Feck Sake Umpire

Another weekend and another controversy. Colm Cooper scored a point against the Dubs in Croke Park only it wasn’t. The umpire decided not to allow it for a reason only he knows to himself. Maybe the sun was in his eyes but sure it was February and the sun isn’t really all that taxing approaching the evening time. Perhaps he looked at Cooper and though a lad that slight couldn’t have possibly hit the ball that far. Only he knows. But as Jack O’Connor stated afterwards, enough is enough. Ireland’s not the laid back country it once was. In the past, such a dispute was resolved with a wink and a pint and forgotten about in the morning. All that changed eight years ago when Marsden got the line for chinning Jordan in the final. Before that, players like Paidi O’Se could go toe-to-toe swinging right hooks and at worse end up with a stern talking to by the ref. Now, the right thing is done it seems, that is unless it involves the men beside the posts.

What can be done about this? I have heard that they might change the coats that the umpires wear, bringing them more in line with the striped outfits you’d see our Australian cousins don for their games. How that will address their decision making is beyond me. I’ve heard of vertical stripes helping weighty people look slight less hefty but I’ve yet to hear of it rectifying chronically deteriorating eyesight. For when all is said and done isn’t that the problem here? The GAA are holding on to a tradition that sees them hire pensioners to gauge whether a ball has gone between two posts. It’s a well known yarn that just before Sludden awarded that goal for Meath against Louth last year, he threatened the umpire that he’d not give him his teeth back from the officials’ changing room unless he raised the green flag. It left the umpire perturbed and confused about the whole incident.

The major hindrance here though is surely eyesight. I’m not aware of one man or woman over the age of sixty who can drive a car without the aid of seeing glasses. What makes GAA headquarters think that the same men can see a white ball amongst the white clouds pass between two white posts? It’s lunacy and I cannot get my head around their persistence in employing officials in this age bracket. There has to be some kind of financial reason such as exemption from paying tax if they hire pensioners or maybe it cuts down on the catering bill as all those lads would want after a game is a cup of tea and a scone. No matter the reason, the advancement in technology means their persistent errors are highlighted with undeniable evidence.
Referees are given vigorous tests to see if they are fit enough to take charge of a game at any level, and rightly so. What examinations do umpires endure? I would excuse them from treadmill analysis or bleep tests but surely some form of eye examination is a must as well as the ability to make correct decisions and lift a flag. Some umpires might claim that the glare of the sky on their spectacles hinders their sight or that the rim of the glasses may cause them to misjudge the flight of a ball. They are good points and the GAA know they’d be in choppy waters if they discriminated against people with glasses. My solution is to look at Art McRory. He wore the thickest-lensed glasses ever seen on a man and never missed a trick, winning Ulster and league titles. It also gave him a menacingly wide-eyed look that offered him an advantage in any form of combat. I’d imagine that if Sludden had faced an umpire staring back at him with those type of glasses, Louth might well have been reigning Leinster champions today.

There are also the small binoculars that can be attached to glasses as well as tiny wipers for those drizzly days when the spectacles get streamed up. As well as that, I have a friend who works in a science factory in South America and he informs me he has been assigned by some GAA bigwig to investigate the use of an electric current that picks up any movement between the two posts. This volt then surges into the body of the umpire through a wire up their sleeve from the bottom of the post. The umpire will automatically jump slightly into the air and lean forward to pick up the flag. It has been tested twice on two Maned Wolves which ended tragically. The South American Maned Wolf is now an endangered species. The point is that moves are being made to do the best with what we have. The GAA know that ageism will be used against them if they begin to phase out the current batch of umpires. Be it thicker glasses, electric shocks or standing on scaffolding, something needs to be done soon before the crowd begin to turn on the defenceless old-timers.

I just cannot see how the striped jumpers will improve umpire performance. Stripes have often been associated with criminals or burglars. Maybe there’s more to that than meets the eye.

Fermanagh Chaos

So words like chaos and upheaval are now being mentioned in the same breath as Fermanagh GAA. I usually have my ear to the ground on these things but Fermanagh tends to be off the radar for me recently. I was involved in an unsavoury incident a couple of years ago at the Enniskillen bus station which hasn’t been resolved so I have refused to set foot in the county for fear of burnings and a rising. It was just an honest mistake blown all out of proportion. I really did think it was green toilet roll for St Patrick’s Day, not a Fermanagh jersey. But all that is besides the point. Fermanagh is in a terrible state of chassis right now and having experienced manys a revolt in my time, I’m in a good position to advise on a resolution for everyone concerned.

From my understanding there appears to be some form of communication problem. The new management have their way of doing things. The players have been used to a different set up over previous years. Therein probably lies the collision. About twice a year I am faced with a similar scenario. I’d return from the fields only to find that what was once the kitchen is now the spare bathroom. The bedroom is the living room as so on. Herself will take a form of head stagger and swop rooms about. I react badly to change and would maybe not set foot in the house for a week or until there’s a dire need for a shower. After a while though you realise that it’s no big deal and accept the new regime.

A large section of the Fermanagh squad appear to have reacted badly to a change in circumstances and are refusing to return to base. Anyone who knows me will realise the side I’m going to take here. I have no time for the modern way of approaching the game. Sometimes I find myself getting emotional when I witness a player asking for a drink of water from the sidelines during a game. Water? In my time and that of many others water was rationed at home. In a big family, you drew up a rota for having a drink of water. Now, these players expect water in plastic bottles to be hauled at them by some water boy. Fortunately, I once saw Penrose drinking the water, spitting it out and washing his neck with it. I admired that and have it recorded in case I ever get a job in management again. That was resourcefulness.

I don’t want to create any more controversy. But there was one snippet of information that did reach my way during the week. I heard it on dubious authority that the initial ruckus was caused when a senior member of the Fermanagh squad kicked up a fuss that they were getting scrambled eggs for breakfast and not poached. Apparently under Charlie Mulgrew they were introduced to the idea that eggs could be poached. Two of the farmer players were rather concerned about this as they took it that the eggs had been poached from an unsuspecting farmer. When it was fully explained, poached eggs became the norm for pre-match get together. Malachy O’Rourke then proposed the idea of putting a dash of pepper on the poached eggs. Again, this was met with scepticism but after a couple of opinion leaders in the squad tried it and liked it, pepper on poached eggs was all the rage for two solid years, cooked for exactly two minutes and thirty-eight seconds.

I’m told that John O’Neill, like myself, isn’t a big fan of new-fangled ways of eating eggs, preferring the hard-boiled effort or, at a stretch, soft-boiled. He was told in no uncertain terms before he took the job that poached eggs with pepper were important to this squad. O’Neill took this as a bit of light-hearted humour and went with the boiled effort first day out. The reaction was monumental. Players refused to even look at the egg, with shell attached, on the plate. Next day, he tried the scrambled approach. Again, it was no-go. One lad from Lisnaskea ate it anyway but was unceremoniously emptied five times during the training game, which followed the scrambled egg standoff. O’Neill had a choice here: Give the players what they want or stand firm and put his mark on a new era for Fermanagh football. He could have gone one better and produced omelettes, coddled eggs or Chinese steamed eggs. However, being a man of tradition, he reverted to the boiled effort.

The rest is history and an on-going one at that. Fermanagh and egg-eating go way back to the time of the Maguires who believed that the English, “ne’re could stomach an Irish Gael wi’ egg in his blood”. It’s an unfortunate start to O’Neill’s tenure and it could unravel badly for the newcomer. Or there’s just that chink of light that time will heal the sense of loss and change on the players’ mindset. Maybe they need to do what I did and take long walks around the fields and ponder the great mysteries of the universe. Only then will the issues that caused the present chaos seem small and insignificant. Maybe O’Neill will back down and give way to this, on paper, small request. I wouldn’t. Ireland is watching.

After the first couple of rounds in the league, managers are now obtaining a firm grasp of their team’s mindset and potential capabilities for the coming season. A couple of wins will have instilled a belief that perhaps this is their year for lifting a bit of silverware. Two defeats and the wolves are at the door, especially if you’re a relatively new manager with no pedigree. They’re the pros and cons of a high profile job these days within the GAA. Inter-county managers have to deal with the enormous pressure of having his county’s hopes resting on their every decision. The other side of the coin is that they get a rash of frees meals as guest speakers at club functions. It’s not just managers who avail of the perks of being a high profile GAA figure. I think I read a stat recently which stated that Joe Brolly has not paid for a meal or drink since 2003, even when he’s not performing. Them’s the breaks.

Yet, every time I hear of ‘pressure mounting’ on managers I allow myself a wise smirk. Those lads don’t know the meaning of real pressure; the type of responsibility no mortal human should endure. In 1957 I finally answered the greatest call of all. For three months I had received a daily visit from a monk who was staying up in Portglenone. He was attempting to encourage me to buy into the idea that a team of Trappist monks could compete in the Antrim division two that year. Each day I rejected the invitation. Although I recognised its novel nature and the opportunity to become a nationwide hero in the role of manager of a group of monks, I was also acutely aware of the brutal nature of Antrim football at that time. Despite my protestations about the likelihood of a physical hammering every week from teams like Cargin or Dunloy, monk Benedict persisted with such grace and mostly silence I finally agreed to take them on for a year.

If you’re not familiar with Trappist monks, they’re a strict bunch of men. They don’t partake in the usual changing room banter. If a woman walks past they throw their glances to the floor. Laughing is seen as an evil so if a monk happened to slip on a bit of soap in a comical fashion, the men would bang their heads off the wall or slap each other full on the jaw to prevent any form of mirth. The vow of silence was the hardest aspect of their lifestyle for me to manage. I was completely oblivious as to whether they understood my instructions or not. They’d just nod and then reflect for about twenty minutes. On the field during initial challenge games there were no shouts for the ball, criticism or encouragement. Just the opponents’ voices could be heard. Even in the stands, our followers were other Trappist monks and Trappist nuns, all observing the vow of silence.

Before the first league game I received a wonderful boost from the Vatican. A short note wished me well for the forthcoming season and the chance to be absolved from all sins if we managed to stay up. I had been messing about for a few years with women and illegal distilling so complete and total absolution was a Godsend. He also said he’d be reading the results every Monday in the paper and added that this was a great opportunity for all religious orders to reach out to the common man and secure their lofted position in Ireland for future generations. Now, that’s the pressure I’m talking about. Not your ‘losing to Cavan and Wicklow in succession’ pressure. This is the Holy See depending on your capabilities to shore a team of monks into a respectable division two outfit.

I don’t think I need to explain how things panned out. The first game away to Aghagallon was a massacre. That Sunday morning the priest up there had been giving off about the young lads in the parish for their sense of dress and attitude to women and drink. The appearance of the Portglenone monks lining up to play them in their frocks was a red flag to a bull. The South Antrim men obliterated my charges with and without the ball. Skull caps, tassels and sandals were soaring through the spring air as my men remained silent and quite accepting of their 34-point hammering. We managed to play another two games in the league that year with similar outcomes. To their eternal credit, my lads never complained about the brutality and spent the aftermath of each game in the changing rooms praying for the other side.

I never heard from the Vatican again nor have I ventured anywhere near Portglenone since. I’m led to believe the Trappists moved down to Kildare a week after the venture folded. Looking back, I’m glad I took on the job as nothing has ever compared to the size of the task since. International managers think they have the weight of their nation on their shoulders. Try nations and the heavenly Gods for size. Baker Bradley thinks he has his woes as manager of Antrim in their division two this year. Just take a short drive down to St Mary’s Aghagallon, Baker, and retrace my footsteps that horrible day. Try to imagine the turmoil.

Referee!

Referees are shaping up to being the real stars of 2010. Last year it was the fellow from Kerry who hit the Cork man a slap, danced on top of the podium and headed back to Australia the next day. The year before that it was a small bearded Kerryman who threw a tantrum at a referee. There’s usually someone who hogs the limelight. This time, though, it appears that it’s the whole clattering of men in the middle who are going to steal the back pages for the rest of the summer, and rightly so. Too often the most important individual on the field is ignored when it comes to fashion shoots, double page spreads and sponsorship deals. Fair enough, they maybe a carrying a wee bit more timber and the hair might be thinning compared to a 26-year old starlet but that doesn’t mean they should be overlooked when the perks of the game are handed out.

Now referees have the chance to get their foot in the door of this lucrative GAA suite. The recent controversies will see all eyes on referees for the rest of the season from the moment they run out from their changing room. Some will love the attention. There’ll be boys like McEnaney and Duffy at the barbers on the Saturday evening getting all manner of visible hair trimmed for the cameras and women. The egos will go into overdrive. All shapes and sizes of whistles will appear on the scene with modifications made like hanging charms or fluffy add-ons. Just wait and see.

They say all goalkeepers have a bit of a madness in them from birth. Referees must have that, only doubled at least. Why on earth would you volunteer to be the most hated man in the vicinity by both sets of players and supporters? When you throw into the pot the fact that they know the game cannot proceed without them there’s always the chance that this absolute power will go to their heads completely. They can affect the amount of football any lad plays in subsequent games, the holiday plans of all the local families and the general mood of the parish. That’s some power. Priests would do anything for that. So it’s no wonder that now and again they lose all run of themselves completely and logic goes out the window.

Back in the day, in the absence of mobile phone video recording technology and the BBC, referees got away with much more extreme behaviour than they do now. I’ve written before about the different breeds of referee. There’s the rogue ref, a race of officiating that died out during the 80s when they introduced referee assessors. The rogue would side with one of the teams in the bookies beforehand and do his utmost to make sure they won by practising some outrageous tactics. One such ref from my time in The Loup was known for bouncing the ball over the bar for a throw-up or awarding penalties for offences as far away as the 45m line. Then there’s the completely incompetent official, another dying breed. He got on the refereeing panel because he was the son of a county chairman or the like. He had no idea of the rules and sometimes unaware of the teams’ names he was presiding over but was free from criticism because of his father’s influence over the whole county. He’d change his mind five minutes after the initial decision was made. You’d have gotten plenty of this type in Antrim and Armagh.

Finally, and this is the only sect still abundant throughout the fields of Ireland today, there’s the dictator. You’ll find boys like this in Down and Tyrone. He’ll book anyone who even looks like someone who’d argue with him. They speak in a headmaster’s tone and call all players ‘boy’, even to the likes of Linden and Canavan in their twilight years. They’ll never change a decision and will line anyone who dares to question any call he has made throughout the game. This branch of the refereeing race are the type of men who can make hay in the current climate. They’ll cash in on the attention over the coming months with interviews in lads’ mags and late night chat shows. Think about it. Gearoid O Conamha, Pat McEnaney, Leo Smyth, Joe McQuillan and Padraig Hughes will be modelling for shops in Dungannon or Newry, doing those ‘5 mins with’ questionnaires or taking part in celebrity endurance reality shows on the television. Bannon, Sludden and Crowe have grabbed the headlines over the years and have now paved the way for a new generation of referee who’ll be chased by screaming women down the streets of Cushendall or Keady.

Sure won’t it great for the average punter in the future. In the past you felt a bit bad that you were verbally abusing a man who was giving up his free time to carry out a thankless and daunting task. He had to go home to someone who was still complaining that he’d forgotten to get the milk that morning. Now, in the knowledge that he has some young blonde at home and a six-figure deal with Dunne Stores or the like, you feel that you’re entitled to give it hell for leather from behind the fence if he starts to annoy you again with the prancing about and posh shouting. He’ll be fair game with his Brillo-Creamed hair implants and golden whistle. All will be well with the world.

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.

Begrudgery

One of the regretful traits we Irish possess is savage begrudgery. Begrudgery has a long and venerable history in Ireland. If I had been made redundant and the wife left me, I’d have all manner of callers around bearing gifts and uttering encouraging words. I’d be kept a place beside the heater at Mass and punters would stand aside in the Post Office so that I could be served first. You wouldn’t find kindness like it in any corner of the globe. However, if I woke up one morning to find I’d been offered a decent job and beside me lay the most beautiful woman in Ulster, I’d be ignored, stepped on and blanked even by the PP at communion. That’s the nature of the beast in this part of the world and I’m no different. The pages in this vessel have been awash with Antrim this and Antrim that for this last month or two. They call it the feel-good factor. Well, dang it. Antrim, you should hang your head in shame.

It is an unwritten rule in Ulster that some counties are to concentrate in the football and others on the hurling in order for the games to progress up here in both codes. Really, it’s Antrim hurling and the rest football. That’s the way it has always been. It keeps the ship steady. Down and Derry got their just deserts a while ago when they perched above their station and thought they’d try their hands at the hurling after they won their All-Irelands in ’93 and ’94. Fair enough, they lifted a couple of Ulster hurling titles, but where are they now? Down haven’t seen an Anglo-Celt since ’94 and Derry in over a decade. Their hurling is nowhere to be seen when it really matters. They didn’t stick to the agreement and their football suffered. Antrim were aware of the same bargain. They were to keep the hurling flag flying in Ulster. This year they had the audacity to believe they could play a bit of football and what happens – it’s all over in mid-July for both codes. The hurlers have been on the receiving end of some unmerciful beatings ever since the footballers thought they might try their hand at winning something.

Although this may look from a distance as out-and-out old-fashioned begrudgery on my part, I’m also, in my capacity of renowned sage and an all-round brilliant mind, going to offer the Saffrons a way out of this dual-coded nightmare. This solution will go beyond just enhancing Ulster’s reputation on the hurling scene. It’ll build bridges and harmonise a large patch of land. Three words – hockey, polo, cricket. Whereas Kerry turned to basketball and Aussie Rules in order to lure Donaghy and Kennelly into their set-up, we need to tap into our natural resources and reach across to a community not normally associated with a third man tackle or sideline cut.

Let’s start with the polo. Sometimes you need Grande gestures in order to make a point. There’s no reason why Sambo cannot get on the email or lift a pen and write to Charles Windsor. Charlie is rarely out of the papers on his horse, bating away at a ball on the ground. He’s riding a horse and clashing the ash – even Shefflin would find that a cumbersome combination. Get Charlie to visit a Casement training session, on his horse with mallet in hand for dramatic effect. He could then take a two-hour session focussing on ground strokes and shooting accuracy. It would be a great coup too for the local political scene and perhaps you could combine it with Charles making some kind of gesture towards Roger Casement’s legacy.

You only have to watch the NI Saturday results service once to realise how much hockey is being played in the province every week. Teams like Annadale, Instonians and Lisnagarvey are horsing into each other for their equivalent of the Anglo-Celt. These lads grew up with stick in hand and some of their sideline cuts are fearsome. There are literally thousands of this human resource roaming the streets of Ulster right now. If Sambo had any ounce of forward thinking, he’d be touring the hockey grounds of Mossley, Bangor or Portadown and poaching the likes of Bruce McCandless, Drew Carlisle and Gordon Essex onto the Saffron senior side. These fellas would be cutting the sliotar over the black spot from the 45. That’d fairly put the shivers up Cody.

Finally, it takes some eye-hand coordination in order to deal effectively with a penalty or 21 in hurling. Against Antrim, the sloitar always seems to end up in the back of the net. In cricket, these fellas are on the receiving end of a 100mph ball every 60 seconds, and seem to be able to bat the thing a quarter of a mile away from the stumps. Our schools up here are littered with some handy cricketers. RBAI, BRA, Portadown College and Lurgan College are ideal hunting grounds for McNaughton to groom a few full backs and keepers. Just imagine three of these lads in goal facing a Mullane penalty. He’d hit it well but in the bat of an eyelid, young Bunting would not only have stopped it but by meeting the sloitar head on with a swing of the hurl, it’d be soaring over the halfway line, sending the saffrons on a surprise counter-attack.

So there you have it – the three steps to glory for Antrim and Ulster hurling. Pride restored. Forget about the football lads. And a word of warning for Tyrone – lifting the Lory Meagher Cup could a fatal move. Never forget the unwritten rule. It done for Down and Derry football as Antrim hurlers regress.

What Makes Me Tick

It has taken a quiet week on the football front to allow me to answer the bagful of requests out there. I’m not one for emailing or writing letters but it’s only right that fans and suitors get the low-down on what makes a man like me tick. I read recently that Brian Cody and Mickey Harte are to write their autobiographies, adding to those of McConville, O’Muircheartaigh and O’Connor. I won’t be following their lead as there are stories that need never be told for fear of repercussion before I hit the long stay in the turf. Yet, in order to satisfy the masses, I shall outline the major influences and incidents that made the man.

As a youngster growing up in one of the most rural areas you could imagine, life was rather basic. Days were spent running after dogs around the fields, trying to woo clean-shaven women and dabbling in brewing. The local club, a junior side who hadn’t won silverware since their inception, survived on the amount of stout sold on a Saturday night. Everyone played for them but because of the lack of attractive women in the parish, there’d only be a few recruits to the side every year, leaving us with a team with players aged anything from 12-72. Although resources were stretched, it fostered a great sense of togetherness. It was probably playing with these lads in their 50s and 60s, still wearing long shorts and 9-inch nails hammered into their boots and history dripping from their pores, that instilled in me a great need to keep the games alive throughout the country and encouraged me to pass on the wisdom I unashamedly possess in barrels.

My own playing career was cut short after one prank too far. It was then the done thing for the captain to perform a daring task during his first year as the main man. When it was my turn as captain eventually, I thought it’d be deadly craic to tie a dead and festering trout to our manager’s saddle one night after training. Being pitch dark, he’d launch himself onto the bike before the smell would hit him. All things went to plan and the poor man leapt onto the saddle with the squelch of the fish and the roar of the boss amalgamated with the guffaws from my troops. Unfortunately the poor man contracted a little known disease called ‘Trout Arse’ and had to undergo months of treatment before he could even sit down again. I left the parish a couple of days later.

I spent the following years touring the province, collating old training methods and taking in as many games as possible, trying to implement as much as I could into my extensive managerial experiences. I watched with youthful intrigue as the great Burren side of the 80s would be put through their paces whilst having Mourne rock pelted at them by their trainers as they pounded up and down Slieve Donard. This taught me that you should only apply methods after carefully gauging your players’ temperaments. I had a short stint around that time in charge of an illustrious club on the Derry shore of Lough Neagh. During my first session I decided to utilise the local produces and rained eels, worms and turf at my players as they sat in the changing rooms before my first session. Within ten minutes I had been stripped naked and thrown into the Lough. I now admit that those men were of a different breed to the lads of Burren. That’s why Joe Kernan and Mickey Harte employed different strategies. Could you imagine Bellew’s face if Joe had asked Francie to pick his song for the team bus CD? It was my first lesson and has stood to me, and other managers no doubt, since.

It wasn’t all trial and error though. Sometimes in order to get to the position I’m in now you need a wee bit of luck. I was on a bus-top tour of Dublin one summer’s day with a widow I had befriended from Latvia. I couldn’t really understand her after two months of courting so when we stopped off at the RTE studios I seized my chance and got ‘lost’ in one of their studios. Having dandered in to a live set, I was mistakenly assumed to be the script writer for the Sunday Game. Amazed that such a man existed, I was given two hours to come up with that day’s analysis for the night programme. I threw in a few light-hearted remarks about eating hats if Dooher won an All-Ireland, racing grannies in Kerry and arseboxing. Sure enough, the likes of O’Rourke, Spillane and Lyons were uttering my every word that night and getting well looked after for it. From that day I’ve continued to submit scripts for the nation’s consumption. Do you really think Joe Brolly or Kevin McStay know what a ‘system’ is or ‘diagonal balls’ are?

That small piece of luck with the Latvian has meant that I’m dining with the likes of Lyster and Morrisey more often than not, giving after-dinner speeches abroad whilst still holding onto the cloak of anonymity. We’d tell devilish stories about getting the pundits to read the most ridiculous lines from the autocue. Lyster would hold his sides laughing as I’d write another piece on how Dublin could take the big one this year, usually read out before a live game by O’Rourke.

So there you have it. You need that little bit of fortune to fall into your lap. If you can couple that with making horrible mistakes and learn from it, you’ll arrive somewhere near to being half the man I am. I hope that fills in a few gaps.

Know Your Place, Antrim!

One of the regretful traits we Irish possess is savage begrudgery. Begrudgery has a long and venerable history in Ireland. If I had been made redundant and the wife left me, I’d have all manner of callers around bearing gifts and uttering encouraging words. I’d be kept a place beside the heater at Mass and punters would stand aside in the Post Office so that I could be served first. You wouldn’t find kindness like it in any corner of the globe. However, if I woke up one morning to find I’d been offered a decent job and beside me lay the most beautiful woman in Ulster, I’d be ignored, stepped on and blanked even by the PP at communion. That’s the nature of the beast in this part of the world and I’m no different. The pages in this vessel have been awash with Antrim this and Antrim that for this last month or two. They call it the feel-good factor. Well, dang it. Antrim, you should hang your head in shame.

It is an unwritten rule in Ulster that some counties are to concentrate in the football and others on the hurling in order for the games to progress up here in both codes. Really, it’s Antrim hurling and the rest football. That’s the way it has always been. It keeps the ship steady. Down and Derry got their just deserts a while ago when they perched above their station and thought they’d try their hands at the hurling after they won their All-Irelands in ’93 and ’94. Fair enough, they lifted a couple of Ulster hurling titles, but where are they now? Down haven’t seen an Anglo-Celt since ’94 and Derry in over a decade. Their hurling is nowhere to be seen when it really matters. They didn’t stick to the agreement and their football suffered. Antrim were aware of the same bargain. They were to keep the hurling flag flying in Ulster. This year they had the audacity to believe they could play a bit of football and what happens – it’s all over in mid-July for both codes. The hurlers have been on the receiving end of some unmerciful beatings ever since the footballers thought they might try their hand at winning something.

Although this may look from a distance as out-and-out old-fashioned begrudgery on my part, I’m also, in my capacity of renowned sage and an all-round brilliant mind, going to offer the Saffrons a way out of this dual-coded nightmare. This solution will go beyond just enhancing Ulster’s reputation on the hurling scene. It’ll build bridges and harmonise a large patch of land. Three words – hockey, polo, cricket. Whereas Kerry turned to basketball and Aussie Rules in order to lure Donaghy and Kennelly into their set-up, we need to tap into our natural resources and reach across to a community not normally associated with a third man tackle or sideline cut.

Let’s start with the polo. Sometimes you need Grande gestures in order to make a point. There’s no reason why Sambo cannot get on the email or lift a pen and write to Charles Windsor. Charlie is rarely out of the papers on his horse, bating away at a ball on the ground. He’s riding a horse and clashing the ash – even Shefflin would find that a cumbersome combination. Get Charlie to visit a Casement training session, on his horse with mallet in hand for dramatic effect. He could then take a two-hour session focussing on ground strokes and shooting accuracy. It would be a great coup too for the local political scene and perhaps you could combine it with Charles making some kind of gesture towards Roger Casement’s legacy.

You only have to watch the NI Saturday results service once to realise how much hockey is being played in the province every week. Teams like Annadale, Instonians and Lisnagarvey are horsing into each other for their equivalent of the Anglo-Celt. These lads grew up with stick in hand and some of their sideline cuts are fearsome. There are literally thousands of this human resource roaming the streets of Ulster right now. If Sambo had any ounce of forward thinking, he’d be touring the hockey grounds of Mossley, Bangor or Portadown and poaching the likes of Bruce McCandless, Drew Carlisle and Gordon Essex onto the Saffron senior side. These fellas would be cutting the sliotar over the black spot from the 45. That’d fairly put the shivers up Cody.

Finally, it takes some eye-hand coordination in order to deal effectively with a penalty or 21 in hurling. Against Antrim, the sloitar always seems to end up in the back of the net. In cricket, these fellas are on the receiving end of a 100mph ball every 60 seconds, and seem to be able to bat the thing a quarter of a mile away from the stumps. Our schools up here are littered with some handy cricketers. RBAI, BRA, Portadown College and Lurgan College are ideal hunting grounds for McNaughton to groom a few full backs and keepers. Just imagine three of these lads in goal facing a Mullane penalty. He’d hit it well but in the bat of an eyelid, young Bunting would not only have stopped it but by meeting the sloitar head on with a swing of the hurl, it’d be soaring over the halfway line, sending the saffrons on a surprise counter-attack.

So there you have it – the three steps to glory for Antrim and Ulster hurling. Pride restored. Forget about the football lads. And a word of warning for Tyrone – lifting the Lory Meagher Cup could a fatal move. Never forget the unwritten rule. It done for Down and Derry football as Antrim hurlers regress.