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Content Zone
Thu 24-Jan-2008 18:07
More from this writer..
Chronicles
The making of a minor footballer
By the time you reach minor level, as a young footballer you will have encountered many difficulties, writes An Fear Rua...
In smaller clubs, you might have been approached at fifteen to enter the murky world of minor football. As a fifteen year old, you are in awe of these big hulking seventeen to eighteen year olds, each with the very small beginnings of a beer belly.
You see them walking moodily around the school, making sarcastic comments at teachers you’re still afraid of. You watch in frustration as the girls in your year, especially the one you fancy, almost throws herself at the six foot one midfielder. A rage builds inside of you that you can't let out till you're at home in your bedroom and your mammy wonders have you been drinking too much cocoa at night.
The star minor footballer is a lad who is respected by old and young alike. He is the great white hope of the parish, the fella who'll bring back the county title when he gets to senior grade, barring he gets lured by some crowd to play Aussie Rules or … worse … to a soccer club in England. Cue screams and howls of protests from the auld bucks at the counter of the local pub who mutter to themselves that the pup was never any good anyway nor neither was his father before him.
So you have a lot to live up to. As you begin to go to the minor training sessions, a strange thing occurs. Those same lads who are eighteen or so, begin to recognise you at school and grunt a greeting towards you as you walk nervously past them down the corridor.
However, with the big lads noticing you, the ‘wan’ begins to as well. She comes up and actually talks to you. Her eyelids start fluttering, the sly grin, and the fidgeting of the hair nearly make you run for a bucket of water to cool down with. You stutter like a diesel car on a frosty morning as you talk about how the science teacher is such a so-and-so for having giving out to the ‘wan’ for a bad test result. Then…awkward silence …
This awkward terrified silence is like sitting in a dentist’s knowing you have to get three teeth pulled. You begin to sweat like Christy Moore playing the old National Stadium as you panic about the next topic of conversation. And then the question you have to ask her… are you going out on Saturday night?
A surprised glance at you confirms your fears that it was the wrong question, but she tries to remain cool.
‘Of course I am.’ ‘Why?’
‘Well I thought we might meet up at the nightclub.’
‘But there’s not a hope we’ll get in.’
‘Sure we’ll try it’, says you, beginning to get courage back.
‘We’ll see, it’s only Tuesday after all. See you in the next class.’
You have a Homer Simpson ‘d’oh’ moment as you realise you have asked her not only three days too early, but maybe even two years early as well. And there is the small matter of the Championship derby match on the Sunday morning you could be making your debut in.
By Friday, you are on Cloud Twenty, never mind number Nine and you know that something has got to give, either the ‘wan’ or the football. Now, at any other age it would be a foregone conclusion that you would ignore the match and go out with the girl. But at fifteen or sixteen the aul’ brain is still not functioning in that kind of way. Remember you have only played under twelve football three years earlier. What are you to do?
Reluctantly, you decide the pride of the jersey and the parish is more important and you approach the ‘wan’ cautiously. You tell her you forgot you had a match on Sunday morning and you can’t go out the night before. You wait for the slap, or worse, the tears, but they don’t come. You’re happy enough see that she has a relieved look on her face and you arrange to go out some other time.
Fast forward then to Sunday morning and the big match. You’re nervous as a kitten togging out in the dressing room. Some of the other fellas look suspiciously hung over, though they're not supposed to be drinking. You put on the jersey and try to remain calm as the red-faced trainer goes bananas in front of you talking about pride in the parish and all that guff.
You walk out onto the field and take your position. You note your opposite number is six inches taller than you. Despair sets in. How are you supposed to beat this lad? You see your daddy and mammy looking at you with pride or maybe worry from the sideline. Your mammy blesses herself. Now you’re really worried.
But then salvation of a sort. You hear someone shouting good luck to you from another direction. You scan the crowd for a messenger of hope, and you see her. The ‘wan’ is there with a parish jersey on. She gives you a smile and a thumbs up and you’re walking on sunshine. You give her a wave back and your marker looks at you with disgust, but you don’t care. This fella would probably be more interested in the internal workings of a Massey Ferguson 165 than a member of the opposite sex.
By then you're distracted by cheers and shouts. The referee is about to throw up the ball. You go for it and the game is on.
Ah yes. You’re a minor footballer now…
First published in the programmes for the All Ireland senior football Qualifiers 2007
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