Soldiers Are We?

For the last number of weeks I have been trying to get to the bottom of The Great Anthem Debate. For those in the dark, what follows is a short description of the dilemma sweeping stands up and down the country this Summer. There was a time when the anthem meant a great deal. It was an expression of culture and identity, hearing it on the television before Kerry gave some Ulster county an unmerciful hiding during the 70s and 80s. Or maybe you attended your own county final and the County Board wheeled out a dozen oul fellows from the area, stuck kilts on them and told them to splutter and wheeze their way though Amhrán na bhFiann on the pipes. It may have been impossible to make it out but you were all in it together and sure there was no one recording it to play it back and embarrass the lads. It was a novelty back then and we appreciated its value.

Although it’s not a popular view to promote, someone has to call a stop to what the pre-match rendition has become in the 21st century. The current run of things is this: the players go through their elaborate warm up routines as the crowds slowly stagger in from the local hostelries about fifteen minutes before the ball is thrown in. The players then make their way behind St Michael’s band or some other collection of talent musicians as they parade three-quarters of the field as supporters let out yelps of encouragement for their heroes. The atmosphere is now as close to electric as it can be. Hush descends over the ground as we prepare for the National Anthem, hopefully whipping the Gael into a manic frenzy. Within fifteen seconds, all that energy that the occasion has created over the preceding hour has disintegrated, sapped by the modern ‘done thing’.

More often than not it’s some young female teenager who has a great chanter. She has probably cleaned up at the Scór na nÓg and sings at the chapel every Sunday. That’s why it’s frowned upon to comment on this phenomenon. You don’t want to hurt the young vocalist’s feelings. After all it is not her fault. She has been asked to do it by some eejit on the provincial council who thinks that this is the way to go now. Or, as I suspect, he carefully handpicks these cailini in order to dampen any threat of things boiling over with passion on the terraces and a few digs being dished out amongst opposing fans. Well, fair play to him if it is for that reason; it works.

The young lass will only have managed the first dozen words or so, or two bars, and a minute will have passed. You sometimes expect pallbearers and a funeral hearse to make its way onto the field. Even the most excitable and half-drunken fanatic is now slowly losing the will to stand up. There’s no accompanying music, no dramatic drum beat, no tears flowing down the cheeks of some player’s mother. On the other hand, with three minutes having lapsed and she still hasn’t reached ‘Anocht a théam sa bhearna bhaoil’, some supporters are contorting their faces into scary formations with others momentarily forgetting why they are here in the first place. Your eyes begin to water, not with emotion, but because you’ve been staring at the tricolour for nearly five minutes now and the sky is cutting the lining out of your eyeballs.

Players start to stiffen, standing still after such a vigorous preparation. Nowadays they ignore the anthem and launch into press-ups, stretches and manic scratching of their lower regions. The whole affair is a torture now. More often or not the sound of the lady’s voice is completely lost in the wind as she has been made to stand on the pitch on top of a crate with a fierce breeze behind her. I was at a game lately when nothing was heard at all. We stood there for 15 minutes staring at the flag, not knowing that the singer had been red up five minutes earlier and was already in the crowd staring at the flag because everyone else was.

I’m not getting at the singers, nor am I calling for a new anthem. What needs to be done is simple. Get a pipe band or even St Michael’s themselves who do a great job entertaining the early birds in the stands. They play the thing at a decent tempo whilst the blood is still furiously swirling its way around the beery veins of supporters on both sides. It sets the tone for the players to go hell for leather in the opening plays. Now they’re that numb from the death march they’ve just endured that they take 5-10 minutes to stir from the semi-slumber.

I know what the Ulster Council are at. There’s no chance of a slap or two coming from the crowd if the young girls continue to suck the devilment dry before throw-in. It’s like some kind of anti-craic drug in order to sedate the excitable. Yet they’re doing us a disservice. Billy Connolly used to joke that the English had the worst anthem on the planet for creating any kind of fist-thumping motivation before a sporting event and that they’d win nothing until it was changed. We’re not at that stage yet but it’s becoming a painful experience. I’d rather see the whole joint bulging at the eyeballs with foam gathering around the chin than cross-eyed staring at the sky. We could learn alot from the Koreans during the World Cup.

Club Matters

Sometimes we need to stand back and appreciate the smaller things in life. At this time of the year it’s easy to get wrapped up in Monaghan and Kildare and Derrytresk and the things that make the back pages of the publishing media or on the television. Even the wireless is full of phone-ins about Tomas O’Se’s knees and Junior football’s future. It’s at this time that I feel sorry for the small-time club footballer who’s toiling away two times per week training and then playing a match at the weekend with the majority of spectators yapping away about the match that was on the TV earlier. We forget about the average Dan club man. Yet not all clubs allow themselves to sift into the background whilst the better players get all the column inches.

Any club I’ve managed to turn around spectacularly didn’t subscribe to this star-gazing trait. I’ve always been aware of the lads who make this club what they are and the community who keep the pound in the meter. I’d be a fan of putting on all-dancing sports days and parish club tournaments at the same time as big games on the TV to test the loyalty of the parishioners and to be fair they always come good though many just sit in the bar watching the big game. I’d prefer that they’re spending their beer money in the clubroom than giving it to the off-licence. All clubs can do this and should. If they need help in setting up this type of attraction they can contact me through the boys that get paid in this publication.

However, a word of warning: because county boards are too concerned about feeding, dressing and fawning over their county players and management team, you tend to find they pay less attention to what is going on at club level, especially when it comes to discipline and sanctions. I should know. In 1979 I was in the process of re-energizing a small club in the foot of the Sperrins in county Derry. I was doing a great job and we were able to field 2-3 teams at senior and reserve level. As was my wont, I organised a sports day for the club during the height of the inter-county season to keep the parishioners focussed on what really matters. I invited three other clubs close to us including Bellaghy and Dungiven who would all play each other in a light-hearted tournament. I also organised bouncy castles, bare-knuckled boxing, bale-throwing, Irish Dancing, shooting, fishing, running, wife-carrying and laughing competitions to keep everyone interested in some form or another.

I was vaguely aware that Dungiven and Bellaghy had played out a rather fractious championship that had 6 men lined, a mass brawl at the end and a local pub had been burned that night. I was sure though that with the casual nature of the occasion it would pass off peacefully and maybe even lead to reconciliation after a few beers later on. As it was, those same teams were due to commence the whole day’s festivities with a 15-minute each way match. The weather was glorious and I was a tad emotional when cars with registrations from Donegal and even Down arrived in their throngs. I saw one Tyrone car with 15 children crammed into the back of it, all with excited smiles on their faces at the prospect of a day’s jollification. The bales, boxing ring and bouncy castles were all glimmering majestically in the sun as everyone waited for the throw-in by the local PP. I’d guessed there was about 10’000 there and this was the day that the All-Ireland semi-final was on the TV. I’d done it again.

Unfortunately, that moment when the ball was at its highest point in the sky during the throw in was as good as it got. By the time the ball had started to descend mayhem had broken out on the field. All thirty players were engaged in an all-out war with their opponent. Some players produced weapons they’d crudely made, from under their trunks. It was like a picture you’d see in a gallery depicting some old battle in 1588. Women covered the eyes of their children. The majority of spectators stood open jawed at the carnage. All of a sudden six carloads of priests screeched around the bend and right onto the field. I’d never seen so many clergy in one spot before. They flailed holy water around the park and a few engaged in the rosary. One frocked fellow actually threw a few digs himself. Shortly two busses full of cops arrived and arrested as many of those in attendance as they could, including some innocent female bystanders and their children.

That day still haunts me and my judgement of participants for the fun day was a grave error. Derry football is known for its toughness but the depth of their grudges is something that I wasn’t prepared for. I just remember that carful of 16 children leave the field with one of the young lads saying, ‘Daddy, why was the priest hitting the number 10 with a cudgel?” That was not the impression of the GAA I was trying to promote. That night I packed up and walked off into the sunset towards Toome.

So, I implore all club chairmen to earn their crust and promote the club during this period of admiring the elite. Just be careful though that you choose your participants with a little more foresight that I did.

Yellow Mellow

Hard to believe it but we’re on the cusp of another championship season. This weekend sees Armagh and Derry square up above the Sperrins. History has shown that the first year of a new decade usually ushers in a new era for football up in this part of the world. Hurling also appears to take on a new shape going by the record books. I’m long enough in the tooth to be able to make sense of these traits and confidently predict the latest trends in both codes.

In terms of hurling up here, a new decade raises its head in dramatic fashion. The first Ulster hurling championship was played in 1900 when Antrim won it, creating a fairly repetitive scenario for the next 110 years. I wasn’t exactly born at that time although records are sketchy. However, if you look at the annals of Ulster hurling you’ll see that Antrim won it against nobody in the final. This tallies well with my father’s tale regarding the Bicycle Thief of 1900. His story concerned the formidable Derry side in that inaugural year. They had beaten all opposition in friendly games before wiping the floor with Down and Armagh in the Ulster championship. Many had tipped them for All-Ireland glory. Legend has it that they set off for the final in Maghery on the morning of the game by bicycle, all fifteen players. Having stopped off in Cookstown for a swift stout, they returned to their bikes only to find they’d all been nicked. Two days later a bicycle firm set up new offices in Antrim town and are still in operation today. I’m not connecting the two but it’s hard not to. Derry never did make it to the final and three of the players set up permanent home in Cookstown that night.

Fast forward 100 years and Derry finally got their revenge in 2000 with a victory over Antrim, their first title since 1908. That day I’m told that a couple of the Downeys plastered the Antrim changing rooms in bicycle parts before the game in an attempt to out-psych their opponents and to remind them that they hadn’t forgot. It worked and Derry won by a point. 100 years ago Donegal made the Ulster Hurling final. I predict Armagh will upset the applecart and reach the Ulster final this year. It would be in their interest to stay overnight in Belfast, just in case.

In football, the fresh decade has often heralded a new era. 1960 saw the Down team take the province by storm. Although they broke the back of it in 1959, the following year saw the Mourne lads lift every bit of silverware going and leave their swagger on the national map, something that has never really gone away. Paddy Doherty had probably been telling the country how good they were long before that and half a century later, he’s still at it. 1970 saw Derry return to the big time when they won only their second title when they beat Antrim in the final. The Saffrons never made it back until last year. The 1970 title began Derry’s most successful decade, reaching the final five times. Eamon Coleman won his only Ulster Senior Championship medal that year. Unconfirmed, it is rumoured that Coleman wound up the Antrim lads something shocking that year with repeated references to the bicycle thief of 1900. One Antrim player told me at the time that Eamon kept whispering to him throughout the game, ’ye wudn’t give me wan of yer spare tyres ye hefty clift’ in addition to other cycling references.

1980 saw Armagh re-emerge onto the big stage in Clones. With the ’77 run regarded as a fluke, 1980 confirmed that they were a serious bunch. They’d reach four of the first five provincial finals that decade. The most remarkable occurrence for me as a successful journalist was monitoring the changing shape of Joe Kernan’s shirt. In ’80 it was a tight enough fit but covered his frame adequately. With the likes of Joe McNally, Jimmy Keaveney and Eoin Liston about, his physique wasn't overly unusual. In 1982, when they defeated a gallant Fermanagh, there is no doubt in my mind that something which affected the Fermanagh game plan was seeing Kernan storm down the field with his belly button in full flow. The McGuigan final in 1984 was the final straw. At one point he contested a kick out with Frank and his jersey rode as high as just below his chest area, as in a tank top or bikini. Remarkably, it stayed there the rest of the game.

1990 ushered in the Donegal era. They won it that year and went on to reach the final every year for the first four years, winning Sam along the way. A remarkable fact was that they never scored a goal in each of those finals. Even in 1989, they played Tyrone twice in the final, both goalless attempts for McEniff. 1998 final against Derry – no goals for the O’Donnell men. Now, I’m not one to poke fun at any county but I have it on good authority that the good people of Donegal actually believed goals were cursed back then such was the close link to soccer. They’d already lost Packie Bonner to that game by then and Shay Given was about to head across the water. The county board reckoned that brainwashing the Donegal youngster into thinking that goals don’t count would prevent any young fellow from wanting to become a goalkeeper. It makes their Sam Maguire an even more remarkable feat, scoring 0-18 in the final of course.

The year 2000 confirmed that Armagh were the real deal. They blitzed their way though that decade, with Tyrone picking up the scraps when the Orchard needed a breather. It wasn’t lost on me that Kernan, of the 80s rising top vintage, brought in skin tight tops to prevent the same inglorious development befalling the likes of Bellew or Aidan O’Rourke. In 2000 they should’ve defeated Kerry but saved their juice for a bigger occasion two years later.

So, throwing all that in the mix, 2012 is destined to herald a new force. All roads point to Antrim. In ’50, ’60, ’90 and ’00 the team that lifted the title paved the way with an historic breakthrough of some sort the previous year. Last year Antrim dared to contest the final. Lump the house on the Saffrons. The editor will refund any beaten dockets.

THE MAKING OF THE MAN

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.

Fermanagh Pains

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.

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.