My Gaelic football debut doubled up as a testimonial

IT was a wet day for driving through Roscommon. But even in the thunderous rain, the sight of flags and bunting on every stick and pole hailing the achievements of their Gaelic football team would raise your spirits. What a great thing these games are. What they do for us is immeasurable, they can even lift the clouds and scatter the drizzle hiding the sun on an August day.

My own career as a Gaelic sportsman was short-lived. In reality it probably lasted all of 10 minutes. Various attempts to relaunch, revive or resuscitate it were doomed to failure thanks to the indelible mark left by a brief foray on to a muddy pitch in West Limerick about half a century ago. As a press-ganged member of the local U10 football team, I had a rather inauspicious debut that doubled as an equally inauspicious testimonial.

In those days there was no such thing as ‘training’ for anyone under 14, just hastily arranged games that resembled cockfights involving flocks of fledglings.

Youngsters who appeared to fit the required age category, be it U8, U10 or U12, were selected at random and crammed into cars to be taken to a designated pitch where they would face a similarly assembled opposing team. On arriving at the grounds they poured out of their transports on to the pitch, the ball was thrown in and they were sent at one another.

In my case a neighbour collected me, along with an indeterminate number of young locals and, sardined into his Volkswagen Beetle, we made our way to a pitch in the neighbouring parish where we were let loose like young calves in spring.

Attempts by the mentors to divide us into backs and forwards foundered the minute the match started since such concepts and roles were completely alien to us. The only role clearly understood was that of goalie, and nobody wanted that job. In those days it was expected that goalkeepers would be buried alive in the goalmouth or left for dead in the netting at least once before half-time and with crushing regularity throughout the second half. If this didn’t happen then it wasn’t a game at all, at the very least it indicated an absence of manliness and muscle in the forward line. Even at our tender age we knew the goal man’s lot was not a happy one.

Anyway, those were the mid-to-late 1960s and while the youths of America were smoking dope in California and the young people of France were throwing stones at the gendarmerie on the Champs-Élysées, I was with the youth of West Limerick on a muddy pitch preparing to become the parish’s answer to Mick O’Connell.

The match was delayed for want of a referee and further delayed for want of a whistle. Eventually one was commandeered from a passing squad car and 28 eager young fellas gathered ‘i lár na páirce’ waiting for the ball to be thrown in. The only players holding position were the forlorn looking goalkeepers who stood at either end of the field with the resignation of the condemned draped over them like a shroud.

Mentors on either side went blue at the gills and hoarse in the gullet as they roared at their heedless charges to “spread out”, “mark your man”, and “stay in position”. What were they shouting about? The only position to stay in was the one that kept you nearest the ball.

My moment came when the said ball was kicked high in the air and landed with a splat in front of the goalmouth. Having been furthest from the prize, I was now among the nearest and proceeded to run as fast as my legs could carry me towards that pristine white leather object that stood out like a jewel in a pool of mud somewhere around the 14-yard line.

My eyes and my whole being were completely focused on the objective when I suddenly realised that to my right, left and behind me were 27 other pairs of eyes equally focused and equally determined. I made a quick calculation and