Some young Ahoghill lad will be needing the secrets of selling a dummy or a Ballinascreen boy wondering if hitting off the ball is ok. The pleasure I get from seeing the same fellows a couple of weeks later jinking here and there or nailing some horse of a man on the sly, and getting away with it, is immeasurable.

The above is what you’d like to believe. Well, if you suck that in then you’ll end up on the scrapheap like the rest who are too romantic to know what’s good for them. Let’s be honest, the country has couped. It’s a fiver for a pint of stout in Dublin and you now have to pay to go on a road. Houses are half built and corner shops are a thing of the past. Up around Lurgan there are lads roaming the streets looking for edible berries. And the GAA are to give county players over a million pounds. That’s how I read it anyway. A million pounds.

There are two options here if you want to get a piece of this windfall. The first one is unattainable to many due to their present condition but not impossible. Spend the winter training. Every night in the dark go for a few miles of a run. In the dark no one will know you’re up to something. Rain, hail or snow makes no difference. Just keep thinking of the mortgage or paying off the Christmas presents. Also, these days you need to be strong in order to play county football. Lift everything you can get your hands on at home: TVs, cupboards, beds and people. It’s too expensive buying weights and the like. Use what’s around you and in no time, when everyone else is worrying about their midriff after devouring a few fowl over the festive season, you’ll stand out like a sore thumb with your healthy jaws and toned waist.

The next stage is tog out and head to the first McKenna game. This competition is famous for trying out lads, be it county or university. It’s also wet, dark and often foggy in January. I’d say if you somehow make your way into the dug out for a game, no one will bat an eyelid. The likes of Harte or Bradley would be too embarrassed to ask you who you are for fear of offending you. When you get the nod, run around for a while with the added fitness you accumulated over the winter and then strike someone in a blatant manner in full view of the ref. Hit him again when he’s down to make sure. Pretend to slap the ref. You’re guaranteed a mention in the papers the next day. It’s probably dawn on Mickey or Baker what has happened but it’s too late for them. At the end of the year, head down to Croker to collect your share of the million pounds as a county player that year.

The easier option is to find an inter-county manager who’s a distant relative and ask him to give you a run-out. It’s unlikely if you put a poor enough mouth on as well as having the wife and children in the car looking hungry that they’ll turn their back on you. Sure look at Joe Kernan, Mickey Harte, PJ O’Hare and Ross Carr. Expect to see sons of county managers popping up all over the joint. There could be up to 10 McCartans in Mourne colours by the time they take on Derry

Finally, the swine flu. It’s going to get worse. Sources tell me that it’s travelling in convoy and will be hitting the likes of Fermanagh, Cavan and Donegal after the New Year. Again, pre-empt this by training with a Fermanagh club side for a few weeks in January but don’t shower with, touch, or even talk to if you can, the other players. Jump into the car after every session, apply the anti-flu gel and head the blazes out of the county. Them boys wouldn’t be into using the soap at all, never mind the hand-gel. Before long the whole camp will be spluttering over each other and the county manager has a dilemma on his hands. Give him a call and let him know you’re training with Lisnaskea or Devenish and are available to dig him out against UUJ in Brewster. Even if you don’t touch leather and get horrible abuse from the crowd, just keep thinking about the Euros you’ll be pocketing next September.

The Irish aren’t slow when it comes to exploiting loopholes. The GAA have signed their name to it and the money cannot be denied to anyone who even togs out and remains on the bench. Last night I ran six miles.