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.

Toughen Up Lads

Hernias, cruciates, groin-strains and mental breakdowns. In my day the only complaint you heard from a player was that his leg or arm was possibly broken but that they’d see it out til the end of the game and then get her looked at afterwards. I remember an ageing centre half back for Fermanagh losing half a hand during a McKenna game in the 50s when he collided with a cement pillar with 9-inch nails hanging out of it after a fair shoulder. He looked at it and says ‘sure it’s only the left one anyhow’ and went on to notch 2-8 with the blood pouring out of the wound, the ball seeped in red and half the Down defenders blinded with the lad’s plasma. He had it looked at the next day. Never played again. But the point I’m making is that today’s player is undoubtedly more susceptible to the odd scratch compared to a few years ago. I’m not claiming they’re imagining the damage now, but there’s no doubt that players were less brittle in the days of Joe Lennon, Iggy Jones and Jim McKeever.

I’m not the first to relate this to the lifestyle of the modern inter-county player compared to that of half a century ago. Last weekend you had the Antrim and Tyrone squads probably ferried from their home by car to their team bus, bussed to Clones and a similar return journey. It wouldn’t surprise me if some of those Tyrone lads hired limousines or were carried by hammock from the bus to the changing rooms. I can remember having to cycle from my house to Emyvale (45 miles) and then walk the rest of the way to Clones to stretch my legs before a minor hurling game in 1945. You only have to look at old photos from games back then. The players had thighs as wide as their waist. Their calf muscles were akin to bricks tied to the back of their shins. Today’s players look, from a distance anyway, like matchstick men, ready to be snapped in two by a crunching double shoulder. But that’s just the way things are and during Sunday’s game I began to think of whom Antrim and Donegal would draw in the back-door and that wasn’t it great to be touring the country seeing all the counties you’d only encounter on the odd holiday.

There’s no doubt that Donegal and Antrim will have the best of transport to Sligo and Offaly and so it should be. But I remembered back to the old national league games when it was badly run and you’d be travelling the length of the country on saddle only to return in the early hours of the following morning with an hour to throw breakfast into me before the turf. Probably the most popular mode was bicycle. It was a great spectacle some Sunday mornings as 4-500 cycles freewheeled their way to Dundalk or Mullingar. Depending where you came from, the state of the cycles was variable. The county Down lads always had the best set-up and would be hammering past supporters of other counties with their gears and their horns. They were the aristocrats in more way than one. The mid-Ulster lads (South Derry/North East Tyrone) would be the opposite end of the scale with oul rickety models barely holding together. There’d be a couple of lads on the handlebars and maybe a youngster on the cyclist’s shoulder. Added to that balancing act, it wouldn’t have been uncommon to possess an absence of breaks so the heels would be fairly hot by the time all and sundry reached the ground.

Fermanagh lads tended to travel by donkey. You always hated drawing Fermanagh at home as you knew the joint would be in some shape by the time they left. At around midday you hear the braying in the horizon and before long the noise of their asses would be drowning out the chapel bell. They’d be eating hedgerows, flowers, nibbling at local children and leaving their mark all over the lanes. During the game it wouldn’t have been unusual to have one of the Fermanagh players’ donkey saunter onto the field, recognising the owner and just standing beside him in the half forward line throughout the game. It was some hindrance. Sure it’s no wonder Fermanagh won the ’59 All-Ireland Junior.

The Donegal men were walkers. Even if it was Cork , they’d merrily set out half way through the previous week and in high spirits slowly make the 400 mile jaunt. You couldn’t annoy them. They were glad to get away and never complained. Even if they didn’t make the game in time, they’d just shrug, turn around and walk back, admiring the hay or birds. Armagh were a frightening bunch to behold. They’d mostly travel from the south of the country and used horseback. Maybe on the odd Sunday, sets of supporters would cross paths and there was nothing more impressive than seeing the Armagh lads gallop by through the walkers, cyclists and donkeys. There was something regal yet outlawish about them, a fearsome sight as their ‘yee-haw’ and ‘’yup, ye boy’ chants reverberated across the landscape. You were always waiting for the sirens behind chasing them. When you look at Francie Bellew, place him on the horse at full pelt, maybe his red straggly hair uncut for a decade, you can picture the fearsome band of Armagh fans arriving on your patch.

So, the times have changed. Next week you’ll have organised buses making their way to the games in Tullamore and Sligo . You’ll see BMWs, Volvos and Datsuns arriving in pristine condition. It’ll probably only take you a couple of hours at most. But out of those motors I’ll just see the skinny legs and pale complexions and thank the Lord that the likes of myself and the players of my generation were made of sterner stuff. There was no such thing as a keyhole surgeon in 1956. Managers should maybe take note. It’d give me great pleasure to see Aodhan Gallagher get down off a thoroughbred or Kevin Cassidy dandering past Killybegs on the Thursday with a pair of boots over his shoulder. If they do, they’ll last the 70 minutes. I guarantee.

Time To Spice It Up

Technology isn’t what it’s cracked up to be. I’m starting to pine for the days when half the parish would be crowded around the one wireless at Widow Quinn’s kitchen listening to Cavan winning another All-Ireland or any of the other Ulster sides getting hammered by Kerry or Dublin . No one really thought that much about wanting to be at the actual match. The craic was great in the parlour and there’d normally be a punching session or two out of badness if the game was a bit dull. It was all innocent stuff. Then along came The Sunday Game and that was a bonus. They’d show the four All-Ireland semis and the two finals. It was a good reason to get a TV and turn it on in September.

What we’re witnessing now is an overdose. It’s a bit like the food. In the 50s/60s you’d never have seen an obese child unless he had travelled over from England or was the landlord’s son. You ate your dinner, your breakfast and supper and that was it. On a Friday there was the chance of a packet of sucking sweets. Now there’s larders packed to the brim and children are eating their way through the day. I see boys eating cakes on bridges without a smile on their face as if it’s something they do everyday. At Mass last week a child suffered the embarrassment of his vestment garments bursting open at the seams. The previous week some young buck asked the PP if he could have a couple more of those communions.

The same is happening with the football and hurling. RTE and TV3 are trying their best to keep us happy but in their panic to cover as many games as possible, they’re overdosing us. We see so many games that unless something outstanding occurs, it’s all much of a muchness. Now we’re demanding to be entertained, the same way as the young lad club barbecue last week demanded that he get beef, pork, chicken and fish on his plate at the same time. When he was told there was no fish, he lifted one of the corner flags and proceeded to smash the media box to pieces. The response to this by the mother was ‘ach sure, get the lad some fish’.

This need to be entertained has spread to the pundits and they’re now like a bunch of pre-programmed robots each week, feeling the need to criticise the product to keep us happy. There has been much debate about rule changes and the like in order to improve the Games. If the powers took time to look back on old footage of the games, they’d see that back in the 50s, we had one hell of a product. The playing rules were the same but it was the peculiarities that made us different. I’d perhaps encourage that the following is given its rightful consideration at congress next year.

A tradition that was one of the highlights of the games back then was the throw-in. Instead of the ref tossing the ball up between the four midfielders as you see now, a dignitary would’ve gotten the pleasure and exposure of carrying out that task. Often it was high-ranking clergy that performed the task. It was a great opportunity for any of the players who had perhaps been excommunicated for parking in the PP’s space the previous week of for not giving anything towards the upkeep of his house during the collection. The clergyman would throw the ball up between the four midfielder and all 12 half forwards. In a split second all you could see was a dust storm as ceremonial robes and even the mitre swirled in a frenzied torpedo in the middle of the field. Eventually someone would emerge with the ball and as the haze settled, a semi-naked, bruised bishop would sorely trudge his way back to the sideline, a broken man. Now imagine the viewing figures and talking points such a custom would create now if we reintroduced the celebrity throw-in. Picture this: Joe Brolly has been selected to throw in the ball at the start of a Fermanagh v Monaghan game. You’d have 16 lads licking their lips manically with poor Joe, barrister’s wig and gown on him, shaking with fear as he stares down Dick Clerkin’s deathly frown. The mayhem that’d ensue would create great discussion in the pubs and living-rooms across the country.

The possibilities here are endless: Ronan Keating, Patrick Kielty, Mary Harney, Martin McHugh, Colm O’Rourke, Graham Norton – the choices are mouth-watering. Just imagine Spillane standing there, quivering uncontrollably, at the start of an Armagh/Tyrone clash. Hub Hughes, Gormley, Dooher, Vernon , O’Rourke, McKeever all rubbing their feet like bulls waiting for the ref’s whistle.

That idea would be a start. Forget about abolishing the square-ball, 13-a-side, limiting the hand-pass etc. There are other practices from half a century ago that would need serious consideration that would prevent the public from becoming completely desensitised because of the amount of games we’re being exposed to on the television. The old-time heavier brown leather ball would be an attractive introduction. That would cut down on the amount of wides as you’d only realistically shoot from 14 yards out. There’d be less hand-passing as holding onto that boulder would take it out of you over the course of a match. That’s just an indication that there’s little wrong with the rules, it’s just the customs that have maybe diluted the product a bit. Less TV, heavier balls and get the clergy back onto the field.

The Antrim Curse

Kevin Armstrong, Harry O’Neill, Tony Best and Joe McCallin. To punters under the age of 60, finding the link between those names will leave them flummoxed. If you add to that Paddy O’Hara, Mickey Darragh, Sean Gallagher and Ray Beirne, you have over half of the last Antrim side to left the Anglo-Celt Cup, back in 1951. Antrim were a decent side then and a relative heavyweight in Ulster . They’d won the title in ’46 and reached the finals of ’47 and ’48. So, unlike this year’s final, they were no potential flash-in-the-pan. What is remarkable though is that it would take another 19 years before they reached the final again. That day, in 1970, also represents the last time they walked behind the parade for the Ulster Senior Football Final. So how did it all go so wrong?

You’ll not find this in any official yearbook or compilation of results. But I’m a man who knows more than your average scribe. There are a few secrets I’ll carry to the grave but I didn’t think I’d see the day when Antrim could contest another Ulster Final. The reason for that goes right back to the night of the 1951 title celebrations. Having beaten Cavan in that decider, and with Cavan being All-Ireland contenders at that time, hopes were high that the Saffrons would make a breakthrough on the national stage. Their footballing adviser was a unique Meath fellow called Herbie Hynd, a man who dabbled in the spiritual side of sporting preparation, a bit like Brother Ennis or Fr McAleer. However, Hynd’s powers were regarded as going a little beyond that. He could heal, like herbalist Sean Boylan, but it was often said that he could dabble in the dark arts too. When they defeated Cavan in the final that year, the Breffni full forward was clean though in the last minute with an empty net in front. Inexplicably, he capsized head-over-heel and threw the ball back to the Antrim keeper. Hynd was said to have been on his knees at the time, bent over with his head pressed to the ground although there is no photographic evidence to back this up.

His native county, Meath, were also on the rise as a power and had as recently as 1949 defeated Cavan in the All-Ireland final. There were strong rumours that Hynd would return to his native county to help turn them into the super-power that Kerry became in the 70s. He made no secret that his heart lay with the Royals but still showed tremendous loyalty to Antrim during his spell there. He had been called in after the ’46 All-Ireland semi when Kerry bullied Antrim into submission, despite being an inferior outfit to the Saffrons. Hynd brought that bit of self-belief and general all-round steel. Things were rosy that Ulster title day in 1951. Antrim had regained the title and were about to commence an assault on Sam Maguire, meeting Meath in the semis.

It all changed that night. The stout was in full flow in the Casement clubrooms as the Anglo-Celt was passed around the Gaels of Antrim. The merriment was a tremendous sight. Hynd, not being a drinker, frowned a little on the alcohol abuse but was prepared to overlook it as long as it didn’t get out of hand. Unfortunately it did. One thing led to another and before long the poteen and ether were produced and the rows broke out. Men from the glens were boxing city lads and there was general mayhem. Hynd sat at the back of the room, shaking his head in disbelief. He had preached the need for discipline and self-respect yet here were his charges and their supporters violently revelling in an Ulster title, when there were bigger prizes on the horizon. In the early hours of the following morning, and when the fighting had died out, the Saffrons found common ground when they decided to sing unfavourable songs about their next opponents, Meath, forgetting it was the home place of their spiritual leader.

Hynd listened to a couple through gritted teeth but it all became too much for the guru when they sang to the air of that famous Orchard ditty, ‘There’s One Foul County in Ireland , the county of An Mhi .’ Harmless stuff indeed but Hynd’s passion for the Royals was much deeper than most knew. At 4am, having listened to three full verses of the above mockery, he exited the building and walked straight into the middle of Casement Park . There, he dropped to his knees, reached his arms to the Gods and uttered an unmerciful howl followed by a few words in Latin. Being a scholar of all languages, I was fully aware of what he was concocting. He put a curse on the county that they’d never win another Ulster title in his lifetime, or if they played any of their championship matches at Casement after that.

At the time I was sceptical of his powers such was the talent in Antrim’s panel. As it turned out, the Saffrons would only appear in one more Ulster Final in the 58 years until now. Last year, I read the sad news that Hynd had passed away in his native Meath at the age of 107. Antrim have yet to see Casement action in this year’s championship. The ingredients are there for the lifting of the curse. However, that night in Casement in 1951 contained one final detail. Hynd claimed that the Antrim curse could only finally be eradicated by hitting three goals in an Ulster final. I’ll be there this Sunday. The Saffrons know what they have to do or Hynd’s legacy will continue to drape its shadow over Casement Park . The Tyrone full back line stand between a half-century curse and Antrim lifting their 11^th title.

Women and GAA

They say behind every great man there is a great woman. We all know that’s codswallop. However, behind almost every great achievement or event down through history there has been a man or woman sitting in the background with a smirk on their lips, happily living in the obscure background whilst the figureheads take all the plaudits. I’m one of those unknown heroes. In 1980 I met Johnny Logan at Downings. He said to me as he left his caravan at the end of the summer, ‘another 12 months til we come back then’ with a forlorn expression. I shouted over, ‘sure what’s another year?’ The following year he lifted the Eurovision with that thought and the country went on to take another few titles after Logan had bravely led the way. When Ireland failed to make the finals of that song contest this year, my eyes watered at how the mighty had fallen and my part in making the home nation what it once was. Those feelings of regret returned last Sunday when I watched Dublin obliterate Antrim in the hurling. In my day if you saw a Dub with a hurl in his hands you phoned the guards.

Back in 1988 I was chasing a girl from Cushendall. She wasn’t the prettiest of blades but I once watched her dig out the founds of a sizable patio on her own with a thin shafted spade. How many wemen would even know what a spade is today? Anyway I won her affections when I entered the poc fada at the Glenariff Games and lifted the competition handsomely with a puck of 500 yards. Also watching the competition were the management of the Antrim hurling team who were about to embark on the 1989 Championship. That year the Ulster Hurling championship had been revived for the first time since 1949 after a 50 year gap. Antrim were a little bit nervous about this and when they witnessed me waltz to the Poc Fada title with arrogance to burn, it wasn’t long til they were plying me with porter in McCollum’s Bar trying to win my services for the year. No amount of stout could make me think I’m a hurler and when I finally convinced them I couldn’t run the length of myself they settled for a consultancy role.

When I attended the first training session at Casement Park I knew the size of the job ahead of me. I knew I could teach them how to shoot accurately from great distances but some players were so out of shape it could’ve passed for a darts throwing convention. I told the management I had a dietary qualification and set about compiling the day-to-day menus for each player. I kerb-crawled around the Antrim streets at night and if I caught a player exit a chip shop or off-licence I nicked them on the ear with an air rifle from the comfort of the Datsun Sunny. I also confessed to being a fitness guru and had the whole squad mowing the grass and cleaning the grave stones around Milltown Cemetery at night. I’d scare the bejaysus out of them by jumping out from behind the odd grave at midnight with nothing on me put a pair of briefs but this was all part of the conditioning plan. Within a month I had built a fearless, thin and fit group of players ready to take on Down in the Ulster Final. We won that game 2-16 to 0-9 but although the county rejoiced at such a convincing win I was unhappy.

On manys an occasion during the game a player in a better position didn’t receive the sliotar due to poor communication. Unlike Dublin last week, Antrim players hadn’t really cottoned on to using slang or nicknames for each other. During the Down match, players had been using their full names such as, ‘here, Olcan McFettridge, Terence McNaughton’s free to your left’. That was too much of a mouthful during the cut and thrust of a championship game so I came up with a few nicknames such as Sambo and the like. Before long it was all the craze in the schools and streets and Belfast hasn’t looked back since. A big worry before the Offaly game was the size of Croke Park and how they’d score points from distance as had been their forte to date since they copied my poc fada style. Again, the management turned to me before the game and asked for my advice such was my total success to date. I told them to forget about the points or shooting from the half way such was the length of the headquarters, just hit the net. For every time they goaled, I said, it’d be worth three long range efforts. In my mind that made sense, and the semi-final scoreline of 4-15 to 1-15 was a vindication of my methods and scope of thought. Whilst the player were feted and management interviewed by every publication in the country, I slipped off the radar. I ran away. It wasn’t because I was envious of the attention given to those above; it was a more heartbreaking issue that was a by-product of my involvement with the Antrim hurling team. My Cushendall spade woman had dumped me for a player from Ballycastle who also played on the Antrim team. She wanted the fame of being a player’s wife, not the girlfriend of the brains of the backroom team.

I packed up my belongings the night of the Offaly game and ran off to Carnlough where I worked undercover as a TV licence man over the next few weeks. I watched the All-Ireland Final as the Saffrons were humiliated by Tipperary from my bed-sit portable TV. I knew how to beat Tipp but I didn’t answer the calls as I couldn’t bring myself to watch the girl of my dreams cavort on the Croker turf with the left half forward.

Now, when I see Antrim fade like last Sunday against teams I would’ve had beaten in the changing rooms before the game with eye contact, I shed a tear. To see Sambo at the helm makes it worse. Never let the heart rule the head. Courting and hurling don’t mix. Sure it done for Cú Chulainn too.