Underage football… An image is conjured up of endless summer days kicking the pigs bladder around your local pitch, as they say in western movies 'like your daddy and his daddy dang done before ya boy.'

But it is more than that. Underage football is where you learn the rites of passage, whatever they are. It is where you learn to love your parish. You begin to appreciate the juggernaut that is the Gaelic Association and what it has done for Ireland. But as Darth Vader might say, you have to go to the dark side of Gaelic fuzzball, Luke and see why it became so popular.

Faction fighting was rife throughout Ireland centuries ago. Families would gather around and the head honcho would say, 'Who'll we fight today, gossans', and the sons would look up at him with frothing mouths and say, 'those hoors from the bottom of the parish, sir', and off they would go with blackthorn sticks ready to bate the heads off their enemies.

But the local curate would hear about the planned fight, report it to the parish priest, who would report it to the bishop and then all hell would break loose, prophetically speaking. The Catholic A-Team would head for the fight site and with threats of 'eternal damnation' the factions would head home fuming, ready for the praties and cabbage, (no bacon available them days) washed down with poteen.

So daddy bear would say to the baby bears: 'look buckos, there has to be a way of getting to beat those fellas, without gaining the wrath of the clergy.' (This fella was obviously edumacated in the best hedge school in the locality). One of the boys looked up and said 'Why don't we play them in a game of peil' (they talked Irish you know), and the daddy said 'I like it' before sending the brainy boy up to bed with a broken nose for threatening his superiority in the clan.

And so in this loose version of history the Gaelic Athletic Association was formed in 1884. It made faction fighting respectable. But then a funny thing happened....

The people who had been at each other's throats within parish boundaries suddenly had bigger fish to fry. They could join forces and compete, be it in football or otherwise, against (spit it) THE NEIGHBOURING PARISH.

The neighbouring parish is like a next door neighbour. We can get on well enough sometimes but when it comes to who has the best garden, who has the latest technology installed, who has the best car etc., people seem to lose the head and try their best to better the ones next door. There is no point telling you about neighbouring counties, you know yourselves.

And so it was with this Quentin Tarantino vision of what Gaelic football is all about, that I entered the realms of underage football like my brothers and my daddy dang done before me.

It was a scary experience entering that dressing room for the big U12 game, especially when you have forgotten to bring your gear and you line out with a pair of jeans and a pair of Dunnes Stores runners.

It was scarier going out to the field and seeing the opposition. How is it that in underage football every team you play all look at least six inches taller and wider than you. Somebody should write a thesis on why all opposition look bigger than you when you're eleven years old. It would make interesting reading.

Scarier still is the strange phenomenon of girls playing along with the boys. As an eleven-year-old you cannot comprehend fully why they are there. Is it because their fathers really wanted boys? Is it a form of punishment for breaking the head off their new Barbie doll? Another thesis please, and make it snappy.

So you go to your position, lets just say left half-forward. You shake hands with your opponent, blushing slightly if it's in the female form. At that age you begin to wonder why you blush when you come in contact with a girl but it all becomes clear, when one morning you wake up and you sound like Barry White crossed with Bosco, and other unmentionables have occurred.

So it begins. Your thoughts of asking your female marker for a post match kiss are shattered into oblivion as she gives you a hard clatter in the lower stomach, leaving you gasping for air. 'The bitch' you scream in your mind, knowing that a loud expletive would have your mammy gunning for you with the wooden spoon on arrival back at base camp.

The ball comes your way, your first competitive handle of the ball. You look up at daddy who has nearly collapsed with pride and anticipation. 'Would you kick the feckin' ball gossan' the trainer roars. You do as you're told. Up the field to the star full forward. Already earmarked as a county star in fifteen years time , this fellow must be fed the liathróid constantly lest it would upset the balance of nature and his club sponsor of a father.

But you don't pass it. Why? Something stops you from kicking it to star boy at number 14. You run with it, hopping, soloing, looking around, panicking, and wishing the goalposts would come nearer to you. They begin to. You panic, wishing you had passed the ball to 14 when you were told. Now you're on your own.

You're an underage footballer.....