Maybe I should not be giving this glipe the oxygen of attention, but what is the craic with this pile of absolute trite tripe. Who gives one shiney shight about the musings of this moran and his "Gah" family.
Two minutes on this board would have unearthed 20 more interesting contributors than this would-be columnist, and I hope his next submission is edited down to the interesting bits, which would take up a hell of a lot less space than the heading and that already-annoying cartoon.
If this is the Irish News getting down with its Gaelic-playing/ loving fanbase, please have a wee rethink.
i know it is easier to ignore it, but it could actually have been a good idea. (maybe it is Fearon weedling his way into a regular slot outside of the letters section)
Yeah, I read this myself last week and thought it was shite. Gave it another go today and it's still shite. Saying that, it's not as bad as Maeve Connolly's New York diary, absolutely atrocious, thank God she's on the plane back now...
Have to agree I thought it was terrible. One page that I'll pass over in the future. I'd rather read Benny Tierney's thoughts on South Armagh women!
Can anybody post it?
Here it is; dreadful stuff from the Irish News
Donny's Diary - Everybody wants to rule the Gah
Donny's Diary
By Donny Doherty
Mum insists that every Saturday we sit down as a family and have a meal together. "We can at least break bread as a family one day a week," she says.
My mum is quite a religious woman and, despite what the old fella thinks, she is definitely the head of the house.
During the week we all eat at different times. Between training for this team and that team I am hardly ever in the house in the evening. Tadgh is off training with the rugger boys or the odd time he might even show his face with the club.
Even Aine, my 17-year-old sister, is out three nights a week. She plays for both club and county in the old Peile na Ban.
Throw in the fact that the old man is off at meetings or matches every night of the week and you can see that our front door is little more than the revolving type.
article continues
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It's usually only mum and my other younger sister, Katie, who are in in the house most nights. Katie is only seven, 10 years younger than Aine.
Mum's friends like to call her a present from God. I don't know about that. All I know is that the old man had his own wee private visit to the hospital after she was born.
Anyway, last Saturday we all sat down to dinner and were joined by Tom, our 80-year-old neighbour.
Mum cooks his dinner most days and once or twice a week he will come around to our place.
Tom is mighty craic and loves the Gah. Deaf as a post though and, as he has gotten older, he has lost all sense of how to conduct himself in public – whatever is in his head comes out of his mouth.
As we were all tucking into the spuds the conversation turned to the inevitable.
"So Tom, did you ever think you would see the day that players got paid for the privilege of representing their counties?" the old man shouts across to Tom, although it was clear this barb was not meant for him.
"What?" Tom roared back, "Grant Aid, Tom. The Donny buck here is a big backer of grant aid, pass the butter Katie love."
Tadgh smiled across the table. He was telling me not to rise to the bait but it was too late.
"And what is wrong with grant aid? e1500 da, it's hardly a wage," I spat back across the table.
He had achieved the reaction he wanted, now he was off on one.
"It is the principle that has been lost," he said.
"Go easy on that butter Matt," mum says to him. "You know what the doctor said about your cholesterol."
After a quick glance at mum he stopped with the butter and picked up the salt – stubborn is not the word for him.
He continued on his rant: "We might as well take Rule 11 and put it into the shredder. 'Tis a sad day for dis great association when a player picks up a cheque for playing our games. It would never have happened in my day."
"That man needs a good wash," Tom shouted.
We all looked at him, the old fellow was put off his stride. No-one knew what Tom was talking about but the bemused silence gave Tadgh his chance to stir things up, "Ah come on da. Good old rule 11 was put through the shredder years ago," he said.
"I'm sorry. Is that an egg chaser offering his opinion on matters to do with the greatest sporting organisation in Ireland?" said Da.
"Not that you like to admit it da, but the ban was lifted over 35 years ago and, besides, I am still a member of the GAA and as such have a right to air my views. I can say one thing at least rugby is not coming down with hypocrites."
"Hypocrites! Hypocrites! Don't start me on those rugby boys. Can't even get off their arse and build a stadium to play in. Instead they had to come begging to us.
"I don't even think you could call egg chasing a sport. I mean you tell me any other sport where kicking the ball out gets a round of applause."
To be fair the old man could argue when he got going. It was Tom, however, who added the next nugget to the conversation: "I hate that song too, every year it does my head in."
After more bemused looks, Tadgh returned us all to sane conversation.
"Da, with the greatest of respect, it is people like you who dealt the first blow to the amateur ethos of GAA.
"Five years ago you were on the committee when Ballyvogue decided to pay that cowboy from Tyrone £5000 on top of traveling expenses to take the senior team.
"Grant aid for the players is actually quite tame in comparison and in many ways it was inevitable that it was going to happen."
I rowed in quickly: "Exactly. Why should I bust a gut training and get nothing when it is inter-county football that makes the GAA its money.
"You know the score da, the county team pay the manager, the trainer, the physios, the doctor, the psychologist; everybody is making money off our backs so why should we be the ones getting nothing!"
He was fuming. You could see it on his face. He was against paying that manager five years ago but never spoke up and that annoys him.
He honestly never thought that players would get money for playing inter-county football and deep down he is hurt by the way things have gone. I know he is fierce disappointed that I am going to take the grant money, but what am I to do?
I mean, it is a joke that everyone makes money out of the GAA except the players, but at the same time I never really wanted to strike.
To be honest I don't know what I think about it all. I'm not gonna turn down a free cheque, but at the same time this thing has pissed a lot of people off and I am definitely not a greedy mercenary like some people are saying. I'm doing this column free of charge after all.
To be honest I am looking forward to the McKenna Cup starting and maybe people will talk about something else other than these grants.
Da was finishing the last morsel of his steak and was just about to start again when Tom shouted;
"I know it's effin Christmas, everyone knows its Christmas, but we don't need Sir what's-his-name telling us every damn minute."
The old man was about to lose it.
"What the hell are you on about Tom," he said. Tom looked up, "That Geldof eejit. He has all yous arguing. Why is he stickng his nose into the GAA?"
Da was open mouthed.
"Bob Geldof? We have not been talking about Bob Geldof Tom."
"Yes you have, you said that Donny was a big backer of Band Aid. Donny son, I will give you a few pound for those poor people in Africa, no problem, but I don't wanna listen to that bloody song?"
Everyone fought to contain the laughter.
that is actually the biggest pile of shit i have ever read, is this lad in primary school?
it is complete and utter shite. Gave it a chance last week but it is even worse this week.
It reads like something a P7 would write. utter shite. :'(
to think that the irish news actually gives up about a page for that garbage is just shocking.
'Everyone fought to contain the laughter.'
Everyone fought to contain the contents of their stomach, more like
God, youses are all very critical. The Irish News is just having a bit of fun... can you remember when that was ;)
Has to be part of the children's section ........
This is not only Puerile drivel, but is stage irishness at an insulting level. I am thinking of complaining to the Race Relations Board. The Irish News should cease publishing this nonsense immediately. It is neither literate or funny, it strives to attain the level of cringeworthy
And typos to boot:
Quote from: onlyonefut on December 19, 2007, 07:42:25 PM
Everyone fought to contain the laughter.
Everyone fought to contain the slaughter.
Same as the rest - gave it a chance last week.
Really, really bad. Someone must like it though. Worse than Cusack and that's saying something.
Pure shite and far too much of it.
the worst thing about it was I fcuked the irish news in the corner until about 15 minutes ago, when I read the joe kernan piece. this is maybe why Paddy Heaney gets paid for his thoughts, and, if there is a God, young Donny will never have to.
It is not funny and it is not clever. But it is racist in the stage iorish sense, and why the Irish News keeps publishing it is not so much a mystery as a sin.
Wonder is it a regualr columnist? Now that would be embarrassing. My guess is they're trying to knock off the very funny Ballybeag diaries and failing miserably(at the moment).
It's about as funny as cancer.
Don't get me started on Maeve Connolly, but thats for another thread!
This is the kind of drivel that is perpetuating the myth (paisleyites) that the GAA is a country bumpkin organisation, when it is the most progressive and forward thinking sport organisation on this Island bar none.
The Irish News should have a better sense of its readership 'mainly gaa people' than to print this back water craggy island type stuff. If it is a regualr columnist then they should have enough wit to know that this is insulting to GAA people and that it should be removed as soon as possible.
You can say it supposed to be fun and all this but I am yet to get a laugh and it has actually made me angry reading it.
Woo feel better now!
It is pretty poor. Have read the 2 weeks to date and both have bored me. It also seems that the same illustration is to take up half a page every week - how tight is that?!
I'd prefer to read an extra Heaney or Tierney column - these are generally more entertaining whilst still actually saying something worthwhile!
God this article is pure dung! Its not the sort of angle the IN goes for.doesnt suit them at at all
SUPERHANS!!!!!!!!
like some thing out of Dick and Dora, " Katie is only seven, 10 years younger than Aine" brilliant.
I'm a devil's advocate and unfortunately have an inate desire to see that both sides of a story get well represented.
But I can't argue with any of the sentiments here. This Donny rubbish should be withdrawn immediately, as it's embarrassing for all involved.
There are a few columnists in the IN that have an over inflated sense of their own importance, perhaps there is an ego out of control. Absolute horseshit.
Ah lads, think about poor wee Katie, aged 7 from Ballyvogue! ::)
I know the Irish News editor, Noel Doran. Nice enough fella but he wouldn't know humour if it beat him around the face with a wet dish cloth.
I can only assume that the Irish News is trying to ape the relative success of Ross O'Carroll Kelly. And failing. Miserably.
I tried to read it, but my life is short and precious. Quite possibly the worst muck that has ever been published.
Quote from: saffron sam2 on December 23, 2007, 08:43:33 PM
I can only assume that the Irish News is trying to ape the relative success of Ross O'Carroll Kelly. And failing. Miserably.
I tried to read it, but my life is short and precious. Quite possibly the worst muck that has ever been published.
So is it fair to say you have never read the news letter then?
Quote
Mum's friends like to call her a present from God. I don't know about that. All I know is that the old man had his own wee private visit to the hospital after she was born.
Oh God! I stopped reading there.
If armagh4sam posted it with a few spelling mistakes yous would think it was hilarious ::)
Pure dung so it is.
They're heavily promoting it too. I hope it isn't some young lad as the criticism is harsh.
Give it time and it might come good.
I have to admit I don't mind it too much.
Does that confirm I'm slightly mad? ??? ;D
Goodness but it is purile stuff and the 'top of the morningness' is very very poor. To be truthful though this is the latest misjudgement by the IN and it has to go. There was an Australian guy who worked there while he was going round the world (Todd R Nicholls) (Why do journos insist on the needless fecking initial?) and he is now back in Oz and has an article every week .. no need! pure irrelevant shite! Maeve Connolly? Now that was bad crap from NYC. Sometimes you can smell the egos coming off the pages of the Irish News ... etc
Cville, most of those who read Todd R Nicholls are under the impression that he is from New Zealand rather than Australia, which is a bit like mixing up Ireland and Britain, and that his column appears one a month rather than every week. Are we talking about the same person here ?
There's no doubt people in the IN read this forum as you see threads in here followed up. Maybe a few of their sports boys will pass on the universal derision they see on here to the editor ... it is utter, utter crap.
Like O'Neill, I would feel sorry about it if it was a youngster doing it, but at least he seems to be using a pseudonym. And as a young journalist it will help him to learn, unlike the kid out of BIFHE a couple of years ago who was doing work experience at the News Letter and they tasked him to cover a football game that was the back page lead ... the kid got the score wrong and it was printed :P
Ref the above ... the 'kid' covered a Linfield v Glentoran seconds' final and got the score wrong!!!! He said Linfield won 2-1 and described their imaginary goal in detail - what an imagination!!!! Don't know if yous are old enough to remember the magazine 'Far East' ... ? Well, in response to giving a quid a month to the 'Black Babies' we got this mag in school and the highlight was the inane phonetic ramblings aof a kid who had to thank us for the money etc.. I forget his name but it was absolute shite about a kid in Uganda ??? and he was "eturnally gratfool to us in Arelund" (Pudsy) ??? sorry to say that this Donny gut ranks up there in the crass and shiteness of that mag... an insult to the readership I think.....
It's there today again.
Heaney, I know you are reading this - PLEASE MAKE IT STOP, it's making my eyes bleed.
I read today's effort. I had to lie down after. Brain hurting.
Irish News This is sad
can anyone post todays "article"
i think todays article is the best so far. i thought the other two were horrible though
Quote from: time ticking away on December 27, 2007, 04:52:59 PM
i think todays article is the best so far. i thought the other two were horrible though
Come on Noel you can change it!
Donny's Diary (well, the best of the bits we can safely print)
Fitness a piece of cake... yum
Donny Doherty
Christmas is cancelled and it's time to turn fat into fit, buns into guns. Our talented (and shattered) new columnist, Donny Doherty, finds that when the going gets tough, it's, erm, tough to get going...
Saturday December 22 – 8:45pm
Just back in from the gym. A power weights session as our new trainer calls it. Lieutenant Jackie McCafferty is his name, all the way from Co Cork but now based just over the border in Finner Army Camp.
He looks like an average country priest. He wears his hair in an impeccable side parting and has a walk that is closer to a run, but when he explodes he is like the Sergeant Major from Full Metal Jacket.
He is not the sort of man that you can have the craic with. On his first night back in October he scared the life out of half the boys.
"Let me get a few things straight before we start," he told us.
"I do not care about football. It is the poor relation of hurling and that is all it will ever be."
Yes, he's an effin' hurling snob on top of everything.
"Skill wise, most of ye boys would not make the junior 'B' hurling team in Bantry.
"But I'm not worried about skill, I'm not worried about kicking points or making blocks. My job is to make ye fit. Fitter than ye have ever been before. And by the look of some of ye, (he had paused and stared straight at me), "I have a lot of work to do..."
Anyway, that was two months ago and, since then, a hamstring injury has meant I have hardly trained. Tonight was the first time I have done the weights session and tomorrow will be the first time I do a full session on the grass. Apparently they have been brutal so far, we will see.
Tonight's weights were a piece of cake though. If I keep going like this, I will have some serious guns come Paddy's Day.
Sunday December 23 – 7:55am
Sweet Jaysus, I can't lift my arms, my thighs are burning and every time I take a deep breath my chest feels like it's going into spasm.
Every part of me aches and training starts in less than an hour. I have a sense of impending dread in the pit of my stomach. I almost feel physically sick at the thought of what lies ahead of me.
Sunday December 23 – 12:30pm
Just home from training and I have never felt worse. It was brutal. At the start of the session, Lieutenant Jack told us that we had a 30 minute run at the end, but that was after 45 minutes of ball work first.
Well, the ball work was only 20 minutes old when I was wishing I had stayed in bed.
When you think of ball work, you normally think of nice little fist passing drills or some conditioned games. But no. Not in Lieutenant Jack's mind. He had something else up his sleeve:
"Stamina can be built up with the ball lads. And balls can be built up with hard work."
Twenty minutes later we were doing shuttles with the ball. There was four cones placed in groups of four at different intervals between the
14-yard line and the 50 in a line in front of us. Lieutenant Jack was barking out orders:
"OK boys. First cone and back to endline, third cone and endline, second cone and endline and fourth cone and endline."
The whistle blew.
Micheal had taken off like a hare. He's one of the fittest in the team and is always first up to do things in training. As I watched him gasp for air as he came back from the fourth cone, that sense of dread in my stomach returned.
If he was finding it tough, I knew it would kill me. By the time the shuttles were over I had been to four and back so often my head was spinning.
My legs were giving up, and hanging over me like a black thunder cloud was the thought that still to come was the 30-minute run.
As the balls were bundled into the nets, we were herded to the far corner of the pitch. 'In the name of Jaysus', I thought. Thirty minutes. The self-doubt started. After ten minutes, there were three clear packs.
The 'fit' boys, the 'middle of the road' boys' and the 'trying to stay perpendicular' boys. I was in the latter section. I just kept the head down and just tried to make it to the next corner. As the minutes ticked by, I started to get lapped and the gap between me and second last began to widen. Every time I passed Lieutenant Jack he had a little nugget of advice for me.
"That's a serious big ass you're carrying, young Doherty," and "Come on, Doherty. I hear ye were top scorer last year. Can ye imagine how much ye would have scored had ye been fit," were just two pieces of encouragement that I can remember. When the whistle finally blew, I fell to my knees. It's not that I was particularly out of breath; it was just that my body was broken.
Sitting here now, writing this, the body feels marginally better. An ice bath followed by a hot shower helped a little.
But the mind is seriously messed up. I have let myself go. Too much drink, too much crappy food has meant I am totally out of shape. But worse than that, I feel like a right royal screw-up. Two good games against dodgy opposition during the summer and I thought I was Trevor 'effin Giles.
I could see it in the eyes of my team-mates earlier: "Look at the state of Donny. The next big thing gone to pot already..."
Truth is, as I drove away from training, I felt like I had let them all down and it was – and is – a crap feeling. I have to get things back.
Sunday December 23 – 9:30pm
Four missed calls from the boys. They are out in Joyce's, at the Christmas draw, as are all my family. Me? I couldn't go. I would feel like too much of a fraud. I barely got through training this morning and the last thing I need is a feed of pints. No, the drink can wait. Time to train. Time to get fit. Time to play football.
'Time to train. Time to get fit. Time to play football.'
Time to get out of journalism...
Quote from: time ticking away on December 27, 2007, 04:52:59 PM
i think todays article is the best so far. i thought the other two were horrible though
Good man Donny, well said! Pity it's horsedung that is about as funny as a visit to a hospice.Time for a bit of 'hands up' 'bit of a misjudgement' 'patronising the readers' and 'shit!!!!!' ....
Quote from: red hander on December 27, 2007, 09:20:14 PM
'Time to train. Time to get fit. Time to play football.'
Time to get out of journalism...
'Time to train. Time to get fit. Time to play football.'
Feck me! after that line I could just imagine the drum roll that signals the end of Eastenders starting up... Doof, Doof Doof, Dood Doof Doof, Da Da Da etc!!!!!
Awful yet again - holidays from work means i have time to read all of the paper, including this.
Was different this week though (not just because they splashed out on a new cartoon - woopieee!) - it was hard to tell whether it abandoned the attempt at comedy (partly because initial attempts themselves weren't funny!) in favour of a serious 'diary'.
Still a waste of a page - hope it doesn't stick around once the season gets busy and there are proper stories and features to run.
Quote from: Maguire01 on December 28, 2007, 06:31:41 PM
Was different this week though (not just because they splashed out on a new cartoon - woopieee!) - it was hard to tell whether it abandoned the attempt at comedy (partly because initial attempts themselves weren't funny!) in favour of a serious 'diary'.
Spot on. Perhaps if it metamorphosised towards a serious diary it might sit better. Maybe it was that all along.
Complete dung
'Time to train. Time to get fit. Time to play football.'
its should be "a time to laugh a time to cry a time to live a time to die, with the emphasis on the die, let this tripe fade away and die
wats this all about, Who is he?
A fictional character i assume - supposedly a county player.
And if Finner's just across the county border from him, a Fermanagh County player ;)
biggest shit in the in news since neville rings tips
And there's plenty of shit comes out of Neville's Ring
I didn't finish reading this one. Someone PM me if he does anything interesting (like get dropped). I won't be checking out this thread anymore.
Neville Ring's 2 Irish naps win today at 9/4 & 7/4 (mr Aussie & Splurge) :D Red Hand's also won at 7/2
Backed none of them of course.
i see it's advertised in todays paper as being back in tomorrow
can hardly wait
Holy God, I have never read worse drivel in my life.
Quote from: Gold on January 01, 2008, 04:50:15 PM
i see it's advertised in todays paper as being back in tomorrow
can hardly wait
must set the alarm and get up early. Can it get get any worse? was the first few only scene setting and now we will be down to the nitty gritty, whatever that will be?
Quote from: Square Ball on January 01, 2008, 06:37:10 PM
Quote from: Gold on January 01, 2008, 04:50:15 PM
i see it's advertised in todays paper as being back in tomorrow
can hardly wait
must set the alarm and get up early. Can it get get any worse? was the first few only scene setting and now we will be down to the nitty gritty, whatever that will be?
well the wait was worth it!! more dung and drivel
I can see a chink of light in that it is resembling a serious diary of sorts with the odd humorous incident. Perhaps we'll be wetting ourselves with excitement as the Championship nears.......
Not worth the full inside back page yet though.
Judge for yourselves. It is getting so bad that it is becoming addictive.
Donny's Diary
By Donny Doherty
Friday December 28
8.34am:
Just back from a three-mile run.
I have to get fit and catch up with the rest of the boys. It took me over 30 minutes though – absolutely shocking.
Back to bed now. I'm wrecked.
Only nine days until we take on Tyrone in the McKenna Cup.
I mean, sweet Jayzuz, of all the teams for Drumbanna to get in the first match. The bearded one always has them up for it and their third 15 would beat us on most days.
Sunday December 29
3.14pm:
Just back in from county training and I can honestly say that I think I have heard it all now.
Our manager, Pearse Hanratty, got in a head doctor, or as he called himself, a 'sports psychologist'.
Dr Henry Brandon from Trinity College Dublin, has just given us a talk on the "importance of mental training".
"It may be December boys but it is never too early to start with a bit of metal training," Pearse had enthusiastically told us.
He was a bit of a legend in Drumbanna. Having played for the county for about 15 years in the 70s and 80s, he then built up a "business empire", as he liked to call it.
Pearse was seen as a bit of a local boy done good. He owned a pub, an estate agency and had last year set up a health spa with a state-of-the-art weights room and fitness centre.
He was in his second year as manager now and the pressure was on to deliver some real improvement.
Bringing in this 'sports psychologist' was just the latest part of his 'I will leave no stone unturned' campaign that he constantly talked about to any reporter that would listen.
"The doc has worked with the best of the best, so he is making an exception talking to you boys," Pearse had laughed.
He loved laughing at his own jokes.
The 'sports psychologist' just smiled a little and nodded.
Now, I'm no Einstein, but I'm not sure that implying that we are about as useful as an ashtray on a motorbike is the right way to build mental confidence, but maybe Pearse was going for the old reverse psychology.
Anyway, for the next hour this guy gave us a talk. He sounded good and he used big words and his powerpoint presentation had looked the part, but, in truth, he left most of us thinking, 'what the ****?'
He kept going on about negative thoughts and emotions.
"You have to get rid of those thoughts and emotions," he said with his arms flouncing about like a ballerina.
"You have a preconceived notion that because you play for Drumbanna you cannot win. It's ingrained in your psyche that you are second best and that is what we have to change.
"I have to find out what your PESTS are and we have to replace them with PETS."
There were more that a few confused looks exchanged between the players at this point.
The Doc sensed the confusion in the room and flicked his powerpoint to the next slide.
"PESTS stand for PErformance Sapping ThoughtS, gentlemen. While PETS stand for Performance Enhancing ThoughtS," he had said, pointing at the screen. "And for the rest of this year we are going to challenge and expel the former and replace them with the latter."
He then asked if anybody could give him an example of a PET and a pest that they frequently met.
The answers were not forthcoming.
Chins were buried deep in chests and eyes were fixed firmly to the floor.
Eventually, Dr Henry got tired of waiting and just picked a victim out.
He could not have picked worse.
Michael Hannigan was a giant of a man. He came from a little village in the very north of the county, sandwiched between the borders of Derry and Donegal.
He had been a loyal servant for over a decade and had owned the number six jersey for most of that time.
But he was not the sharpest tool in the box. In fact, he was the sort of guy that if you asked him to count his own fingers twice he would come up with two different answers.
"Just say what's in your head. One pet and one pest," Dr Henry encouraged.
There was an uncomfortable silence.
It had been obvious that Michael had not been listening to one word this man had been saying. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair and cleared his throat.
"Erm, I suppose a dog would be a pet and a rat would be a pest."
We all sniggered. What else could we do? Pearse was seething. The head Doc was plainly embarrassed.
The meeting did not last much longer but we were given some 'mental logs' to fill in. Every time we have a negative thought between now and the Tyrone game, we have to write it down in one column, while in another column we have to write down a positive thought to counteract it.
I hate this sort of rubbish to be honest but will give it a go.
January 1 2008
12.45am
Just back from the pub. I drove.
Everybody was in mighty form.
Ryan, my best mate, was bribing me all night to take a drink.
It's only the McKenna Cup, he kept arguing. Even the old man said 'a few will not hurt you'.
They really did not get it. It is only five days to go until the Tyrone game and and the sense of dread is building.
I'm not fit, I'm not sharp and I'm completely ring rusty.
I have just filled in my log and the negative column is bulging.
Tonight I put in the words 'up creek' and 'no paddle.' I could not find anything for the positive column.
I can hear the 'sports psychologist' now, "challenge those pests, Donny. Expel them."
Well, Doc, all I can say is that I need some amount of rat poison to get rid of mine...
Well at least anybody who works/is paid by an organisation employing more them 30 people will recognise the physcobabble meeting - its just like an episode of The Office Maybe I would support the Grants?payforplay if all recepients had to attend a meeting like that once a week!
Yeah, never mind that all the top athletes in the world use sports psychology to get themselves into a superior mental state before competing. Ignore all the evidence to suggest that this stuff actually enhances your performance.
Its just a load of 'shite' isn't it?
Embarrassing.
Quote from: Arthur_Friend on January 03, 2008, 08:33:06 AM
Yeah, never mind that all the top athletes in the world use sports psychology to get themselves into a superior mental state before competing. Ignore all the evidence to suggest that this stuff actually enhances your performance.
What evidence?
What top athletes?
Quote from: Arthur_Friend on January 03, 2008, 08:33:06 AM
Its just a load of 'shite' isn't it?
An awful lot of it is. Getting in the right frame of mind for a match does not need fancy definitions like sports psychology hanging off it - its simply pre-match preparation.
Some tube using big words and taking about karma and crap isn't gonna change the way you play - the manager/ocah driving you into the frame of mind of a bull is - with the opposition being the red-rag.
I think Donny's Diary is so bad that I've actually taken the time to write my own. I like to think I can spell. And I like to think I'm moderately more humourous than him. And that maybe, somewhere out there, someone in the Irish News is reading that NO-ONE likes it!!
THE REAL GRASSROOTS DIARY
The GAA. Most males think that it's the best thing since sliced bread. Some Protestants still think it's a branch of the IRA. Most don't.
The opinion of women with regards the Grab All Association*, however, depends on two things - their age and their legs. And they can be linked. 19-year-old women with tree-trunks for legs can love it provided their local ladies' side needs a goalkeeper, but mostly they think it's for posers and fairy boys (they can be right sometimes).
The 19-year-old who can confidently stride around in the hot-pants and know fine well that every single hot blooded male (EVERY one of them) will take their eyes off the action for a glance. And you know they love the attention because the girl wearing hot-pants in October at Magilligan is only after two things. One is admiration....I'll leave the other to your imagination. But it's not a chippy.
The 45-year-old mother of three can't make her mind up whether she likes it or not. She detests the fact that her husband hasn't spent a Sunday afternoon at home since Jim Bowen and the Bull got beer-swiggers to throw arrows at a board. But she loves the fact that it gives her something to do on a Sunday afternoon, since they stopped having sex when Jim Bowen went off the screen. Plus her son is at full-forward, but that's a minor detail.
But then that sums up the GAA nicely. We have room for the fancy dans, and the 19-year-old lookers and the 45-year-old mammy. The GAA is the organisation for family, friend and farmer (if he so pleases (I needed another thing starting with 'F' to make it work)).
And we need the women, otherwise who would make the tea.....I'm just yoking, ya big egg! While Camogie and ladies' football are, in the majority, ignored by the hierarchy of the GAA (who only open Croker for their finals with gritted teeth), they are there and they are loved. And not just the 19-year-old, hot-pants wearing ones (ok, so they're outta my league).
Many a family has been torn by rivalry and arguments. Not to the point of destruction, but at least to the point where the mention of football is off the radar because it will inevitably result in a boxing match. One of my over-riding memories of my underage football career was my neighbour lifting his own cousin and throwing him over the body, such was the rivalry. It didn't matter that they were related...it mattered that he was wearing the wrong colour of jersey.
When you're on the field, you don't see the face that looks remarkably like your own ('cos he's your cousin, stay with it), all you see is a football and a jersey and a championship medal at the end of it. If you have to take him out, you do it without thinking. Hell, you don't even see the 19-year-old in hot-p....you know the drill.
It's a wonderful organisation because it unites the same people it divides. There is no more fierce warrior than a Gael angered. But there is none more friendly than a Gael recognised. Friendships have grown up around every single one of us because of involvement with our games and yet rivalry remains an equally important part of our games because you need that hatred and anger and passion sometimes.
As much as we need the women.
*You know I'm right
Today's offering has the headline: WHAT'S THE BLOODY POINT?
Words are superfluous...
Donny's Diary - What's the bloody point?
Donny's Diary
By Donny Doherty
Saturday January 5
11.25pm
I have been trying to sleep for about an hour now, but no joy yet. There is a sick feeling in the the pit of my stomach. I have been keeping that log for the sports psychologist all week. The PEST (Performance Sapping Thoughts) column has been steadily filling up, while the PET (Performance Enhancing Thoughts) column has remained pretty bare.
No matter how much I tell myself that the game will go well or that I will produce the goods, there is a little voice inside me telling me to catch myself on. It's like the night before an exam when you have not looked at a book. You just know you're screwed.
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Sunday January 6
6.35pm
That was embarrassing. A 12-point thumping. 1-15 to 0-6. Tyrone just never took their foot off the pedal.
The stubbled one, Mickey Harte, complained last year that not letting university players tog out for their counties was an abuse of their human rights. Well, there was only one set of players getting abused out there today.
The prisoners in camp x-ray had an easier day than us.
Tyrone were faster, fitter, stronger and, as the match went on, they just kept piling on the misery.
As it was, only a few hundred from Drumbanna had made the journey to watch us, but, by the time the final whistle went, you could have fitted our supporters into a taxi to bring them home. It really was humiliating.
And me, well I notched four points but they were all from placed balls. In truth, I was a joke. I hardly slapped leather from open play.
At one stage I managed to get out in front, but slowed as the ball was coming to me, big mistake, Ciaran Gourley came from behind like a train to whip the ball from under my nose. He went by me that fast I think I caught pneumonia from his slipstream.
The final whistle was a welcome relief. As we all shook hands after the game, you could see it in the Tyrone boys' eyes that they were almost disappointed we didn't give them more of a game.
It was not that they felt sorry for us or were arrogant or anything like that, it was just that they are on a different level to us. Perhaps they just don't understand how we can be so bad, and, to be honest, neither do I.
It's times like this when you see how wide the gap is and you ask yourself what's the bloody point?
Needless to say, we got a real rollocking after the game.
We were kept in the dressing room for half-an-hour while Pearse read the riot act: "Twelve points, 12 points. What an effin shambles, lads. Pure and simple. If I wasn't the manager, I would have gone home early myself," he had roared, before kicking the contents of the medical kit all over the changing room.
He then finished his rant with a comment that hit particularly close to the bone: "Well, I hope to God that yon spectacle is enough to wake some of yous up. One shagging win in the Championship last year and yous think yous are the Kerry Golden Years. Time for a reality check, lads."
What made it sting more was that he was spot on. We got changed in silence. Players avoiding eye contact with each other, just wanting to get the hell out as quickly as possible.
That was my plan too, but Lt Jackie, our trainer, cornered me before I got a chance to get out the door.
My heart sank. The last thing I needed was somebody else highlighting how far off the pace I was.
But, to my shock, the cantankerous old so and so didn't have a go.
"That Manus boy is grease lighting, isn't he?" he asked me.
Manus Bell is our corner-forward. Only 20 and the quickest thing on two legs. I nodded and grunted an approval.
"He will win ball on any man in Ireland, but he couldn't hit a tiled floor with a bellyful of puke at the moment."
I was a bit taken aback. No need to slag him off, although he was right, he hadn't the feet to bless himself.
"He will come good. He just needs a bit of practice," I said.
Lt Jackie smiled: "And ye will get fitter, Donny. All ye need is more training and I can provide that. Don't let the head drop." He is a tough one to read.
Monday January 7
7.45am
Went out for a meal with Rose Anna last night. Wanted to forget about the match so we sloped off into town.
That's one thing about Rose Anna. She likes football, but is able to put it into perspective.
An hour into telling me about the troubles in Kenya and Pakistan and the plight of the almost extinct Ivory Billed Woodpecker and I had forgotten all about the game. That was until some 'supporter' decided to come over and tell me what he thought of my performance.
"Jaysus, young Doherty yous were brutal today. You were like a snail on crutches yourself. We won't win a game all year. Grants. I wouldn't give yous tuppence."
And then he was gone. He didn't stay for a chat. Wasn't interested in hearing my side. He just continued on his way, obviously happy to get the little dig in. I would say what I thought of people like him but it would not get printed.
Tuesday January 8
3.25pm
We got some serious flak in the local newspaper today.
'Is this the best Drumbanna has to offer?' the headline had asked.
Pearse was livid. The team got a group text message from him at nine in the morning: 'Critics are like eunuchs in a brothel,' it had read. 'They watch other people doing it, they know how to do it, but they can't do it themselves. Time to crawl out of the mire lads and leave the begrudgers behind.'
That's the thing about Pearse. He will let rip behind closed doors, but in public nobody has a go at his players.
When the final whistle went on Sunday I felt like I never wanted to put boots on again. Now things don't seem so bad. Everyone thinks we are useless anyway, so we might as well try and prove everyone wrong. Roll on tomorrow night.
So, it has evolved into a serious diary.
This really has no point to it. Im sure Paddy Heaney would agree
I suppose they are responding to the flak its received by putting less absolute drivel and shite psuedo-culchie jokes. Unfortunately they are unwilling to back down completely yet and remove it altogether.
Lets hope this shite is over before the championship begins.
Paddy, Kenny, Brendan and co must be so embarrased by this every week.
Time the Irish News caught themselves on......
I think Hawkins is the sports editor. Gourley should sue for the allegation that he spreads an inflammatory illness of the lung.
QuotePaddy, Kenny, Brendan and co must be so embarrased by this every week.
Brendan won't mind at all.
If it doesn't involve Newington, Cliftonville, the Republic or one of the McGourty's he'll not give a shite.
I noticed Joe Brolly had a wee dig at this rubbish in this week's GL!
cant wait for my weekly dose of donny tomorrow! ;)
For the love of God. Bad enough as it was, when we start to see your playing pure dung, the fact that 30 guys were eying her up, All of a sudden we were a team of Darren Anderton's and There was groin niggles and hamstring strains galore it's time to sink the ship. The IN prides itself on grammatical competence.
Will Simon Doyle exaggerate an article on this?
'The IN prides itself on grammatical competence.'
Dunno about that, you regularly see spelling mistakes in their headlines, let alone the copy
What an absolute pile of tripe. Joe Brolly also had a dig at it in Fridays Derry Journal. (Prob the same report?) Dont like to agree with him that often, but this time he's bang on the money...
Donny's Diary - All eyes on the cup (size) Donny's Diary
All eyes on the cup (size)
23/01/08
Saturday 20th January: 10:34pm
I was up in Belfast today seeing Rose-Anna and she dragged me around every clothes shop in the city.
Before, when she talked about Karen Millen, I thought it was a mate from college, but apparently not.
Warehouse, Oasis, Monsoon, Top Shop, I was in them all.
She wanted to get a new outfit for a friend's party she is going to tonight.
She pestered me about going to it too, but with training at nine tomorrow morning I didn't fancy it.
Going out to the Bot, staying sober all night and ending up stuck on some sofa in the Holylands listening to some drunken wingnut drone on about football at three in the morning is not my idea of a good night. No thank you.
I'm hardly getting to see Rose-Anna at all though.
Between her being in Belfast and us doing all this training, it's tough.
And that reminds me, I texted her two hours ago, but nothing back yet.
But back to the clothes shops.
Anyone know why the lingerie section is always down by the changing rooms?
Rose Anna takes 40 outfits in to try on and I'm left standing like a numbnut surrounded by knickers and bras.
I mean, where do you look? You can't wander to a different part of the shop because she has told you to stay close to the changing rooms.
Apparently she needs your opinion on all the different outfits even though you can bet your last penny that your opinion will not influence any possible purchasing decisions. �So where do you look?
And they have the heat turned right up in those shops too.
So there you are, winter coat and scarf on, with a big red face and the sweat rolling off you like a racehorse.
And the looks you get from the single girls are none too pleasant either.
I got one today from a really fit blonde that just cut me in two.
Out she tottered from the changing room, high heels, spray on jeans, tight little shirt and one of them little leather jackets.
She looked the part I have to say.
I gave her a little smile and a nod of the head and the filthy look that she shot back was horrific.
It was a mixture of disdain and disgust and made me feel like I was wearing a plastic mac and had just flashed her.
I mean, did she think I was there just to gawk at the wonderbras?
It was obvious I was waiting on someone. Wasn't it?
I tell you, by half five today, I was a broken man.
Shop after shop, outfit after outfit until eventually she got something that she liked.
Have to say she looked well in it too. A short little purple dress with matching shoes...
Still no reply from the text.
Sunday 21st January: 3.22pm
Great session this morning. Lt Jackie really knows his stuff.
At the start, we thought that he was a bit of a lunatic.
Thirty minute runs and all that ranting and raving threw us in the beginning, but now we are all really enjoying the training.
Apparently the 30-minute run is something he does with every new team he is involved in.
He says it is a way of weeding out those that do not have the balls to make it.
"Look here, lads. Talent will only bring ye so far," he said.
"Genius is one per cent inspiration and 99 per cent perspiration and it is the same with success in sport.
"If ye quit during a 30-minute run then you will quit when the going gets tough in the game. Simple.''
He is a bit of a philosopher, is our Lt Jackie.
Everything we did today was short and sharp and the ball was involved.
Don't get me wrong. It was tough and there were some killer drills with little time to recover, but it was enjoyable, and for Donny Doherty to be enjoying training is something of a miracle.
Monday 22nd January: 10:14pm
Oh what a difference a day makes. Went to club training tonight and what a monumental catastrophe.
We have a new manager in this year. An outside man from Derry and what an absolute balloon he is.
"Ah, the county star is making a little appearance, fellas. How are you, young Doherty?'' was how he greeted me when I walked in the door.
I had missed one training session and this was him getting a little dig in. But things got worse.
The actual training was terrible and utterly pointless.
Ten 800-metre runs with a mile run to finish. Not a ball in sight and what a waste of time.
I protested at one point and was told that if if I didn't like it I could take myself back to the county and enjoy my football with them and that he had no problem dropping me.
I was furious and should have walked.
Here was some boy who won an Intermediate Championship in Derry about five years ago and suddenly Ballyvogue are forking out a couple of hundred a quid a week for him.
I could save us a lot of money because after one session it's obvious that he doesn't know his rear end from his elbow.
He's insisting that I train every night with the club as it doesn't clash with county training. But it's going to be a disaster.
The club training is totally different to that of the county and is in fact counter-productive.
If I do what this clampet wants then I will be out four times a week training and a match or two at the weekend - and that's before you even think about the weights programme that we are doing with the county.
It's a joke.
And people wonder why players want a few pound when clowns like him are making a second living out of the GAA.
Monday 22nd January:
nearly midnight
Rose Anna eventually got her fingers working and texted back.
Just two days late.
"Sorry 4 not gettin bak sooner DD. Had a brill time on Sat. We met up wit a Stag party from Galway & had a gr8 nites craic. Went out 4 a few wee tipples y'day 2. I'm swamped with college work and will ring tomorrow. xx.''
What's that about? I really don't get women. Is she annoyed cos' I didn't go the party?
Is she trying to make me jealous? Or does she not give a damn?
Jaysus I don't know. Think I might be jealous though! But keep it to yourself...
And people wonder why players want a few pound when clowns like him are making a second living out of the GAA.
[/quote]
So Donny is pay-for-play now as well!
i tackled rose-anna in the bot on saturday night.. nice bit of gear.. ;D
Is it just me or is it starting to improve, slightly...
Jaysus, are you beginning to go soft Donagh?
not sure if its getting better but i would hate it to stop now for some reason! it the gaa roy of the rovers
i bet ya everyone reads it
With all this talk of pay-for-play, not getting to see the girlfriend, and an'outside man' managing the club, is it safe to assume that Peter Canavan writes this diary?
Quote from: Donagh on January 23, 2008, 04:51:56 PM
Is it just me or is it starting to improve, slightly...
Maybe it's that after Peter the Great's
magnum opus last week,
anything looks good in comparison.
QuoteGoing out to the Bot, staying sober all night and ending up stuck on some sofa in the Holylands listening to some drunken wingnut drone on about football at three in the morning is not my idea of a good night. No thank you.
Hateful aul bollux.
Quote from: TacadoirArdMhacha on January 23, 2008, 08:06:34 PM
QuoteGoing out to the Bot, staying sober all night and ending up stuck on some sofa in the Holylands listening to some drunken wingnut drone on about football at three in the morning is not my idea of a good night. No thank you.
Hateful aul bollux.
Just cos your idea of a good night involves gettin wrote aff at the Bot and pestering someone who can play a bit about how you could've been South Armagh's answer to Bomber Liston
I dunno about you lads but it's kinda growing on me. It's a bit like your average soap opera, you know it's bad but you want to know what's gonna happen next.
Will Donny flatten Ballyvogues new manager? Will he make the league panel for the county? Is Rose-Anna doin the dirt with T O'Hare?
Tune in next week...
I definitely think that its getting there.
When ye start a column like that, it can't be easy to get it right straight off the bat - but I think most can see a week-to-week improvement on it.
What about Donny this week the sly dog! I hope Rose-Anna starts slutting about with Ryan or some of the lads to get back at him
Late night French kiss only serves to add insult to injury
Donny's Diary
By Donny Doherty
30/01/08
Friday 10:34pm
Fuming. Club training again tonight and it's getting worse. The outside manager, that Derry clown Neil Crozier was at it again, Coco we have christened him.
He sent us on a few laps of the pitch for the warm-up and then fired us straight into the slog. Not even a hint of a stretch.
"Right lads. She's not going to be pretty tonight,'' he explained.
He had set out a pole in each of the four corners of the pitch and the object was to run a figure of eight around the four cones going at three-quarter pace between the long diagonal cones at either corner and then slowing it down to a jog between the shorter cones along the end line.
"How many are we doing?'' One of the boys asked.
"It's not how many, it's how long and for asking the question you've just got another five minutes,'' Coco smiled.
There was a chorus of groans but worse came when, after the silence returned, a voice from the back boomed: "So how long are we running for now?'
"Sweet suffering Jaysus Malcolm but you're some dodo," Ryan said.
Coco just laughed and told us five more.
Malcolm is our full-forward. At six foot six tall and about three foot wide he's as big as a gorilla.
He's as strong as a one too, just a pity he is not as smart as a gorilla.
If he were we would really be going somewhere!
The run lasted 40 minutes. Ridiculous.
The ground was that mucky it was like running through sticky tar. Only 16 out of 25 finished it.
Ryan was one of the early casualties.
He's still on the Atkins diet and is losing the weight but he seems more unfit than ever.
Apparently it's because he has no carbs in his system. His breath stinks too.
Me and Coco never spoke. I finished about fifth in the group.
I wanted to stop a few times. Not because of being wrecked but because of the sheer pointlessness of it all.
But stupid pride took over and I didn't want to give Coco the satisfaction of been able to go into one of his, 'oh look at the big county man rants'.
At least training tomorrow with the county will be more enjoyable.
Saturday evening - National Lottery on TV
I wish I had stopped that stupid run now. Tweaked my groin at county training this morning. We were doing a little speed agility work and as I was exploding off my right leg I just got this little jab.
Fair play to Lt Jackie he spotted my reaction straight away and told me to step out.
He went ballistic when I told him what I did last night. Totally lost the plot.
Started roaring about amateurs ruining all his hard work. He had a right go at me too.
Told me I had to choose which was more important, pleasing some fool who didn't know what he was talking about or being the best footballer I could be.
I know he's right but it's not that simple.
Ballyvogue is a very small town and there are no other players from the club on the county team.
If I don't train, not only will Coco be on my back but the lads will treat me differently.
That's just what happens with teams.
If you're not there all the time then you're not part of the craic and banter.
It's inevitable that you're seen as a little bit of an outsider when you swan back in for a game.
And to be fair: why should I swan back in and take someone's place who has been training away for a few months?
Sunday - early hours
Took myself into Jamestown tonight to cheer myself up. It's the county's biggest town and is always heaving with women and craic - no not that stuff, although apparently that's not too hard to find these days either.
So, it was pints all round for the boys and chat and chauffeuring duties for me.
The nightclub was packed and there was an outrageous amount of skirt in there.
We met an old school friend, Patrice Dubois. My God, I didn't think it was possible, but she's even better looking now.
Her father was French and her mother Indian and how she ended up living in little Drumbanna I don't know but, as Ryan said, when he clocked eyes on her, 'I would crawl over broken glass to sleep in her shadow'.
I ended up giving her a lift home and it turns out that the lovely Patrice is a big GAH fan which of course helped matters.
There are definitely some perks to being a county footballer and let no player tell you different.
Just look through the crowd during the Allstar awards if you don't believe me.
Got to her parents' house and she invited me in for coffee - and no, it wasn't like the movies, it really was just coffee.
We chatted for hours. She explained that her surname is French for woodcutter.
And she talked for what seemed like hours about her course in Trinity.
It is amazing how long a man will listen to ancient history and archaeology if he thinks there is something in it for him!
I know all about the pyramids and their alignment with the stars now. Anyway, I got a kiss and a mobile number.
Not a lot some might argue, but enough for now.
I'm not a complete sc**bag you know, but when I was driving home Rose-Anna did keep popping into my head.
Is this what guilt feels like?
But I think I'm safe enough - 'we are taking things easy,' her words not mine. That means we can see other people, right?
Monday - 7:35pm
Just back from some physio with the delectable Kelly. But if you think getting your groin rubbed by a beautiful brunette is one of the perks of being a county player then you would be wrong.
Jaysus but she got in deep.
"I have to break up the scar tissue, Donny, it will hurt but it will be good in the long run," she said.
It all sounded a bit technical to me but what I do know is that the pain had me hopping off the bed.
She thinks I will be OK for Sunday though.
Monday - just before midnight
Just got a text from Rose-Anna. 'Hope u enjoyed ur little French Kiss!!!'
Not much football in it this week, seems like Donny is going the way of a lot of young fella's :D
donny is a snake.. how did she find out though
Quote from: T O Hare on January 30, 2008, 02:31:44 PM
donny is a snake.. how did she find out though
I heard you told her in Belfast Tommy when you were trying to slip her one. you dirty dog !!!!!
Class
Never thought i would say this but Donny has been growing on me the past few weeks. Quite an enjoyable read now!
is it still going, i wanna know what happened between him and his girl after the encounter with the french bird!!!
Quote from: stpauls on March 26, 2008, 03:49:35 PM
is it still going, i wanna know what happened between him and his girl after the encounter with the french bird!!!
The long and short of it was he took the french bird and the other woman out on a date on the same night. After dinner with one he took the other to the cinema but was caught out and got slapped by the pair of them in full view of everyone!! If I was him i would take the money and head to the states.
after a terrible start its grown on me and i have to admit i am addicted..
He's decided to go to the States after coming to blows with Crozier the Derry blow-in club manager. Lot of folk are gonna be disappointed in him leaving pre-Championship, he's the county's free taker after all. But if he's not going to get any more club football I suppose he might as well go. Can't find this video of him getting bitch-slapped by the women on youtube unfortunately.
For anyone who hasn't seen today's:
It's Gonny Doherty
Donny's Diary
By Donny Doherty
26/03/08
Thursday – lunchtime
I arrived to work this morning to find a cardboard box in reception. "A Rose-Anna McKenna was here this morning Donny and left this for you.''
There was a definite hint of a smile when Maire, the receptionist, relayed the news...
I was like Brad Pitt in 'Se7en'; confused and a little scared.
And the carnage inside that box.
Poor Billy had been chopped to pieces. Now what had he ever done to deserve this?
I bought Billy for her when I was 15 for Valentine's Day and now this once-adored, precious little teddy bear lay decapitated and dismembered in the bottom of a box.
There were other things in there too.
Every card that I had given her cut into a thousand pieces, CDs were broken in half. Bottles of perfume had been emptied onto the rest of the box's contents.
And all the jewellery that I ever bought her – I think all of it anyway – had been put in an envelope and smashed to smithereens.
Thursday – Evening time
I think everybody in Drumbanna has the video clip of Rose-Anna and Patrice slapping me around the cinema car park at this stage.
Even my poor mum got it sent to her by Mrs Cleary... interfering old bag that she is. She probably took great pleasure in it.
Mum has barely spoken to me since. The old man thinks it's a blessing in disguise; more time for
football now, he says.
I've tried texting and ringing Rose-Anna but she won't even entertain me and when I called to the house I was chased by her old fella. He said he would castrate me if I came near the place again. I took his advice and stayed away. You don't want to mess with an angry vet.
Friday – latish
I'm still confused about this offer to go to the States.
I called into his pub to see Teddy McVeigh today. Just to talk it over with him but his reaction alone was enough to tell me that a lot of people would be disappointed in me if I went.
His face dropped when I told him about the offer.
"Ah Jaysus, Donny, don't tell me your thinking about it.''
"I am Teddy. I have never been over and sure, you're only young once.''
He shook his head.
"What would you want to be going out there for? Thing's haven't been this good with the county team in years Donny and sure if we're knocked out early you can go then.''
There was silence for a while.
"Is it the money or that tape that's doing the rounds that's making you think about it?''
There was no point in trying to bluff the man..
"Both.''
He nodded his head.
"The tape will be forgot about in a week. Trust me, and if you don't trust me on that trust me on this, money is not everything.''
He paused and took a drink from his pint of rock shandy and his face suddenly got a little serious.
"You're a Drumbanna footballer Donny and while other counties might laugh at us we are as proud as the next man about our football. Am I right or wrong?'
"Right Teddy.''
"And the dollars in the back pocket might feel good for a while but they'll run out soon.
"Stay Donny. Give it a rattle and sure if we only win a match or two in the backdoor isn't that progress? You can still go to the States then.''
He was right. Maybe I was just running away from things. It just felt easier to jump on the plane and go.
Sunday – Mid-afternoon
Well that makes my mind up. I'm off. I can't stay now that's for sure.
Me and Crozier had a fight today. And not a shouting match. No, I mean proper fisticuffs. Still not sure how it happened.
We had another stupid friendly game and got another almighty hammering.
I was last out of the shower and overheard him chatting to Tom Mac, one of his selectors from Ballyvogue, outside the changing rooms.
"That Tadgh Doherty boy was missing again. What's the story with him?
"What sort of a GAA man picks rugby over a game of football?''
Tadgh had missed the friendly cos the town's rugby team had a play-off to get into the league final.
To be fair it was a no-brainer. He had to play the rugby but I wasn't surprised that Crozier couldn't see that. He struggles to see the nose at the end of his face at times. But then he went too far.
"I think he is a bit of a waster to be honest and is not as good as all you Ballyvogue men think. If you ask me he hasn't got the guts for a fight.''
I just saw red. I came out roaring and shouting and calling him all the names of the day. He was taken aback at first but then the stubborn old mule dug his heels in and kept insulting Tadgh.
I just kept shouting. It was like all my frustrations were being let loose on this muppet.
"You stupid Derry numpty. What would you know about the good old GAA when you're bleeding us dry every week.
"Mercenary. And it's not like you're worth it. I'd rather have Tommy bleedin' Lyons managing me.''
I had hit a nerve and made it personal.
"Well, well Mr Doherty. You are a fine one to be talking this week of all weeks.
"At least I wouldn't let two women slap me around a car park.''
The red mist descended and I just remember swinging.
He swung back too. I got a few good skelps in before Tom separated us.
Crozier was roaring at me.
"You will never play under me again you wee %*&%$"
Fine by me.
Monday – almost midnight
Jaysus, but do I feel like the man who stole the collection box at mass.
I went to training tonight to tell Pearse and that I was for off. It went down like a lead balloon.
From the moment I said it I could tell that Lt Jackie was really ticked off. He just glared at me.
"And your mind is made up?'' Pearse had asked.
"Yeah, it's nothing to do with the county set-up. That's great.
"It's just everything else that is going on. I just need to get out. My life is in a bit of a mess''
Lt Jackie walked to the door opened it and turned round.
"Vince Lombardi said: 'The quality of a person's life is in direct proportion to their commitment to excellence, regardless of their chosen field of endeavour.'"
There was an uncomfortable silence before he spoke again.
"Now, the man talked some dung at times but I think he was spot on there Donny. Maybe there is a reason why you're running away. Maybe you're afraid to really give things a go.''
Now, of all the things said and done to me over the last few months I think that hurt the most.
I respected Lt Jackie and he has just called me a quitter.
Tuesday – Evening time.
Told them I was leaving at work today. The boss was great.
He had only given me the job because of the football so it wasn't like I was indispensable.
What Lt Jackie said is still getting to me though. I'm not a quitter, at least I don't think I am.
I patched up Billy last night and wrapped him up and left him at the front door of Rose-Anna's house this morning.
It's ok, her dad was at work.
She texted me: 'Thx. Mayb I was a bit rash cutting him up. Look after urself in da States. X'
I will try. And hopefully when I come back I can prove a few people wrong...
Quote from: T O Hare on March 26, 2008, 04:32:41 PM
after a terrible start its grown on me and i have to admit i am addicted..
likewise, actually look forward til it!
I reckon Rose-Anna might go to the states with him!
I'm the opposite. Biggest pile of dung ever.
I personally think it is the biggest load of horseshit
after a crap start it has grown on me too
i look forward to it and was thinking today that the Irish News keep it going for good
Its good and to be honest was the first thing i looked for and read at lunchtime today--better then reading quotes about "it will be a tough game, would be delighted to get out with a one point win"
Nice touch from Donny sewing up the Teddy again
Cant see Donny sticking it out in the states.
think he will come home and be a star in the championship and patch things up with rose-anna
I have to admit that todays was pretty funny.
It was a paradoy in ways to some of the current going ons in the world of GAA at present......
Donny to do a CJ??
Come on lads - what is going on. It is the biggest pile of rubbish ever and for it to appear on the sports pages is a joke. Is the piece written by an infant? I actually am beginning to despise young Donny but not as much as the twit who writes this stuff.
why's he of to the States?? surprised he's not off to play Aussie rules in an attempt to keep the storey up with current affairs. Also surprised the whole video issue wasnt more ala Darren Graham, caught on camera doing the horizontal hoola with the French wan
couple of questions, where is this club supposed to be based and does anyone know who writes this? Donny sound like your typical p***k to be honest, maybe thats what theyre going for. Cant believe the Irish News has descended to this drivel.
It sounds like a newspaper equivalent of that pathetic RTE attempt at a GAA soap some years ago, does anyone remmeber it? 'On Home Ground' i think it was called? Famous enough Irish actor played the Da.
Quote from: doire na raithe on March 27, 2008, 12:05:52 PM
couple of questions, where is this club supposed to be based and does anyone know who writes this? Donny sound like your typical p***k to be honest, maybe thats what theyre going for. Cant believe the Irish News has descended to this drivel.
It sounds like a newspaper equivalent of that pathetic RTE attempt at a GAA soap some years ago, does anyone remmeber it? 'On Home Ground' i think it was called? Famous enough Irish actor played the Da.
More like a GAA answer to Ross O'Carroll Kelly if you ask me?
Yeah I would agree - there is an idea there somewhere for a GAA equivalent to Ross O'Carroll Kelly but this is definately way off the mark. Absolutely cringeworthy. But I suppose I wouldn't have expected anything less from the Irish News.
Rav67, you must subscribe to the online Irish News over there do ya? What ways Keegan settlin in with the locals now?
Who do you think you are doire na reatha?
Only a frickin newbie coming on to the board shooting your mouth off about the greatest paper in our land (bar Gaelic Life)
You should be ashamed
Though I agree whole heartedly about your views on UUJ!!
A newbie I may seem, but i've been about this board many times. You a big Irish News fan then? Suppose you can't beat their racing tips, the nap wins everytime :D
Here's my Donny Doherty. A much grittier version :D Just to see if anyone can do it :D
September 30th 2007
"f**k it lads, Come on, lift it1" Ten minutes to go in the county senior football championship quarter final between Clara and Ferbane, and the Ferbane lads are hanging on, after seeing their 5 point half time lead whittled to 2 points, 1-9 to 1-7. 2 points, the most dangerous lead in gaelic football. One bad bounce or defensive error to knock the stuffing out of you again. Ferbane had been here before. Since dominating the Offaly football scene in the late '80s, it had been a prolonged period of bad luck, frustration, defections, narrow defeats and heartbreak, dotted with glimmers of sunlight in the form of 2 titles. 2 titles in 16 years. Not good enough, and everyone in the county knows it. None more so than the players and backroom team themselves.
"Pick up your man Johnny, he's running through the middle every f**king time!!". Captain of the team, Declan Grennan, roars, his frustration growing with every minute as he senses another evening of downing bitter pints in Gavin's bar in Ballycumber. He can see his teammates dropping their heads all around him, and he is desperate to lead them, to convince them that this can be done. An 18 year old prodigy when Ferbane won their last Dowling Cup, he was convinced there'd be glory days every year in the Green and White. His bitter experience tells him now how wrong he was, and at 28, he's sick of it.
He remembers vividly that sunny October day in 1997, the buzz from the crowd as they sat in the dressing room before taking the field to face Edenderry. The captain that day, Sean Moore, a veteran of the glory days, standing in the dressing room and roaring. "See that f**king jersey your wearing lads! See them colours! Edenderry are afraid of their shite of them colours, just like every other team in this county. Stand up, stick your chest out and sow it into them!!! Come on!!". Pumped up with pride and adrenaline, and feeling unbeatable Declan had torn out onto the field with an exhuberence only 18 year olds possess. 2 hours later, having scored 1-4 from play, he was the hero as the cup was presented to Sean on the steps of the stand. Glory days. It's so easy.
But it's not easy now. On this damp September Sunday, 10 years and 10 championship defeats removed from that last great day, Sean's speech wouldn't have worked. Clara don't fear the Green and White jersey anymore. Respect, possibly, but they don't believe they should fear it. How could they? The Ferbane lads themselves don't believe Clara, Rhode, Tullamore or anybody else truly fears it. The younger lads have an unspoken insecurity that they are not fit to follow those great men, and that insecurity gets fed every year with another defeat. Where are the stuck out chests now? All Declan can see is the old fear coming into the eyes of the young and not-so young lads. He's sure they can see the same thing when they look at him. Not a great leader, not a great man like the men of the 80s. He hates it. Hates the thought of it. It churns his stomach, but it's invading his thoughts when he needs them to be clear.
At centre forward, he feels isolated at times like this, when the game is going against them, when the midfield are struggling and the backs are starting to run out of steam. He'd love to get a ball, and tap over a settling point, but he can't get it. The game is passing him by at this stage, and he's more worried about the centre back storming up the field himself.
'Come on, make a change lads' he thinks to himself as he looks over at the sideline, but he knows there's nothing coming. A row in the camp over the summer has meant their county under 21 star of last year, Liam O'Reilly, is sitting sulking up in the stand, and the back room team, Martin Murphy, Timmy Dooley and Alan Kelly, are notoriously slow to trust any of the subs. Even a positional change on the field might help. 'Come on, do something for jaysus' sake'.
But the tide is swelling towards the Ferbane goals, and Davy Reynolds, a sharpshooter in the typical Clara mould, great when things are going well, finds himself unmarked 21 yards out. He cracks a shot but it comes off the crossbar. The greedy bastard. A point would have been another body blow, but he went for the knockout punch. That might come back to haunt them. Declan screams for the ball as Eamon Flynn comes out with it, but the inexperienced wing back panics under pressure and kicks it out over the sideline. The pressure is unrelenting, but there's only 6 minutes left now. Clara are beginning to panic themselves. Ronan Sweeney tries to score from the sideline, but it drifts harmlessly a good 10 yards wide. Now it's the Clara captain's turn to scream abuse and motivation in equal measure. A strange thought crosses Declan's mind. 'f**k it, we might hold out here'.
15 minutes later in the quiet, painful recesses of yet another beaten dressing room, Declan can't look at anybody. It's happened again. Clara WERE panicking. Ferbane WERE going to hold on, and then fate intervened for what felt like the 100th time since 1997. 2 minutes were left in the game, and Declan had narrowly failed to land the insurance point as his effort from 40 yards out tailed away at the end. It was a good effort, but not good enough. 'No harm Declan, that's as good as a score'. Except it wasn't. Not nearly as good as a score. Who thought of that stupid f**king expression? From the kickout, the Clara midfielder, big Brian Scully, caught it cleanly. His first catch all day, the bollox. He turned and belted a huge ball into the Ferbane square, one of them 'my ball your ball' ones and the full back, Kevin Dunne, and goalie, Declan Ryan left it to each other. Darragh Scully, Brian's brother, wasn't about to stand around gawping and on the second hop he half volleyed it to the net. You could almost see the last vestiges of believe being sucked out of the Ferbane team, as Dunner and Ryaner stood, open mouthed. Neither of them saying a word as Scully went off whooping with joy. "Heads UP Ferbane, there's still time" Declan boomed down. And he was right, there was time. Only there wasn't. When Scully's left foot met the bouncing ball, there might as well have been no time left at all. Ferbane were never going to come back. It was over. Ferbane knew it, Clara knew it. Everybody knew it.
The ref whistled up 4 minutes later, and the final score was Ferbane 1-9 Clara 2-7. 2 points. The most dangerous lead in gaelic football. You can sing it.
All around him in the dressing room, people were slowly milling around or taking showers. The smell of Lynx began to assail his nostrils and Declan nearly gagged. It wasn't the deodorant though, it was the nauseous feeling of yet another shoulda woulda game. Mickey Moran, the Clara manager came into the dressing room, mumbled a few words about hard luck, being back next year, and Ferbane being a great club. Same old rubbish every year. Same old bitter pills to swallow, handed out by a well meaning opposition manager. Same old muted applause, and Micky bolting for the sanctuary of his winning dressing room. Away from the stench of defeat.
Peter Foley, the club chairman comes over and slaps Declan on the back. 'Hard luck Dec, a sickener of a way to lose'. 'Yeah'. 'You can't blame yourself, you had a good game'. 'Doesn't matter Peter'. Leave me alone for fucks sake, but Peter is a good man, and this hurts him too. He's only trying to help. It's not helping though. Leave me alone. 'You'd better go out into the Clara lads and say a few words'. Ah Jaysus. He's right, of course he's right. It's a local rivalry, but they are good lads in the other dressing room. And Declan is captain, and is proud to be captain of Ferbane. He wants to do it right, right up to the last act. But it's hard to do. So hard to face them. 'Ah Peter, can you not do it?'. 'Come on lad, get up, I know it's tough, but we are Ferbane, and we do things right'. He's right. Declan knows he's right, so he takes a deep breath and stumbles the few yards next door, a few yards that might as well be a hundred miles given the difference between the atmospheres. He opens the door, and there is a few seconds where no-one sees him, and the Clara lads are in the midst of their celebrations. Laughing, joking, shouting, roaring. What Ferbane should be doing. 2 points, the most dangerous lead in gaelic football. "Lads, Lads, hush up for a second. Quiet!" roars Mickey Moran. All around the dressing room people slowly quieten down as they realise the vanquished are about to speak. Darragh Scully catches Declan's eye and nods. A mutual respect from their years of doing battle on the fields of Offaly, and together on the fields of Leinster and beyond, in the famous tricolour jersey.
Deep breath. Keep it short and together. "Lads, on behalf of the Ferbane lads next door, I'd like to congratulate you today. Ye stuck in to the end, and we weren't able to hold ye off. We're a very sick dressing room out there, but at least do us the honour of going on and winning the championship now. Let us be beaten by the county champions at least. Well done lads". Big applause, generous applause from the winners fades quickly as Declan shakes a few more hands and bolts for the quietness next door. The words he said were nice, and part of him means them, but the overriding emotion is one of apathy. Who cares if Clara win the championship or not? Ferbane won't give a shite if Clara win it. Who cares who the champions beat in a quarter final? It's all niceties, and doing the right thing, but who cares?
3 hours later, the first few lads start shifting from Gavin's to make the 7 miles further back home. Gavin's has always been the traditional stopping off point on the way to Ferbane from Tullamore. In Declan's youth, he always associated it with happiness, laughter and song ringing out as old John Paul was exhorted to fill the cup one more time. Since then, despite winning many more matches than he's lost, Declan associates it with evenings like this. Quiet. Mumbled conversations. Blame being apportioned by supporters as players mingle and try to drink away their sickness. Eventually the mood lifts, as Arthur does his trick, but it's a thin smokescreen. There's no joy here. Emptiness again. Bitter, bitter emptiness.
Big John Murray comes over, #24 on the panel, and #24 on every panel since he started playing football. Declan admires him for continuing to come along to every match, training session and meeting. He knows the only games he will play will be tournament games in Longford or Westmeath, when Ferbane can't round up 15 fit lads to head up there. John doesn't care, or doesn't seem to. He enjoys the camaraderie, the sense of togetherness, the craic and the banter. Declan enjoys it too. Or at least he used to. Now it's too much. And Big John is the last lad Declan wants to see.
"f**k it Dec, we were robbed. It's a scald to lose to them hoors."
"It's a scald to lose to anyone John"
"True, but sure look. Next year we'll take them all".
Maybe it was the look in Declan's eye, but John sensed now wasn't the time. He ambled on good naturedly as Declan took a mouthful of his pint. The bitter taste was easing, but the bitter feeling was not.
"Next year? Next year me hole".
That bad huh? Oh well, back to IT for me :D
Quote from: AZOffaly on March 27, 2008, 02:49:17 PM
That bad huh? Oh well, back to IT for me :D
Jazes, AZ, you're wasted at the oul' 'puhers. Class stuff, genuinely.
Excellent AZ. All your own work?
Why didn't the bollox come off the 40 and go lookin for the ball. captain me hole
AZ - far too much about football, that's not what any of us read Donny for! It's a soap opera to tie us over till the Neighbours repeat's on!
Quote from: doire na raithe on March 27, 2008, 12:21:50 PM
Rav67, you must subscribe to the online Irish News over there do ya? What ways Keegan settlin in with the locals now?
I do aye, you can access it for free the next day anyway so a bit of a waste of money! They still like Keegan, they blame the other managers for bringing in players that they think aren't committed. The general opinion is give him a chance to clear out the squad and bring in his own men and judge him on next season. I'd say they'll be thinking differently when they're just as shite next year though!
One doesnt like to intrude on private grief AZ.
Very cathartic writing that i'd say
Quote from: Uladh on March 27, 2008, 02:53:27 PM
Excellent AZ. All your own work?
Why didn't the bollox come off the 40 and go lookin for the ball. captain me hole
All my own work. The poor lad was paralysed with 'near winning' himself. Did you not read his tormented thoughts ? :D
QuoteOne doesnt like to intrude on private grief AZ.
Very cathartic writing that i'd say
Not my personal experience passedit, well at least not the specifics of it, but I think we all have been in that fecking losers dressingrom at some stage. Well maybe not BC1 :D
AZ
that was a million times better than that Donny shite, I've been in those dressing rooms and played those games, I think you've covered it pretty well. Plenty of truth in it. Especially the winning managers speech to the losing team, I suppose its good manners and all that but they all are the same. But good work AZ, i'd read more of that, whens the next episode?
Dec has to get over this loss. The next episode will probably be from December when the AGM comes around, and his appetite is severely tested. (If I bother :D)
AZ even I have felt that gut wrenching, hateful feeling of defeat but happily not too often ;D I hate the slaps on the back and "shure there always next year". I am drumming it into the mindset of BC junior the First that there is no such thing as next year and that is the talk of fecking losers!!!!! He may only be 9 but if he gets it right now it will always be with him. :P
Okay, now I'm shagged. No more for a while. I'm like Dec :D
Part 2. December 29th 2007.
"Pint of Guinness Dec?". "Cheers P". It's the normal Christmastime crowd around the old town as Declan saunters into the Cosy for a couple of pints on a cold, damp Saturday evening. Christmas has been good, and it was great to see the little fella beginning to understand who this 'Santy' fella is. The joys of real living. But since late September something has been nagging away at Declan. Is it over? Can he walk away? It's been his life for 22 years, and half his life since then. But every year that comes and goes makes the following February's mud baths seem less and less appetising.
"Well lads?", he sits down with his friends, Mel, Brendan and Declan Murphy. 3 long timers like himself, but they don't seem to have the same malaise as him. They're talking about tomorrow's AGM. Still as mad keen as they always are, and they weren't on the senior panel back in 1997. Sometimes he wonders how they keep going? And what's wrong with him?
"Well Dec, any craic?", Mel looks up at him as he sits down. They were more or less inseparable since they started national school at 5 years of age. For years they played in the forward line of various different teams, club and county, together and he is Declan's closest friend inside, or outside, football. Of course since they both got married, and started families, the leisure time together has gotten a little more infrequent, the dressing room and a couple of pints at the weekends when there's no game on is the extent of it now. Mel missed a year with a cruciate ligament injury, and since he came back he's insatiable for football. Maybe that's the trick? Take a year out? Declan has been very lucky with injuries, but there's a part of him that thinks he might be better off had he had just one long term one.
"No craic lads, what's the story?". "Just chatting about the AGM tomorrow", Brendan chimes in. "There's talk that the 3 amigos are stepping down. They say the lads aren't dedicated enough". Declan raises his eyebrows. He knew that Martin, Timmy and Alan were going to go. They had no choice really. Three years they'd been in charge and the closest Ferbane had come to reclaiming a championship was a semi-final replay defeat to Rhode in their first year. Last year was Edenderry in the semi final, and this year a further slip in the quarter final against Clara. What surprised him was their questioning of the lads dedication. That wasn't on, it wasn't true. Declan also felt that it was a backhanded insult to him. Had he, as captain, failed to rally the troops?
He'd beaten himself up about the last 10 minutes against Clara. He should have been able to raise the team, but he got caught up in the panic just like a 17 year old himself. But dedication? That wasn't on. "That's horseshite, the guts of them lads are training like dogs for the last few years. They're not abusing themselves drinking, and they're making most of the challenge matches and training sessions. That's bad form."
"Ara, sure they have to say something. They can't come out and say they're stepping down because they can't f**king write up a subs note for the ref". Everyone laughs, including Declan, as Murph puts his own spin on the situation. Sub goalie for about 5 years, he's mad to play outfield, but he's not good enough. No one has the heart to tell him, but his best chance of a game is if Declan Ryan heads off to America for a year. Murph might get a chance in goals then, but he's never going to score the winning point in a county final.
"So who will we go after?" All heads turn to Declan as if he knows the answer. Truth is he does on this one. The committee had asked his opinion of a well known trainer from Roscommon. Paddy Burke has just lead Clan na Gael to their 5th Roscommon championship in a row, and only a last minute point by Salthill had deprived them of another Connacht title. He's had intercounty experience as well, as he led Leitrim to an unlikely Connacht title back in 1999. It's the sort of appointment that Ferbane needs, but Declan is not as enthused as he should be. For a start, there's the money. The GAA has never been about money to Declan, or any of the other lads he knows, but money has started to come into the games, and the simple fact of the matter is you have to pay money to get quality. Declan feels uncomfortable with this, and he knows it's not a trivial amount being bandied about. The others wouldn't really care about the money, apart from Mel maybe, because they want the championship. The three lads weren't getting a penny, apart from Petrol money, and look what they did.
"There's talk about Paddy Burke, but keep that to yourselves". Low whistles all around. Mel looks a bit sceptical, but Murph and Brendan are delighted. '"About f**king time. We should have had an outside man in 5 years ago" says Brendan. "The lads around here are too far up their own holes about the 80s, or else are after falling out with everyone around the place. O'Reilly'll be back if we get in Paddy Burke". The conversation hums on around him, but Declan starts to tune out. He's heard it all before. The grumbling about the current manager, the hope for a big name appointment, the disappointment when it's yet another local that's put in place and the whole cycle beginning again. With sudden clarity, he realises that none of it matters. He doesn't have the hunger anymore. He genuinely doesn't give a shite. It is over.
He snaps out of his reverie as Mel asks him "What's up with you?". Staring at his long time comrade in arms, Declan sighs. "I'm finished".
One phrase.
A lifetime of meaning.
The two other lads burst out laughing. "Go away to f**k, ya eejit ya". But Mel doesn't laugh. Maybe Mel has been thinking something similar himself. Whatever the reason, he doesn't laugh. He knows. He could always tell on the field when Declan was thinking something. 'Telepathy' the Offaly Independent said. Maybe there was something to it. He knows.
"Seriously Dec?, Why?".
The other two lads stop laughing. They're not eejits either. They understand that Mel and Declan are on a different wavelength, and they've learned to respect it. Declan feels nauseous again. Not the same as the dressing room against Clara, but a different, more oppressive nausea. "I don't care anymore. We're sitting here talking about getting in a serious manager, and I'd be just as enthusiastic if were talking about getting in P Flynn from behind the bar there. I'm sick of it. Sick of the constant training, the sniping in the pubs, the hurlers on the ditch, everything. But most of all I'm sick to my f**king back teeth of listening to managers of other teams coming into our dressing room telling us how great we are, just after they've beaten us again.". Declan sits back. Drinks some of his pint. There's no laughing now. Even some of the lads at the table behind him have stopped talking. It's as if they're listening in. Typical. It'll be the gossip of the town tomorrow, especially if he doesn't go to the AGM.
"You're just pissed off. You'll snap out of it." Murph says "Sure you're only 28. How can you give up the club? We need you to be playing. We can't afford to lose anybody, and you were our f**king captain this year. What are you thinking?" Declan can see a glimmer of anger in Murph's eye, and he knows how he feels. Declan is angry at himself too, but anger cannot replace hunger. You either want it, and are willing to put yourself through it, or you are not. Anger is not going to cut it. Declan shrugs his shoulders. Brendan starts up. "Murph's right, Dec. You can't just walk away now. This new lad will give everyone a boost". "Bollox Brendan. We've had boosts before, and we still get sickened every year. I want to be able to go away for weekends, holidays, bring the little lad to Disneyland, whatever. I'm just sick of it."
Now the silence is like a blanket, lying over the table. Mel still hasn't spoken since he asked 'Why?'. He looks over at Declan. Whatever he sees seems to satisfy him, so he says: "Leave it lads. Maybe Dec is sick of it. Maybe he's only getting over September. Sure when the ground dries up, he'll be back. He never liked the f**king bog work anyway". The two lads laugh, and Declan shakes his head, smiling. Mel smiles too, but he knows there's something up. Maybe it's long term, maybe it's not. But something is seriously there.
At the end of the night, as P passes down collecting glasses, Mel and Declan say good luck to the two other lads, who've decided to head for Athlone for a late one and a disco. The two family men head for Supermacs for a bag of chips. Outside, Mel says, "Are you heading to the AGM tomorrow?". "No. I'm serious Mel.". "I know you are Dec, but sure say nothing for a while, see how you feel when training starts off.".
"Fair enough so." They shake hands, and Mel saunters off into the night towards his new built house. Declan looks at him go and, rolling the empty chip bag into an already overflowing bin, he starts for home. 'Is that really it?' are his last thoughts as he drifts off to a restless sleep.
Fair play AZ, keep 'er coming! Looking forward to the next one
Enjoyable read AZ, two in a flash, be careful you don't suffer from burnout yourself.
No fear. Quiet time today for a change :D
The difficult third album next... :P
Does anybody read the Irish Times? They do a piece on a Wednesday about a fictional Dublinbus driver who spends a lot of his time gambling, witha particular fondness for the horses. Different sport I know but its a good read - the sort of standard the likes of Donny Doherty aspires to but miserably fails to achieve.
Bloody brilliant AZ
Very good!
Send that stuff into the Irish News and give Donny Darko the boot.
Quote from: TacadoirArdMhacha on March 27, 2008, 06:20:33 PM
Does anybody read the Irish Times? They do a piece on a Wednesday about a fictional Dublinbus driver who spends a lot of his time gambling, witha particular fondness for the horses. Different sport I know but its a good read - the sort of standard the likes of Donny Doherty aspires to but miserably fails to achieve.
Really,
To me it is a waste of a column in the sports section. Would be nice if they actually did a bit more original reporting, rather than lifting from the English broadsheet and filling it with tripe like the above.
AZ maybe you should send that into the Irish News or wherever. You might end up on their payroll
No way juice. I believe in the amateur ethos of the gaaboard scribblers association, and this stance copper-fastens it as such. I receive a grant for being an elite work-dodger, and that is all I want.
Until somebody offers me money to write, then it's strike!, strike!, strike!
March 20th 2008.
"One, Two, Three, Four, sprint, sprint, sprint. FASTER FASTER.....and jog". Despite the biting cold, the sweat rolled off Mel's foreheard and dripped down the bridge of his nose as he slowed to a jog. Paddy Burke paced like caged tiger up and down in front of the line of 30 panting men, running on the spot, sweating and suffering. Each one saying the same thing to themselves. 'This better be f**king worth it in the summer'. The session had already gone on for an hour and a half, and they hadn't seen a ball that night. In fact they hadn't seen a ball since their first session of the year in early February. Not even a challenge match. Gym work, stamina work and now speed work. There hadn't been a session yet where someone hadn't disposed of an ill-advised late dinner into the long grass behind the goals on Ferbane's training pitch.
"And......walk. Keep Breathing lads, keep breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Deep breaths. Time your recovery in your head. Better than last week? Better than a fortnight ago? Keep breathing". Paddy Burke can sense their mood sometimes, even though he's only in the job a couple of months. Mel thinks it's probably what made him successful. He certainly understands the hunger in Ferbane for a county title, and he is going to use that hunger to drive them on in training, extract everything he can in these early, painful months. Mel has seen the training plan. As the new captain of the team, Paddy and the other selectors discussed it with him, so he could gee up the others if they started to flag. He knows the gym, and physical torture, will last for another while yet. But at least games and ball work will be introduced soon.
"Right lads. Good session tonight, great session. I'm walking along the line, looking at every one of ye, and ye are putting it in lads. Ye are putting it in, every man jack of ye. I know it's tough lads, and I know ye mightn't be used to training like this, but this is what it takes. This is how county teams train lads, and I promise ye, that within 3 months, ye'll be as fit as any county team in the country. All the diet plans, the individual weight programs, the slogging in the muck and shite down here now. It'll stand to ye lads, because ye are PUTTING IT IN. Ye have the football lads, but this fitness is what is going to stand to ye when the going gets tough later on in the year. There will be no more last minute goals beating ye, no more f**king collapses. No more. NO MORE."
Mel winces as a brief spasm of pain passes along his hamstring, but he hears what Paddy says. He knows what Paddy means, and he knows he is right. This time, this time will be different. Even the younger lads seem to be more 'cocky' in themselves. As long as that doesn't get out of hand, that's a good thing. Maybe them f**kers will learn to fear the jersey again alright.
"Right lads, I'm giving ye the Easter weekend off. Enjoy the weekend, but go easy on the beer. If you want, have a bit of a blow out, one night only, but don't dog it. If you dog it, the last two weeks are wasted. Take it easy, relax. Rest up and take it easy. But before ye go, warm down properly, and remember - ice baths for 5 minutes afterwards"
Cue the groans. "Ahhhh jaysus Paddy. Me balls will disappear altogether" roars Murph, and there's laughter all around, dispersing the groans. Ryaner has headed off to America for the year, so Murph is probably the new goalkeeper. Probably, because there hasn't been a game yet. But he should be in the drivers seat for the job, the only other candidate is the minor goalie, and Murph can see a big chance for himself. Mel is glad for him, and Murph is hyper ever since Ryaner came into the pub waving his Aer Lingus tickets around the place. Working on a golf course in Long Island or somewhere. He's not facing a f**king ice bath anyway, that's for sure.
Tony Dunne, the physical trainer, an Army man from Athlone with a strength and conditioning diploma as well, takes them through the meticulous warm down. Things are very different this year. There's diet sheets, a doctor on call to advise on medicines, physical trainer, a masseur and Paddy. And the f**king ice baths. Good for recovery they say. Will it be enough, or as Declan said, is it just another 'boost' that ends up in frustration, fall outs and failure? As he thinks this, Mel looks up and over at Declan. Sweating like a pig himself, and with a red face like a lifetime alcoholic. Declan's back too..........
'I should have f**king stayed away' Declan thinks to himself as Tony calls for the quad stretches. He had himself convinced that he was happy in his decision to walk away. Murph and Brendan occasionally pressed him to come back, but Mel hadn't pushed at all. He'd gone on holidays with Maire and Oisin to Disneyland for 2 weeks in January, and it was great. He hardly even thought about football. And he certainly wasn't thinking about diet, or dieticians. But when he returned, it was early February, and the days were just starting to stretch out a bit. It was no longer dark coming home from work, and it started.
It began with the gnawing thoughts that there was something missing. He found himself watching Fair City on TV, and finding it ridiculous. Máire saw it in him too, and she told him to go back. Máire was another who could read his moods and his thoughts like a book. She knew he was missing something alright. But was it really football? Every time he thought about returning, his mind went back to the Clara game, that sense of hopelessness and helplessness as it slipped away. And to other games, from other years, with the same sense of desolation as the ref blew the long whistle. He'd shake his head, say "I'm better off out of it" and settle down to watch the latest rubbish on the soaps or maybe catch a Premiership game on Sky Sports. Do them lads feel the same sickness when they lose? If they do, how do they keep going? he wondered to himself as the latest batch of 'superstars' strutted their stuff for the cameras, gold boots, earrings, bleached hair and all.
At the weekends he'd meet up with the lads in the Cosy, and get updated on the latest news from the camp, and the training under Paddy Burke. "Savage stuff". Looked like Murph was going to be the goalie, at least according to Murph. 2 or 3 of the minors looked like they might be pushing for a place this year, and one of them was a lethal goal poaching corner forward. That'd be handy. "Sure you'll come back Declan, you have to. It's different this year". Declan would shake his head, and call 4 more pints for the himself and the lads, although it was 3 pints of rock shandy and 1 Guinness. The odd man out.
It grew. It was like an itch, that couldn't be scratched. He found himself driving past the pitch on the way to the shop, timing it so that the lads would be out training, and he could see their shadows running, jumping and mingling crazily under the new floodlights which lit up the far training pitch like some glowing UFO that could be seen from anywhere in the town. The shouts and barks of Paddy Burke echoed off the houses as Declan drove slowly by, window down. But he always shook his head, sped up and left them behind. 'f**k it. It's crazy'.
Then it blossomed. One Friday evening in early March, Mel arrived at the door. On the way to training. Declan led him into the sitting room and turned off the television, where some young one in Fair City was bemoaning her lot in life. f**king eejits. "What's the craic, Mel? Will you have a cup of tea?" '"No, I'm grand. Listen I got a phone call from Paddy today". "Oh yeah?" Declan was curious, but didn't know why Mel was telling him this. "Begging me to come back is he?" he laughed. "No, he's not. Sure as far as Paddy Burke is concerned, you've never played for Ferbane". That hurt. That hurt Declan more than he expected. Why would Paddy Burke care about Declan Grennan, or the fact that he'd played for 10 years? Paddy wasn't from the place, and he was worrying about the lads that were there now. Not yesterday's heroes. It still hurt though. And something itched a little bit more. "Paddy's asking me to be captain". Mel wasn't smiling, but Declan knew he was delighted. Mel had never been captain of Ferbane before, and most of the other older lads had been. Most of them had lifted some sort of silverware too, either at underage or league levels. No senior championships though. Now was Mel's chance.
"Great stuff Mel, congratulations".
"Cheers Dec, but I'm not taking it.".
"What do you mean you're not taking it? You deserve it. Don't be a f**king eejit?".
"I'm the eejit? You're the one sitting up here looking at that shite on television."
"Ah come on..."
"Look. I'm not taking the captaincy, because I'm not interested in losing another championship, and if you stay here on your arse in front of Fair City, Ferbane will lose another championship. There's good lads training away down there, there's young lads coming through, but we need your experience as well. We need you, and I'm not going to be captain unless you come on down to training with me now."
"Ah Jaysus Mel, that's blackmail."
"It'd only be blackmail if you didn't want to do it. I know you want to come back, I know from the way you ask about training, and I know from talking to Máire. Don't be a stubborn bollox. Do you think the lads don't want you back or what? Get your gear and move your fat arse. You're a month behind the rest of us".
A month behind doesn't sound a lot, but by Jaysus those first two weeks were tough. The lads were delighted when he strolled in sheepishly behind Mel that first Friday night. "Jaysus, would you look at this!! What's wrong Dec? Do you need more free polo shirts for the golf or something? Did the boots fall off the nail?" The laughter rang out, and rolls of insulation tape, bandages and socks were thrown at him as he made his way to the same old corner of the dressing room. And despite the slagging, the sheepishness and uncomfortable realisation that he was carrying a few pints of Guinness, and a few American steaks that the lads weren't, Declan felt at ease for the first time in months. Paddy came over, shook him by the hand, and handed him a diet sheet. "I did this up for you, just in case" he said with a smirk. "Mel said I might need it. Good to see you, Declan, now get togged out, you have ground to make up".
The first two weeks were a nightmare. Declan was so sore after training he was barely fit to fall into bed, and he started snoring for the first time ever, as Máire playfully informed him. Some mornings he could hardly sit into the car, and the trips to Tescos for the fresh fruit and the individual trips to the gym, with Mel, Brendan and Murph, were still taking time to get used to. But gradually, slowly he was making up the ground. He'd always been naturally fit, he was lucky that way, and his body responded to the new regime, even if it took a while for the motor to warm up from 6 months idleness. But tonight was the first time he finished first in his group of 4 in the shuttle sprints. "10-20-40, sets of 3, 8 times" Paddy had barked. On his first week back, he'd puked after the 3rd time. Tonight he'd pipped Gerry Maloney on the line for first on the 8th set. It felt like winning an All Ireland.
Maybe this year will be different after all, he said as he headed into the shower room. He saw Joe Murray loading ice cubes into the 3 ice baths set up in the second dressing room. A shiver went up his back just looking at it. "It f**king better be".
Great reading AZ but you are going to get me the sack, I usually flick in and out of the board when I'm in work but this morning the boss is wondering why I have been spending 10 minutes at a time glued to the screen. He's getting suspicious!!
Brilliant stuff AZ, alot of that bring back some very good and bad memories; mostly good though!! Cant wait to see if all that training pays off ;D
az why dontyou write a fictional book about this sort of stuff. every one of us here identifies with all you have wrote there.
Quote from: behind the wire on March 28, 2008, 12:03:05 PM
az why dontyou write a fictional book about this sort of stuff. every one of us here identifies with all you have wrote there.
This is fiction :D
great stuff indeed.
you could just change the names in this bit and it could be most teams in Ireland
One, Two, Three, Four, sprint, sprint, sprint. FASTER FASTER.....and jog". Despite the biting cold, the sweat rolled off Mel's foreheard and dripped down the bridge of his nose as he slowed to a jog. Paddy Burke paced like caged tiger up and down in front of the line of 30 panting men, running on the spot, sweating and suffering. Each one saying the same thing to themselves. 'This better be f**king worth it in the summer'. The session had already gone on for an hour and a half, and they hadn't seen a ball that night. In fact they hadn't seen a ball since their first session of the year in early February. Not even a challenge match. Gym work, stamina work and now speed work. There hadn't been a session yet where someone hadn't disposed of an ill-advised late dinner into the long grass behind the goals on Ferbane's training pitch
brilliant stuff, makes for great reading. keep it coming AZ, better than that Donny Doherty shite any day! :D
In fairness that's excellent stuff particularly the second effort!
Not to put you under any pressure here AZ but perhaps it may be an idea to stick this into it's thread and have it as a stickie(I know some people here don't like stickies but the war is over, let it lie!) then instead of putting your self under pressure every day to fulfill our lust for nor doing work you could update it once a week until everyone becomes bored with it.
The last one has started the itch getting worse on me, tarining others is grand but there is nothing like that first shoulder charge in a ruck of players to get the blood flowing!
How many episodes do you think there'll be? :D I don't want to clutter the board with two fictional ramblings, especially since I'm no Tom Humphries!
Probably a good 10 parter.
Unless it's for set dancing I doubt it :D
Jesus, this is gaa-fiction, not pulp-fiction. I'd read yours as well though :D
OK. Part 4. One for the weekend. I'm fecking wrecked from it :D So much for a bit of work today...
June 22nd
"Right lads, it starts now. It starts here and now. All the work in the gym, all the puking in the field, all the challenge matches and all the minding yourselves was with this in mind. We can go out here today and leave it all in Ferbane, go home with our tails between our legs and tell each other how unlucky we were, or we can start this championship and make a statement. Ferbane are back, and we're back to stay". Mel's first championship captain's speech. No shouting and roaring, no banging balls off the walls, or fists thumping the tables. That will come later, if there's a chance.
The training had been fierce until the middle of May, and league games came and went. A 5 point defeat to Rhode, after two good wins away to Clara and Shamrocks, had been a hiccup, but generally speaking the morale was great in the camp. Declan could see the difference in a year, but was it enough? Lads were fit, keen and confident. But were they confident deep down in their stomachs? When the going got tough and that question would be answered, would it really be enough? Today was Shannonbridge, in Tullamore. First round of the county championship, and 4 games from the holy grail. But today was not for thinking about September or October, today was for thinking about Shannonbridge. Shannonbridge. Shannonbridge.
Shannonbridge, a name which engendered contempt from the ex-players in the crowd, who had never lost to Shannonbridge in probably 20 years of playing. But it was different now. A lot of the 'bridge lads had gone to school in Ferbane, and had proven themselves to be good footballers. They had two county men, JJ O'Brien and Paddy Kelly at centre forward and centre back respectively. Declan would be on Paddy, and he knew him well from school, and from other clashes, including an infamous county semi final. Shannonbridge had strolled to a 6 point win that day, shocking everybody in the county, apart from the two sets of players. These lads were serious, and had one of those batches that small clubs get every so often, with 6 or 7 good players all of a similar age backboning a very difficult championship side.
Declan reflected on all this as the smell of deep heat and ralgex wafted around the dressing room. He was confident, wasn't he? He knew the work had been done, Mel was right. Everything was 10 times better than last year, and a number of years before that, but was it good enough? The doubts were feeding his customary pre-match nerves, and making them as bad as they had ever been. Worse maybe.'Jaysus this is supposed to get easier as you get older'. Big John Murray was starting to supply the roaring in the dressing room. Still #24, and still as eager as ever. Declan had thought that this year's training would finally drive Big John out into the stand, but his love for the club, and for being involved, helped him stick it out, even if he wasn't quite as 'Big' John this May.
"Come on to f**k lads, we're very quiet. Come on and lift yourselves. Get stuck into these hoors from the first ball. No backing down, no going around them. Go through the f**kers. COME ON!!!!" Declan and Murph exchanged brief smiles as John started jumping around and thumping lads with shoulders. John worked on a farm with a lad from the 'bridge, and it would kill him to go in tomorrow morning as a beaten docket. It wouldn't be fun for anyone. But not this year. This year was different. Wasn't it?
Murph was as white as a sheet, and his usual wisecracks were missing. He had finally, after a good few frustrating years backing up Declan Ryan, and yearning for a chance to be a forward, made the first 15 as goalie. He'd done well too, although his kickouts weren't as good as Ryaners. He was accurate with them, and the half back line were slowly learning to give him a target. Over 35 yards he could land the ball on a sixpence, but he just wasn't able to kick the ball any further. He had surprised the lads though, because he had turned out to be a great shot stopper, barring one mistake against Rhode, and he also dominated the square when a ball was dropping in. 'If he'd been there against Clara last year, that ball would never have bounced in the square' Declan thought, before mentally giving himself a shake. 'Forget last year. Forget every other year. This is 2008. This is Shannonbridge, and this is f**king IT'. The door opened, and the sunlight streaming in met a mass of jostling, seething bodies running in the opposite direction. 'THIS IS IT'.
Mel turned to look up at the scoreboard. Ferbane 0-11 Shannonbridge 0-08. 10 minutes into the second half. It was going well, he thought to himself. Shannonbridge were their usual selves, making every ball a battle and hanging in when things were going poorly. Declan was going well, Paddy Kelly was switched off him after 25 minutes, and he had 4 points from play on the board at that stage. He'd been quieter since then, but was still winning a lot of ball. Mel had popped over a couple of frees, and Rory Molloy, the young corner forward had helped himself to a couple as well. It was tough going, but it would stand to them. At least, it would if they held on to win. It wouldn't be worth a shite if they lost. No second chances in the Offaly championship this year.
JJ O'Brien tapped over a free, and all of a sudden the Shannonbridge crowd seem energised by it. "Come on the 'Bridge. These lads are fucked. They've been shite since Sean Moore retired, and aren't getting any better now. COME ON THE BRIDGE". They say you can't hear the crowd at a match, but sometimes you can. An odd remark can slip through the buzz of background noise, and this one had. It sounded like Paddy Moore, a shopkeeper from Shannonbridge. He'd be all about you if you went into him for anything. Typical. Murph's kickout went to Eamon Flynn at wing back, and he found Declan with a good ball. Mel made his run from full forward, and Declan prepared to give the ball in, teaming up as they had done countless times before. "f**k you Paddy Moore" said Mel to himself, as he raced over towards the new stand.....
'Phew, that was a tough one'. Murph took a long slug out of his pint of Rock Shandy back in Gavin's. Declan nodded, and Mel replied. "Never any different with them lads. It'll stand to us though. A few of the other lads stood up today."
"And George Foreman here did the business as well" laughed Brendan, slapping Declan on the shoulder. The 'retirement' was still a running joke, and at this stage Declan had forgotten how many famous comeback artists he'd been compared to. f**k's sake, he'd only missed a month. 6 points was a good tally today, and he was happy with himself, but Shannonbridge had been as tough as he expected. JJ O'Brien had gotten himself sent off after Mel had put 3 points back between the teams, and that killed the 'bridge off. It wasn't exactly free-wheeling to the end line, but 2-14 to 0-10 would look more comfortable in the paper than it was on the field.
"We have to keep the feet on the ground. 10 points is a big win, but we were only 3 or 4 points a better team. Paddy was right afterwards."
Paddy had been cool in the dressing room after the game, and Declan liked it. There was no hullabaloo, and he told everyone to calm down. The warm down was done in front of the dressing room area, and when it was over he sent them to the showers, and straight home. "No drinking in Gavin's lads. Have a mineral. If Offaly lose next weekend, we'll be out on the 6th. Training on Tuesday night, a bit of ball work, and rubs for the weary. Well done lads, but this will mean f**k all if we don't keep going".
And then he was gone. Paddy never stuck around long, after training or a match. Some of the lads didn't like it, but Declan knew what he was thinking. He was an outsider, and that suited him better when difficult decisions had to be made. No point trying to buddy up to lads if you knew you were there to do a job. Paddy was already being tipped to take over in Roscommon, after they'd crashed out of the Connacht Championship, and Declan knew he would probably go. Good managers want to win All Irelands, and good managers from Roscommon would want to win titles with Roscommon, not Ferbane.
One year would probably be the limit of his involvement. If Ferbane were going to do it they better do it this year. So if it is different this year, is it enough?
az offaly who do we get in the next round, whats the odds on ferbane, will paddy stay if ferbane win the championship ? soo many questions ::)
Well at least ye'll all recognise the name when Seán Óg Ó'Ceallachain reads them out on Sunday nights :D
lovin this AZ
absolutely hooked
great great stuff
No bother, in Ballycumber, between Clara and Ferbane. Just after you come over the bridge into the village, it's on the left. Gavin's Corner House :D Auld John Paul is dead now, RIP, but the son Paul is running it. :D
http://www.ratemypub.ie/pub.php?county=Offaly&pub=Gavin-Paul (http://www.ratemypub.ie/pub.php?county=Offaly&pub=Gavin-Paul)
And the famous Cosy.
(http://images1.daft.ie/photos/images/commercial/10000/11786/id_92139w_0h_0(400x400)%5B1%5D.jpeg)
Tempted to give the football another go myself after reading that.
AZ, any chance of part 5 soon?
I'm busy at work at the moment, but part 5 will be on the way soon. We've only just qualified for the quarter final. Part 5 might be the last part though, if Clara repeat the dose from last year :D
Declan Grennan - Episode 5.
***************************
August 24th 2008.
1 p.m.
9 weeks. 9 f**king weeks. Paddy Burke shook his head. Offaly hadn't lost their next championship game, nor the one after that. In fact a surprise run to the Leinster final, and the Qualifier match, coupled with hurling 'weekends' and other postponements had dragged the quarter final out to the 24th of August. 9 full weeks since the promising beginning against Shannonbridge. 9 weeks. It might as well have been a f**king new season. How were you supposed to prepare lads to peak in June and then come back to the boil in August? All the momentum was gone. Ridiculous bullshit in a county like Offaly. It's not like they weren't used to having dual players or dealing with county teams. Ridiculous.
Training had suffered. He didn't want to admit it to himself, but Paddy secretly feared he had lost impetous and urgency. The players had settled into a comfort zone, and despite the odd mid week league game, which had been mixed, there was a danger that the focus would be lost. A weekend away in Cork, and a challenge with Ballincollig, had helped dispel the boredom and routine a little, but when you never really knew what weekend you were actually aiming for, it was very hard to get their heads right. In truth, he only had 2 weeks to prepare for the quarter final after Offaly finally ended their interest in the Qualifiers, and the hurlers were also consigned to the championship scrapheap. 2 weeks, after 7 weeks of false starts, 'in case' training and last minute challenge matches. Ridiculous. This club management lark could really wear you out. The approaches from Roscommon were looking much more appetising at this stage.
And now Clara were on the horizon. The team that had knocked Ferbane out at this stage last year. Paddy had seen the video of that game, and had seen Clara in action against Tubber in the first round. Ferbane had also had a good win in the league in Clara, but that was back in April. Might as well have been April 1990. Stupid f**king fixtures. So now it was Clara, and as Paddy drove past the County Hospital in Tullamore, and got his first glimpse of the new stand in O'Connor Park, an uncomfortable uneasiness entered his head. Were Ferbane ready? Or had they lost too much momentum? f**king Fixtures. f**king County team....
Declan checked his gear bag one last time. Two pairs of boots, one moulded, one screw in. Two pairs of socks, plus his 'lucky' ankle socks which he wore inside the Ferbane pair. Two shorts, a warm up jersey and tracksuit. Gloves, but they'd not be needed today, tape for the ankles and wrists, and the ubiquitous 'Deep Heat'. He wasn't sure if Deep Heat did anything other than burn the balls off you if you put it on wrong, but the smell comforted him, and it was part of his routine. Routine was important on days like this to keep you calm.
It had been a funny couple of months. Paddy had tried his best, but lads' minds had wandered, as every weekend was like a watching brief. 'If Offaly lose, we'll be out in 2 weeks'. Rumours spread like wildfire. 'The county board are going to try and run off the quarter finals on the Saturday of the hurling qualifiers'. It was all rubbish. Declan had been involved in enough Offaly teams over the years, until marriage, kids and work made it totally unrealistic for him, and he knew there was very little that could be done. The county teams needed the players fit, and that was that. It was a pain in the arse for the clubs though, and with Liam O'Reilly and young Rory Molloy after getting the call up to the seniors, they were missing 80% of the training and challenges for Ferbane. He'd been in that boat himself, but it was still very frustrating for the other lads. With all the uncertainty about fixtures fellas were also getting grief at home and from girlfriends about postponed holidays, being unable to book specific dates and the like. Sometimes you wonder if it's worth the hassle. Still, if they lost today they could all f**k off to Honolulu in the morning and it would be 100 times worse feeling than frustration or irritation. There's a terrible certainty and finality in defeat, and Declan would prefer another 6 months of not knowing when the game was on than experiencing that again. But today it was. Today and Clara...
Declan always drove in from the town side of Tullamore, up by the Distillery, because he had always done so. The other lads used to slag him about it, but Declan didn't care. He'd gone that way in the car with his father when Ferbane were winning county finals like they were picking apples, and he'd continue going that way until they won another one. He knew his father would be following along on the same road in an hour or so. Traditions or superstitions? Hard to tell, and he didn't really care to question himself on it. More important things to think of today. He glanced over at Mel in the passenger seat. Mel was always quiet on the way into Tullamore for big games, and Declan knew what he was thinking. Not today, not Clara, not again....
Mel stared out the window of Dec's car as they coasted in towards Tullamore town centre. He always slagged Dec about not taking the new ring road. It added about 10 minutes in traffic to the journey, but he knew Dec drew comfort from it. Truth be told he took a little comfort himself. Same routine every time. Dec driving, Mel's wife bringing Dec's wife ,and now his kid, later. Consistency, routine, tradition. Definitely comforting when your mind was racing with negative thoughts, and you were trying to tell them to shut up. The sports psychologist Paddy had invited in to chat to the lads had been great, even if most of them had been sceptical to begin with. Visualisation, he had told them, was a crucial part of your preparation. As crucial as all the sprints, weights, diet and practice games. Visualise success, drive out the negative thoughts, and see the game panning out in your mind the way you want it to. It made sense to Mel, but it was getting hard to do as the stand began to appear in the distance. He closed his eyes and started picturing lifting the Dowling Cup. Jaysus what that would mean......
Dec parked the car, and himself and Mel hopped out and took the gear bags from the boot. Ferbane 2004 was Declan's. The last county final appearance. Mel's was a more modern Offaly bag. Dec liked to use the club bag for club games, and county bag for county games or, more recently, Astroturf soccer. Superstition or Tradition? Who cares? As the car beeped the car alarm on, the two friends crossed the road into the players' entrance. Dec took a deep intake of breath and blinked away the sunshine. Here we go again......
4.47pm
His hands in his head, Dec stared at the dressing room floor. He couldn't believe it. What had happened to him? He didn't know what to feel. Only once in his life had he ever even been booked before, and now he was sitting staring at the floor, the image of Brian O'Leary holding up a red card an indelible image, burned into the back of his brain. What the f**k had happened?
He replayed the incident again. 10 minutes into the second half. Ferbane had started slowly, but Rory Molloy, Mel and Declan had slowly started to motor, and by 20 minutes in Ferbane led 0-05 to 0-02. Midfield was in control, and again Brian Scully had been anonymous, and Darragh was being held well by Liam O'Reilly at centre back. Murph's kickouts had been placed expertly, and Eamon Flynn, O'Reilly and Mark Nugent had dominated the half back line. It was all going nicely.
Half time came and went, and with Paddy's words about driving home, rather than hanging on, ringing in their ears, Ferbane had stretched the lead to 1-07 to 0-04 when Declan looked up at the scoreboard with 10 minutes gone in the second half. It was all going well, this year WAS different. Clara were launching another attack, and out of the corner of his eye Dec saw a scuffle breaking out between Rory Molloy and Tony Maher, the Clara corner back. Declan shouted over at Rory to let it go, and concentrate, when Maher, a 34 year old veteran, threw a punch and Molloy went down.
All the frustrations from last year, and the 9 years before that, flashed in front of Declan's eyes and they seemed to take over his entire body. He raced over, and rugby tackled Maher to the ground. The pair wrestled and rolled around the dusty ground until they were separated. Declan stood up, breathing heavily. 'You're nothing only a cowardly p***k Tony. Picking on a f**king young lad'. 'Go f**k yourself Grennan'. Nothing to it. Handbags. O'Leary sauntered over, the big fat bastard, and had a quick chat with his umpires.
'Ferbane number 11, Clara number 4. Over here'. He called over Declan and Tony Maher.
Said nothing.
Notebook out.
Declan and Tony shaking hands. 'No hassle ref, just a scuffle'.
Then what seemed like an eternity as O'Leary reached for his pocket. The BACK pocket?!? Surely not!
'Off ye go lads. None of that on my pitch'.
Declan stood open mouthed as Tony Maher launched a tirade against the Ref. Mel came over and led him away as it sank in. Sent Off. First time ever. For f**k's sake.
Mel muttered some consoling words as he went off, but Dec never heard a syllable. Sent Off? I've never f**king hit anybody. Out of the corner of his eye, he barely registered Tony Maher flinging his boots against the Clara dugout, but as he sat down with the subs, he thought he could see his father shaking his head.
'Good enough for you Grennan, you tr**p'. One of the heroes in the crowd shouted out. 'f**k off with yourself. That man never threw a dirty belt in his life!' The Ferbane riposte. Worthless. Pointless. Helpless.
Sent Off?
The game had tailed off to an anti climax after the sending off incident, and Clara never really mounted a challenge. 1-12 to 0-08 was the final score. Declan tried his best to lift himself and roar on the lads, and he cheered with the rest of them when the final whistle went, and shook hands with Tony Maher ('Sorry about that Dec. O'Leary's only a useless bastard') and some of the other Clara lads, but it was a blur, and now he found himself here. Still togged out. Staring into his bag as if the answers were to be found there. What the f**k had happened him?
Brendan came over, he'd had a solid game in at wing forward himself, and was delighted with himself. 'Great stuff Dec, them bastards won't be shouting and roaring today'. Dec smiled half heartedly, and gathered his stuff for the shower. 'Well done Brendan, well played today'.
From the shower he listened to Mickey Moran wishing them well on behalf of Clara, and to keep it going for the rest of the year. 'f**k' thought Declan, 'The semi final would probably be in two weeks time'. He dried himself off quickly and went outside to find Brian O'Leary, and have a quiet word. As he left the dressing room, he met Paddy Burke coming in, and Paddy led him away by the arm, into a quiet corner.
'Striking Declan'.
'What?'
'He's reporting you for striking. The umpire told him you hit Maher a box on the ground'.
'Ah for f**k's sake Paddy, it was harmless. We rolled around, no one hit anyone'.
'I know Dec, that's what I saw as well, but that's what's going in the report'.
Dec shook his head, and said nothing. Striking. That's an automatic one month suspension. And at least 1 game. f**king stupid, blind umpire. Striking. Bullshite. The semi final was gone.
He gathered himself, and went out to meet Máire and Oisin, for the drive back to Gavin's and beyond. It was a great result for Ferbane today, and he had to remember that, but his head was spinning too. Red Card. Striking. One Month. This year was different alright. Very different.
why was there no donny this week?
i take it we are going to appeal dec`s sending of to the dra, is logan available
Quote from: T O Hare on April 03, 2008, 01:47:35 PM
why was there no donny this week?
A wee note at the bottom of Brendan Crossan's article yesterday explained that he was in USA and might not return :o
f**king c***ts, it was actually getting good :( it was addictive
I was expecting him to hit the winning goal in the last minute against Clara - too obvious I suppose!
I presume they lost the challenge match in Cork and enjoyed an uplifting talk from the home management about the need to believe ye can do it and how great it would be for both clubs to meet in Croke Park on the 17th March, and then went out for a lash of pints in Tracey's ;)
You'll be back for the final az. at least we know you aren't basing the dec charachter on bc...
Quote from: AZOffaly on April 03, 2008, 01:23:23 PM
That man never threw a dirty belt in his life!'
Quote from: brokencrossbar1 on April 03, 2008, 02:46:21 PM
I presume they lost the challenge match in Cork and enjoyed an uplifting talk from the home management about the need to believe ye can do it and how great it would be for both clubs to meet in Croke Park on the 17th March, and then went out for a lash of pints in Tracey's ;)
They actually won that challenge match in Cork. Ballincollig were too beat up and bruised from their own training, although the big full forward caused problems, slow and all as he was. The rest is correct though :D
Quote
You'll be back for the final az. at least we know you aren't basing the dec charachter on bc...
You mean Dec will be back. And Ferbane are taking nothing for granted. It's Shamrocks in the semi final.
Quote from: T O Hare on April 03, 2008, 02:00:40 PM
f**king c***ts, it was actually getting good :( it was addictive
Was it really? I gave up after 3 weeks - it just wasn't worth the effort.
Hope Donny scraps the States--i need my fix
Ferbane Abu!!
Quote from: Maguire01 on April 03, 2008, 06:42:52 PM
Was it really? I gave up after 3 weeks - it just wasn't worth the effort.
Gave up after 2.
Any more AZ?
Oh the anticipation is killing me.
Probably tomorrow or Thursday.
cant hardly wait.....
AZ, checked the DRA site no judgement yet in the Ferbane appeal over the red card :-\ what`s happening ?
I'm busy at work. Each one of these epistles takes a good hour to write, because I play the dialogue out in my head, from experience. I need a good run at it. :D
Episode 6 (I think)
*************************
September 2nd 2008
7pm
"Welcome to Off the ball, the Sports show on Newstalk 106 to 108 FM", Declan turned the radio up to listen to his favourite radio show as he drove steadily along the Tullamore road on a nice sunny evening. Tractors and Trailors, Combines and Balers were littered along the road as the farmers made the best of the unusually good summer, oblivious to Declan and his mission this evening. Peter Foley was meeting him inside in the GAA Centre, where he was to appear before the Disciplinary committee. Peter had been confident when Declan talked to him on the phone, he was hopeful that they could get the sending off reversed, but Declan had his doubts. You had to try, the semi final against Shamrocks was on Sunday in Tullamore, but the video of the game hadn't shown anything. By the time the camera man had panned back towards the Clara goal, all you could see was flailing legs, other players jumping in, and a cloud of dust. Declan didn't think that was going to help, and they had decided not to introduce it.
As he drove along, half listening to the latest news about the upcoming All Ireland hurling final, Declan cast his mind over the past year. Paddy had definitely brought Ferbane on a good bit, and there was genuine confidence in the camp now. He'd done the best he could with the ridiculous on again – off again nature of the championship, and they were out the other side of the main fixtures' disruption, so it should have been plain sailing from here on out, preparation wise. But then a moment of madness against Clara had introduced yet another element of uncertainty, disruption and upset. Declan felt sick at the thought that his moment of sheer brainlessness would cost Ferbane another year of what ifs, so nears and frustration.
He'd not done anything more serious than a bookable offence really, there'd been no punches thrown, or anything like that. At the same time, he knew he'd let the team down. He'd gotten involved in a stupid incident, and while it didn't affect the result of the Clara game, he knew it would be a distraction, at least, against Shamrocks. Not the sort of leadership a great leader would be showing, but at least he wasn't captain this year. He was one of the leaders in the dressing room though, and he had let them down. Badly.
Peter Foley pulled into the car park at the GAA Centre, and saw Declan's car already there. Declan was a great lad, totally committed to the club even when he was with the county team, and was always punctual and reliable. The sort of man that GAA Clubs up and down the country needed to make it the great organisation it was. But now the self same organisation was going to punish one of it's good guys, unfairly. Peter had tried to exude confidence to Declan, but he knew they were on very shaky ground. Declan was well respected throughout the county, and his disciplinary record was excellent, but it would be very unusual for an incident like this to be resolved in the player's favour. But they had to try, the semi final was going to be a tough game anyway, and without Declan it might be too much for Ferbane. This was Peter's 5th year as chairman, and a county final would be a fantastic way for him to finish up his term. He thought they were on the right road, and now this. f**king Brian O'Leary, and f**king Tony Maher as well. And f**king Declan too, he thought, what had gotten into him?
Tony Maher's car pulled into the GAA Centre as well, and Declan was surprised to see him there. Clara were out, and there'd only be one or two league games in the 4 weeks. Hardy worth Tony driving down from Dublin, where he worked, to try and get off especially on an open and shut case like this appeared to be.
'Well Tony? Are you up tonight as well? '.
'Yeah Dec, I said I'd come down so we were all singing off the same hymn sheet. There's no way we should have got the line for striking, and there's no way you should miss a semi final because of it.'
Declan realised what Tony was doing, and he was taken aback. Tony was adding weight to the defence, and if both he and Dec said the same thing, maybe there was a chance after all.
'Jaysus Tony, you didn't have to do that.'
'Ara stop. Sure you're like f**king Mother Teresa on a football field, the wife would kill me if I let you get shafted in the wrong. I'd say we're still fucked, but sure you never know'.
As the three of them marched into the meeting rooms, Declan smiled ruefully to himself as he thought about the different personalities some people had on a pitch. Last Sunday week he'd have gladly strung up Tony Maher for getting him sent off, and tonight they were comrades in arms, trying to buck the system.
9pm.
'Do you want a cup of Tea?' Mae Moriarty, the tea lady in the GAA centre since before Declan came in for his first under 14 Development Squad training session, stuck her head into the little room where Declan and Peter waited for the decision to be handed down. Peter was after her like a shot, trying to get a sandwich as well, but Declan was in no mood for tea, or for one of Mae's infamous plain ham sandwiches. He just sat in the room as Peter went out, and considered the lie of the land. The hearing had gone well, he thought. The panel all knew him from his years of football, and they knew he had a clean record. They listened sympathetically, he thought, to the story he related, and to the robust defence offered by Peter as well, but it was hard to know. Tony had gone in, and given his version of events before heading straight back up to Lucan, shaking hands before he went.
'Sorry about this again Declan, I hope it works out'.
'Cheers Tony, and thanks again for coming down to this. I appreciate it'.
Declan turned his thoughts to Sunday and Shamrocks. A very different challenge to Shannonbridge or Clara, Shamrocks had been knocking on the Offaly door for the past couple of years, and had lost a couple of finals to Rhode. They were strong, and had some good footballers, but they were beatable, especially if Ferbane hit their top form. But would he be there to help, or was his lot to be a frustrated spectator, sitting up in the new stand with Máire and Oisin? That would be f**king hard to sit through. The door opened and Peter came back in munching on a ham sandwich. No surprise there anyway. Would there be a pleasant one from the room out back?
The door opened again. Tom Rourke stuck his head in.
'Declan, they're ready for you now.'.
Buzz buzz buzz.
Mel's phone vibrated on the mantelpiece. Mel was sprawled across the couch after coming in from a brief session on the treadmill, but he leaped up and went over to read the text.
'No gud. 1 mth and out for w/end'
Bollox. f**k it anyway. Mel had been hoping against hope that Declan would get off. He picked up the phone and called Dec's number.
'What happened?'
'Load of shite. Absolute waste of time. They were all nicey nice listening to me, but when we went in afterwards they said the Ref's report was clear, and they had to take it as sacrosanct.'
'He put you down for striking so?'
'Yep. On the recommendation of his umpire. f**king brutal.'
'Sure can't we appeal it?'
'No, there's no point. It'll only f**k up the preparations for Sunday even more. Just go out and beat them. I'll be back for the final.'
'f**k it Dec, we need you for this game'.
'No you don't, ye are good enough to beat them. Sure if I was injured I'd be out too. Just go ahead and f**king win it.'
Declan hung up and turned onto the Clara road, back towards Ferbane. He was crushed. Just when he thought there was a chance, it had been taken away again. He was right though, any appeal would only cause more distractions and confusion. Better to let Paddy pick his team and prepare them for the weekend, knowing the hand they held. But the sickening feeling stayed with him as he drove home in the darkness. What the f**k had come over him against Clara? If Shamrocks beat Ferbane, he'd be absolutely sickened.
The gravel in his driveway crunched under the tyres as he pulled up and turned off the engine.
'Come on to f**k lads. Give me one more chance. Don't let this year finish in a f**king meeting room.'
brilliant, the suspense i really getting to me!! keep them coming!!
:oso he didnt get off, are ferbane in diffs will a new hero emerge
brilliant--keep them coming--the wait for that episode was too long!!
still think other men will stand up and be counted now that Decs defo out for Sunday
Only seeing this for the first time. Great stuff AZ.
Episode 7. The Semi Final.
***************************88
September 7th 2008
12.00 noon.
Mel looked out as he finished a light lunch, chicken and pasta as per Paddy's diet sheet, and winced as another howling gust of wind battered the rain against the kitchen window. 'What a f**king day for a county semi final'. It had turned nasty enough on Friday evening at training, and despite a decent forecast for the weekend, it hadn't improved much since. Tullamore was a great surface, and the good summer so far would help, but it was bound to be a sloppy, messy game and the wind would play havoc. This was going to be an extra dimension to the challenge posed by Shamrocks, and the inexperienced lads on the team would have to be ready. Yet another reason why Declan was going to be missed today.
At the meeting last night in the GAA centre, Declan had spoken, and apologised for missing the game. He had spoken well, and when he finished with a plea for the team to give him a chance to make it up to them in a county final, you could hear a pin drop. At least until Murph let a roar out of him.'Not a f**king worry Dec, No f**king WAY Shamrocks are going to stop us here. Get ready for Rhode!'. Everyone had roared, and then dispersed slowly to go home for a restless night. The wind howling around outside didn't help in the battle for sleep either.
Declan had come over to Mel after the meeting.
'Best of Luck tomorrow Mel, keep the lads calm. There's going to be messy times tomorrow, and probably sloppy scores conceded. Make sure they don't drop the heads.'
Mel could see how sick Declan was to be missing the game, and he was worried himself at the thoughts of the team coping without him, especially in bad conditions and unpredictable circumstances.
'No worry Dec. You're some sly hoor. Get suspended so you can sit up in the stand in a big jacket, while the rest of us are getting f**king pneumonia.'
Declan smiled ruefully. 'It has it's good points I suppose, but listen, do this tomorrow. Do a job. Don't let this season fizzle out on a mucky shit day, with me up in the stand drinking f**king soup'.
They shook hands, and as Mel got into the car, he remembered Declan's dilemma last Christmas. To see the fire in his eyes now, how could he have stayed away? Not a hope. 'That lad will be playing for 10 more years'.
Paddy had kept changes to a minimum. No major positional reshuffles. Brendan was in off the wing to Declan's number 11 slot, and Paul Flynn, a lad who was always there or thereabouts for a forward's berth came in at wing forward. Paul wasn't one of the really young lads, and had played a lot of championship football, so Mel wasn't worried about him, any more than he was worried about any of the lads at least. The biggest worry from Mel's perspective was whether the ball into the full forward line would be as good with Declan out. Brendan was a strong ball carrier, and a good man to take a score, but he wasn't as savvy as Declan, and wasn't as good a link man either. He would have to do a job today, especially in the conditions.
Mel threw his gear into the car. He was travelling alone today, another tradition. If one or the other wasn't playing for some reason, the other travelled alone. Stupid superstition, but he was glad in a way. He'd have gotten more nervous looking at Declan fidgeting and foostering in the car on the way in. Back to normal for the county final, at least that was the plan? Shamrocks might have something to say about whether they were going as watchers or players.
Mel checked the gear one last time, had a thought as he rooted for his car keys. 'Well sure, we'll see in about 4 hours time.'
2.00 pm.
'Are we right?' Declan was trying to hurry up Máire and Oisín into the car, and was trying not to show how irritable he was. This was going to be a really strange day for him, and he had decided not to go in with the team to the dressing room. He didn't want to be a distraction, or the lads to see how worried he was. It was a brutal day, and Shamrocks were a physically big team. Big and fit, who could hit you hard. It's tough to hold onto a greasy ball when you are shipping big tackles, so Ferbane would have to be a lot more direct than usual.
Support play and short handpassing were a nightmare in wet conditions. Another variable in an already unusual equation. Would they be up to it? 'Please God, let us not lose today'.
Máire strapped Oisín into the car seat and they were away.
'Are you okay?'.
'Yeah, I'm grand. Sure there's nothing I can do anyway.'.
'C'mon Dec, the lads are good enough. They'll win. We'll be fine.'
Declan threw the car into first gear, and smiled at Máire. 'I hope you're right Máirs. Sure we'll see in an hour.'
3.00 pm.
Declan paid his money at the turnstile, and glanced over towards the dressing room. The lads would be roaring and shouting in there now. Steam going to the clouds. Deep heat on the air. Balls hopping. Jostles being thrown. Hands being clapped. 'C'mon to f**k lads. C'MON'. He could see it all in his mind's eye, and a wave of nervous tension came over him. This was way worse than being inside there. Concentrating on the first ball, the first point, the first tackle, the first belt. At least in there you had a purpose. You were important. What you did had meaning and you could impact the game.
Out here? Nothing. Worse than nothing actually, because you SHOULD be doing all those thing. It was the first time he had felt this, and he was able to empathise with ex-players who told him nothing compared with playing. It was a glimpse of the future for him, and he hated it. How could he have contemplated retirement? 'As long as there's life in these legs, I'll keep going, whatever happens.' A silent vow to himself, followed by a silent prayer to the man upstairs. ''One more chance God. One more chance.' They took their seats in front of the press box in the new stand, and Oisín immediately took Máire on a walk around the front of the stand. 'No harm' thought Declan, ' I don't want him to hear what I might be shouting anyway'.
He looked briefly at the program as the announcer confirmed there was no changes to the printed teams, and glanced up again as a roar went around the stand. Shamrocks were out, in their Red, Blue and Green colours, and they were big men togged out, just as he knew they were. Conor McPhilips was their main man at full forward, but they had a lot of good players. A couple of mistakes in the backline today and Ferbane could kiss it goodbye. 'Please God, let it not... C'MON FERBANE!!!!!!!' Declan didn't even finish his thought as the men in Green and white emerged from the tunnel. Jaysus this was hard. Mel looked calm enough, and he was going around to the lads, geeing them up. 'That's the way, Mel, keep talking to them today'.
The wind was howling towards the town goal, and when Ferbane played against it, Murph's kickouts were going to be in real trouble. The half back line was going to be vital, but Eamon Flynn and Liam O'Reilly were playing great stuff this year. 'Another big one today lads' Declan silently implored his team mates, feeling like an orphan looking in at a family dinner through a dining room window. 'Come on Ferbane'.
3.50pm
'Alright lads. Sit down, and be calm. Did everyone bring a second pair of togs and socks? Get changed now, and put on the dry jerseys as well'. Paddy strode around the dressing room. Ferbane were in trouble. 2-06 to 0-04 was the scoreline, and Ferbane had hit a shocking patch before half time. The wind was huge, and playing into it had left them with a big deficit into the second half. It had been going well for 20 minutes, and Shamrocks were getting frustrated themselves, as Ferbane heroically kept them out. The score was 0-05 to 0-04 at that stage. A one or two point lead was going to be way too little in that wind. But, as so often happens in big games, a stupid mistake had changed the game entirely.
Kevin Dunne had been dominating Conor McPhilips, but as he charged out in front of his man for a routine ball, he had slipped on the greasy sod, and McPhilips had been clinical in beating Murph. A free by McPhilips had left it at 1-6 to 4 points, and then a long, wind assisted punt had been punched to the net with almost the last action of the half. A sickening blow, but now he had to lift them.
'Sit down lads, and relax. This game is far from over, in fact it's not even started yet. That wind is going to do havoc with their style of football lads, but we have to CHALLENGE them when they start to carry. They'll slip and slide. The wind is behind us, but don't kick stupid shots from 80 yards. Work your way in to good positions and then have a bang. A wide is no harm. Get up, and keep going. Heads up lads. This is not over at all. Let's get out there and get the first couple of scores. After that, it'll be panic stations for them. Clear the heads lads. Focus on what we have to do now. We are damn good team, far better than them, and we were proving it until the last 5 minutes of that half. Now we go out and prove it all over again, and this time we are the ones who go for the jugular. Ok?'
Paddy was satisfied. He had their attention. There was no beaten faces looking up at him. That was critical. It was a big task in front of them, but it was doable. Could this bunch do it? Paddy thought they could.
The lads all stood up, and were on their toes again, lively, eager. Not beaten. Mel looked around. He knew they were still in this game. Just as the dressing room door opened, he blocked it off. All eyes were on him. Captain. 'Lads. 30 minutes from now, we are coming back in here, and I am NOT going to listen to excuses about slippery conditions, inexperience, wind or any other f**king shite. It's time to be MEN now lads, MEN. Forget looking for Declan, or anyone else to pull it around. Look at yourselves. Look at your own heart. You are GOOD ENOUGH to do this. Now, are we MEN enough?. COME ON TO f**k!'.
Declan was frantic up in the stands. It had looked like a routine operation for most of the first half, until the collapse. At least it happened before 30 minutes, and not 60. There was time to haul it back, and the wind would be a major factor. Ferbane had score getters. There was time, were they able for it? Máire gave him a squeeze on the arm. She knew he was in bits. Even Oisín seemed to be sensing the pressure and tension. He sat in Máire's arms, looking from Declan, and then out to the field. 'What must he be thinking?' Declan thought to himself as he leaned over and gave him a kiss. Then a roar echoed around the stand again. Declan looked around. Shamrocks were back.
4.28.
5 minutes left. Declan had left the seat. He was pacing up and down along the front of the stand. 'Come on Ferbane. KEEP IT GOING!!'. He looked up at the scoreboard. Shamrocks 2-06 Ferbane 1-10. A fantastic comeback. Mel had been brilliant in the second half, and the half backs and midfield had destroyed the Shamrocks around that sector. McPhilips hadn't even felt the weight of the ball in the second half, and Brendan and young Rory Molloy had chipped in with vital scores, Rory grabbing an opportunistic goal as Shay King, the Shamrocks goalie, had spilled a great shot from Mel. 5 minutes. 'COME ON FERBANE, NO SITTING BACK'.
Liam O'Reilly gave another great ball into the forwards, and Mel sprinted out to meet it, he took it safely into his chest, and was immediately hauled down, 40 metres out. He got up, and brushed the mud off his legs and chest, and looked at the posts. Normally he preferred to kick his frees off the ground, but with the ground the way it was, it would be safer from the hands. Slightly to the right of the posts, left leg, nice and easy, towards the far post and let the wind bring it over. No problems. Nice and easy. Deep breath.
'GREAT STUFF MEL, C'MON FERBANE'. Declan roared as the ball soared over the black spot. That was a vital score. 2 points up. 2 points, the most dangerous lead in Gaelic football, but Ferbane were well on top. 'Savage score Mel' Dec thought to himself as he looked at the stopwatch on his mobile. 3 minutes plus injury time. 'Come on lads, keep it going'.
Shamrocks were getting desperate now. They took a short kick out, and Brian McPhilips, Conor's younger brother carried it towards the half way line. 'HIT HIM THERE' Paddy Burke roared from the sideline. Striding up and down the line, soaked wet, slugging from a Lucozade Sport bottle. 'FOUL HIM THERE'. But McPhilips evaded Brendan's challenge and laid in a ball to Ronan O'Byrne, one of the Shamrocks county midfielders. He brushed aside a tired challenge from Liam O'Reilly and went for a shot for a point from 30 yards out. Paddy held his breath as the wind caught the shot and held the ball up. A deadly dangerous ball. Hanging in the air, coming down in the square. 'YOUR BALL MURPH' he roared as the goalkeeper came off his line to make the catch. Conor McPhilips tumbled as he came to challenge, and Murph made the catch well.
PEEEEEEP!. 'What the f**k?' Declan looked at the ref, Terry Dunne from Edenderry. Penalty! 'NO WAY TERRY!!!! FOR f**k'S SAKE!!!!'. Paddy Burke was going mad on the sideline as the Ferbane defence crowded around Dunne, who was indicating that McPhilips had been pulled to the ground. Declan put his head in his hands. Not again. Not another stupid refereeing decision. The lads didn't deserve that. This was robbery.
Declan crouched down as Conor McPhilips took the ball from the ref and placed it 13 metres out. Looking through his fingers he saw Murph banging his studs off the goalposts to knock the cloying muck off the cogs, and just before he lowered his head, unable to watch, he saw Murph spitting on his gloves and crouching into his stance... 'Please God'
'YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS'. Declan sunk his head miserably into his chest. Then jerked it up as he heard the rest of the roar. 'FAIR FUCKS TO YOU MURPH'. He looked up just in time to see Murph soloing, SOLOING ,the ball out to the side of the square and handpassing it off to Eamon Flynn who ballooned it out into orbit. It must have landed in the hospital car park, but Declan couldn't have cared less. Kevin Dunne was jumping on Murph's back, as Conor McPhilips lay prostrate on the ground. 'CALM IT FERBANE CALM IT!'. 'Holy Jaysus. I'm not able for this.'
'PEEEEP PEEEEP PEEEEP'.
'YESSSSSS' 'COME ON FERBANE'!!!!
Mel collapsed, exhausted, onto the ground. Rory Molloy came over and jumped on him, and he dragged himself to his feet to shake hands with the devastated Shamrocks players. He made his way down through the throng to shake hands with Conor McPhilips.
'Hard luck Conor, Keep the head up. I know how you feel, but you're a great lad. You'll bounce back.
McPhilips hadn't the stomach to reply, but he shook hands and clapped Mel on the back, before trudging disconsolately over to the tunnel, getting hugs on the way. 'The f**king small differences' Mel thought, as he made his own gleeful way to the same destination. 'Very f**king small'.
Declan could hardly contain himself, as he hugged Maire and Oisin up in the stand. 'I'm heading over to the dressing room love. You take the car to Gavin's, I'll travel back with Mel.'
'Take your time, I told you they'd do it'.
Declan beamed as he backed away, 'You were right. And we'll win the next one too. This year IS different'.
Jesus I haven't had a moment like that in Gaelic since Johnny McGurk's left footed winner against Dublin in the '93 AISF... great stuff Murph!
Cheers for the diary AZ it's cracking stuff... COME ON FERBANE!!!
This better have a bad ending. Feckin hate happy endings. And a bad ending that's bleak. None of this we lost but we'll try again next year. I want well bate, fall out and perhaps a fatality.
You Tyrone shower are a cynical bunch of hoors the glass always has to be half empty with you!! AZ, is ther any chance that we could have Ferbane get to the AICSF to play Errigal Ciaran and for Murph to lay Canavan out going for a 50/50 ball? I would like that. That would be excellent!
No way. It ends after the County Final. I'm only an amateur for God's Sake. Will it end with blatant flouting of the new rules as the Dowling Cup gets filled in Gavin's, or will it end with wailing and gnashing of teeth in the Green Fields around Ferbane?
Next week. Same Bat Time, Same Bat channel.
There can only be one ending - a push in the back and a last-minute goal to win by a point.
Sure its only an offaly championship....
QuoteThere can only be one ending - a push in the back and a last-minute goal to win by a point.
That's the Offaly style alright Hardy.
If it was Meath, they'd have to go down by 35 points with ten to go, and scrape through after an almighty ruckus with a last second point when the ball hops over the bar.
If it was Dublin, they'd lose after leading by 86 points with ten to go, and I'll stop now.
If it was Longford, it would never have got past Christmas.
If it was Armagh, we'd be stuck in Groundhog Day, September 2002 forever.
If it was Mayo, it'd be just tragedy forever and ever.
:D
Tyrone - they'd win by deploying American Football tactics - 4 downs to get within scoring distance.
Westmeath - sorry. Don't be silly. Westmeath winning something? Ha ha.
Cork - ah no ... too easy (no defence - just a team full of strikers - you know yourself).
Its like an episode of 24..you just cant wait til the next installment
AZ, brilliant!! just read the last installment and can't wait for the final chapter!!! C'MON FERBANE!!!
The next installment will be next week. The lads are bursting their bollixes training for the final. Plus I was travelling with work this week.
awsome az, whens the tickets for the final on sale
Quote from: Hardy on April 18, 2008, 07:52:29 PM
:D
Westmeath - sorry. Don't be silly. Westmeath winning something? Ha ha.
Would you like a little salt or ketchup to flavour the hat ;)
Well, if you'd consider Div. 2 "something", fair enough.
Only joking. Well done to our separated brethren and congratulations from the mainland.
Just happened across this now - marvellous stuff AZ. Now hurry up with the next one like a good man
Episode 8. The build up.
*************************
Saturday September 20th
10.30 am
"Rhode to claim 25th title at expense of rejuvenated Ferbane
By Kevin Egan
Rhode are hot favourites for Sunday's county senior football final where they take on Ferbane in a bid to win their 7th county title in 10 years. The north Offaly men have been the dominant force in the game since Ferbane last supped from the Dowling Cup, and it is hard to make a case for Ferbane to buck that trend in Sunday's final. Key county men like Niall Sullivan, Eamon Kellaghan and Joe Brady will be to the forefront as the green and gold attempt to re-emphasise the gap that has grown between themselves and their erstwhile nemesis over the past decade. Ferbane, led by veterans Mel Byrne and ex-All Star nominee Declan Grennan have improved immensely this season, and have quality newcomers in Liam O'Reilly and Rory Molloy, but only the most optimistic Ferbane backer would make serious claims as to the likelihood of the Green and White making it back to the pinnacle of Offaly football"
Declan sighed and threw the Offaly indo to one side before turning his attention back to his breakfast. The Offaly Independent was only singing off the same hymn sheet as the other local papers, and indeed everyone outside Ferbane that Declan had met since the final pairing was decided. It annoyed him that people were so dismissive of Ferbane's challenge given their performances this year, and how close they had come before. Still, it was no bad thing to be written off before a final, and it was heaping pressure on the Rhode lads. Rhode. One of the real blue bloods of Offaly football, and currently without a shadow of a doubt the best team in the county. A tradition that went back to the old Iron Man of Rhode himself, Paddy McCormack, and beyond, and carried on today.
'But the best team doesn't always win finals, Kevin, and Ferbane have a fair old tradition of our own' Declan thought as he brought his plate over to the sink. 'And we are back'.
7.30 pm.
'Right lads, settle down.' Paddy Burke looked around the room of expectant, nervous faces in front of him as they shuffled seats around in the GAA Centre. Bodies leaning forward, hanging on his every word, hands clasped in front of them. The odd nervous joke or giggle from the younger lads. The outwardly calm, but inwardly churning, expressions of the older lads. The final meeting before the county final. The team announcement.
'Alright lads, first things first. The team we sent into the programme is the team we are going with tomorrow. Most of ye don't know it, so here we go. In goals, Declan Murphy. Full back line Thomas Rourke, Kevin Dunne, Eddie Rourke. Half backs Eamon Flynn, Liam O'Reilly, Ken Ryan. Centre of the field. Paddy Moore and Sean Slevin. Half forwards Brendan Kelly, Declan Grennan and Sean Kelly. Full Forward line Rory Molloy, Mel Byrne and Timmy Flynn. That's the starting 15 lads, but let there be no doubt that I will have no hesitation about making changes if we need to, so I want every one of the subs to prepare as if they were playing. This is a squad game lads, and we wouldn't be here without every man being part of it. Tomorrow is no different, and I know I can trust every one of ye if you are needed.'
Declan glanced over at Paul Flynn, who had replaced him for the semi final. He had done well, and deserved to make the 15 for the final, but it was hard to drop anyone. Declan made a silent promise that he wouldn't make Paddy regret putting him straight back into the lineup. Paul looked up, and nodded at Declan. A quick inclination of his head, and Declan knew he would be okay. Paul knew the score at this stage, and he also knew that if he came on, he'd be ready himself.
'Alright lads. Tonight is not a night for roaring and shouting.' Paddy took the floor again. 'Tomorrow is a big game lads, and there's no need to tell you what it means. Having said all that, it is ONLY a game. We've played these games before, and we will play them again. Don't let yourself get caught up in the whole occasion, just go out, and play your normal game. There's absolutely nothing to be afraid of tomorrow. Rhode are shitting themselves up there, the almighty greats of Offaly football. Almighty greats my hole. They are 30 lads, the same as any other 30 lads in any other place, including Ferbane. And the day that ANY Ferbane man bows down to a lad from Rhode, or any other f**king place, is a day that hasn't come yet, and is a day that won't f**king come on my watch. Lads, I've coached teams all over the country. I've won county championships, and provincial titles, and I am telling ye right now, in all seriousness and honesty. Ye WILL beat Rhode tomorrow. I have no doubt. I've seen them play, we played them in the league, and I know that 1-30 we are a better team than them. Never mind the papers, or the radio, or the gobshites in the street telling you how good they are. They are a fine team, no doubt about it, but I'll tell you one thing. No matter how good they think they are, no matter what they've won, no matter what people say about them, when the two teams run out tomorrow and look into their own heart, and into the eye of the opposition one thing will be true. They are not, and never will be FERBANE. We know it, they know it, and by 5 o'clock tomorrow evening the whole county and country will know it, and they will know one other thing. FERBANE ARE BACK!'
A spontaneous round of applause rang around the room, and Declan and Mel exchanged glances. Mel could see the excitement in Declan's eyes, and he was sure he had the same himself. Looking around the room he saw it in everyone. And he saw something else. Something far more important than excitement, or nerves. He saw belief. In his mind's eye he saw himself shaking hands with Ollie Daly and accepting the Dowling Cup on behalf of Ferbane. His heart swelled inside him, and he calmed himself down. 'Too early. Concentrate on the game, calm it.' He told himself as they gathered their jackets and headed for the door. Big day tomorrow, home and rest. Sleep might be hard to come by tonight, but he hoped he would drift off. Big day tomorrow.
'No', he corrected himself, 'Not a big day. THE big day'.
Sunday September 21st
1:00 pm
Gear checked, double checked, and deposited safely in the boot, Declan kissed Máire and Oisín goodbye and headed for the car. Oisin had his little Ferbane jersey already on him, and was waving as Declan pulled out of the driveway, rolling down the window. 'See you after the game' He said as he put the car into gear.
'Best of luck Dec, ye'll do it' Said Máire with a smile and a wave.
'I hope your right pet' he thought, as he drove away, towards Mel's and towards Tullamore. And towards destiny.
2.30 pm
'Alright lads, up on your feet, lets get moving' Paddy shouted as the final preparations were made. 'This is it now. Heads right. GET THE HEADS RIGHT. Everyone out now please, except the panel and selectors.' The Chairman, and other club members shook hands with the lads on the way out, and Peter Foley, the Chairman, gave Declan wink. 'Today is the day Dec. Today is the day. Best of luck to you.' Declan nodded back, but the all to familiar sick feeling in his stomach prevented him from replying. He looked around. As usual all you could smell was a combination of Deep Heat and Ralgex, but he wasn't interested in smells. He was interested in sights. What could he see in his team mates? Murph was over there, frowning intensely, all wisecracks and jokes forgotten as he concentrated on the warmup and the game. Brendan was always intense before games, and today was no different. Blood drained from his face. Rory Molloy was quiet, but looked relaxed. 'Young lads' Declan thought, as he remembered his own total lack of fear in '97. 'I hope you walk off today thinking it's easy as well Rory. Please God'. A glance at Mel. 'What's going through his head?' Declan thought, even though he knew the answer already.
'Don't f**k up. Don't f**k up. Keep calm, lead the lads. Lead them. We are winning today, we are NOT getting beaten.' Mel's mind raced as Paddy brought them through a gentle jog on the spot to get the blood flowing, the main warmup having been done outside. He looked up and saw Declan looking at him. 'He knows what's going on. IF he's on his game, we'll win. C'Mon Dec'.
Paddy went through a few words of wisdom to the lads, and they all listened. No easy fouling. Direct ball from the half backs and midfield, but not high ball. Support the man in possession. Follow the runners. All the same things, every game. Ferbane were consistent now. Consistent in game plan, consistent in performance. Now could they be consistent in result? 'Today is the day' Mel thought to himself as the jogging eased up, and Paddy handed him a ball. 'Mel, this is it. This is your team. This is your day.' Mel nodded and went to the door. Stood in front of it. Looked around at the 30 faces, looking back at him. Looking for a leader.
"Alright lads. In 30 seconds, I'm opening that door, and we are going out. Before I do. Look around this room. Look around at lads that you have grown up with, played underage with, gone on holidays with. Look at lads that you have cried with after bad days, and laughed with after good ones. Look at lads that you know you would die for on that field, and you know would die for you. Look around. Now ask yourself this question. 'Are we coming here to cry, or to laugh? Is today going to be another bad day, or finally, at last, for once, is it going to be THE day of days? The day when we come in here with the Dowling Cup and bring it home. Home lads. Home to Ferbane. Home to OUR people, OUR parish and OUR place. Home to bring it around OUR schools. Rhode are waiting for us lads, but by Jaysus, when we get out there, they are going to wish we never had picked up a pair of boot. TODAY LADS. TODAY WE ARE WINNERS, AND TODAY WE WIN!!!!!'
Mel pulled opened the door and sprinted down the tunnel an out into the blinding sunshine and the mass of colour and noise of county final day. Behind him he heard the clatter of cogs on concrete as his men followed him into the battle, and their roaring cry at the end of his speech echoed around the walls. Today was the day.
Hairs standing on the back of my neck.
Excellent stuff AZ come on Ferbane!
Ah Jesus I thought we were going to have the outcome of the county final there too! Getting exciting now!
Episode 9. Here it is lads. It's a long one.
The Final
**********************
2.58 pm.
The flags fluttered in the breeze as Declan looked around O'Connor Park and breathed in deeply. The parade had ended, and he took up his position at centre forward, facing the flag as the Mountbolus Pipe Band played the first few notes of Amhrán na bhFiann. 'Here we go'.
'Seo libh canaidh Amhrán na bhFiann'
"COME ON RHODE" "COME ON FERBANE", the crowd roared as Declan shook hands with Joe Brady, the Rhode centre back, and faced the middle of the field where Brian O'Leary, Declan's friend from the quarter final, was checking his watches and getting ready to start the game.
'Peep' The ball arced into the air as the midfielders jockeyed for position, and the game was on. 'C'Mon Ferbane'.
3.20 pm.
Rhode 0-05 Ferbane 0-03
Paddy Burke glanced up at the scoreboard with 20 minutes gone as Rhode launched another attack. Ferbane had hit the ground running, and Declan had kicked two lovely points in the first few minutes, but Rhode reeled off 4 unanswered in the next 10 minutes. Since then Rory Molloy and Niall Sullivan had swapped scores, and Rhode were well settled in. 'Come on Ferbane, tight there at the back. Half backs HAMMER IN FOR THE BREAKS' Paddy roared as another loose ball was gathered by the Rhode midfield. Ferbane had become a little flustered and frustrated as the game ebbed away from them, and that would have to stop before serious damage was inflicted. 'A typical final' thought Paddy. 'We have to hang in there'.....
Liam O'Reilly cut out a long, ambitious, pass from Marius Rock, and transferred it quickly to Paddy Moore, who moved it on in turn to Declan. As Dec looked up, he saw Mel making a run towards Rory Molloy's corner and Rory was sneaking in behind the full back as they sprinted out. 'Come on, a good ball' Declan thought as he stroked the ball towards the path of Rory's run.
'YESSSSSS' 'COME ON FERBANE' 'GREAT BALL DEC' 'THAT'S THE JOB YOUNG MOLLOY'
Rory raced out wheeling his arm in triumph as the umpire waved the green flag. Dec had put a lovely ball in front of him as he had swapped places with Mel, and Rory had applied a cool finish into the bottom corner with Michael Hughes well beaten. He felt the rush of elation he always got when he scored a big goal, and he knew it would be a big lift and was badly needed.
'Great ball Dec' he roared out the field as the goalie placed the ball for the kick out. 'Keep it going lads, KEEP IT GOING'. Rory had been 9 years of age when Ferbane had won their last county championship, and he knew how much it meant to the older lads. Sometimes he was bemused by the sheer desperation he felt at training and meetings as the lads tried to verbalise their sheer hunger, but sometimes you didn't need to hear the words, or even understand them. You just needed to know. And Rory knew. 'COME ON FERBANE!'....
3.35 pm
'Down lads. Sit down. There's nothing won yet. SIT DOWN TO f**k'. Paddy lost patience as the Ferbane lads milled around slapping each other on the shoulder. Half time had arrived and Ferbane were on a high. In the last 10 minutes of the half, after Molloy's goal, Ferbane had reeled off another 4 points without reply, and Mel and Dec especially had torn the Rhode defence asunder. 1-07 to 0-05, and within touching distance of glory. But nearly never skinned the cat, and Paddy had seen finals lost from better positions than this, too many times to feel the slightest bit relaxed.
'Alright lads, now, deep breaths. Calm yerselves down.' He said as the players finally quietened the adrenaline coursing through them, and sat looking up at him. 'Can anyone tell me the score from the last county final ye lost? I'm sure ye can. Now can anyone tell me the score at half time in that game?' Dec nodded grimly to himself, and knew exactly what Paddy was hinting at. 5 points up at half time translated into a 3 point defeat, and desolation. 'Not this time though. No f**king way.'
'Right. Now ye know where I'm coming from. So listen up, and park the celebrations until we are in Gavin's and have the cup on the table. There's no f**king medals handed out at half time of any game.'
Mel looked around and nodded as he saw the message sinking in to the younger lads, and indeed some of the older lads whose memory banks were wiped of the pain from days like that. Paddy paced around the huge team gear bag in the centre of the room. Making eye contact with every player.
'Rhode will come back into this lads, they are not champions for no reason, and they will fight. They know what's happened ye before, and they think ye'll be rattled if they get back into the game. But that's not going to happen this year lads. No more. NO f**king MORE!. We've come a long, hard journey this year, and ye have had a long journey this last 10 years. Draw on that lads. Draw on the pain we suffered in training. The ice baths. The sprints, the muck and shite and the puking up in the long grass. Draw on all that, and on the memories of how you felt last year, and the year before. WE ARE NOT GOING TO DIE OUT HERE. Lads I told ye last night we would win. I still know we will win. Ye know we will win, so if Rhode DO come back at us, pay no remarks. Ignore the crowd, they're not playing. We are, and we are good enough to beat them. No panic, no worries, and most of all, when you come off that field NO f**king REGRETS. Stand tall, be proud and WIN!'
To a man, the lads jumped to their feet as Paddy roared his lungs out at them, and stormed to the door. Declan and Mel at the forefront, and Dec clapped Mel on the back. 'Not this year Mel. This year is different, and we're going to do it, whatever it takes.' Mel nodded and the door opened again. '30 minutes' Dec thought, as they ran out, '30 minutes'.
4.05 pm.
'COME ON RHODE, YE HAVE THEM. THEY'RE RATTLED' a shout came in from the sideline as the umpire reached for another white flag for Niall Sullivan. 1-10 to 0-11 points, and Rhode were hanging on with grim determination. Declan pumped his fists at Liam O'Reilly and Kevin Dunne. 'COME ON LADS. KEEP IT GOING'. Rhode had started the second half brightly, but Ferbane had matched them point for point for 15 minutes, 1-10 to 0-08. But Niall Sullivan was starting to put on a virtuoso display at full forward, and had chipped in 3 points from play in the last 5 minutes. Kevin Dunne had been switched off him, but Sullivan was still doing damage. Ferbane would have to solve that problem further out the field, and start winning ball. Momentum was with Rhode now though, and Dec was fighting the negative thoughts that had plagued him so often before. COME ON FERBANE.
The ball broke loose from Murph's kickout, and Declan was caught flat footed as Joe Brady stormed in for the break. 'COME ON DEC FOR f**k'S SAKE' , Declan chased hard as Brady carried the ball into Ferbane territory, but a desperate, diving block was too late, and as he looked up from the ground, he saw Murph jumping up and tapping the crossbar as the ball sailed over at the town end. 'YESSS!!!. GOOD MAN BRADY. COME ON RHODE'.
As they jogged back to their position, Joe hit Dec a shoulder. 'Getting nervous Dec? Ye should be used to this by now'. 'Go f**k yourself Joe, not this time'. Brady sneered as they turned to face the kickout and Declan felt the frustration and anger boiling up in him. 'Surely not this f**king time?'.
....
Murph's kickout went straight out over the sideline, and Mel put his head in his hands. What the f**k was going on back there. The ball hadn't reached the full forward line in 5 minutes, and the sick feeling at the pit of his stomach was spreading. He felt like an observer at his own funeral as he watched Niall Sullivan trotting over to the sideline ball and, after taking one hop, swinging it straight over the black spot from a good 50 metres out. 'COME ON RHODE, COME ON!!!' 'f**king hell. Not this shite again.'
Declan was trying to keep a cool head as he watched Murph place the ball again. 'HEAD UP MURPH'. Draw match. 'How much is left ref'? O'Leary looked at his watch. '1 minute Dec. ' Joe Brady heard the exchange as well. 'COME ON RHODE. NEXT BALL. ONE MINUTE!!!' He roared. The Rhode lads all seemed to be about 3 inches taller. Dec felt like he was staring down a tunnel. He forced himself to breathe again. 'Get the ball. Win this ball'. Silently he implored his midfield, his half backs, anyone. 'Come on.'
..
Murph's kickout hung in the breeze and the four midfielders reached for the sky. All thoughts of tactics, formations, calling and anything else banished in the midst of the tumultuous last few moments of a county final. The only thing left was raw desire to win the ball, this ball. This huge ball. But none of them did. Paddy Moore fisted it out of the hands of Ger Geraghty, the Rhode colossus, and the ball squirted out over towards the sideline. Brendan and Ian McNamee, the Rhode wing, back ran towards it and Brendan fell down after a shoulder. No free. The Rhode crowd rose to their feet as McNamee carried the ball towards the Ferbane half. Declan forced his tired body into a sprint, and slowly made up the ground, 2 metres away, 1 metre. He saw Niall Sullivan making a run into space out of the corner of his eye, and McNamee did too. Declan launched himself into another diving block as McNamee delivered the pass....
THUNK. 'Got it you f**ker'. Declan rolled over on the ground as the ball squirted loose. Now the Ferbane crowd were on their feet. 'YESS DEC' 'COME ON'. It seemed like slow motion as Dec got to his feet, and shrugged off the challenge of McNamee. He picked up the ball and , just as Joe Brady delivered a savage belt to his chest, he punted the ball towards the general direction of Brendan, who'd been left free by the Rhode defence after losing the ball.
The world turned upside down as Dec fell from the Brady hit, and he had just rolled over in time to look up. To look up and see Brendan. 30 metres out. Brendan soloing. 'Kick it Brendan. Kick the f**king thing'. To look up and see the ball arcing. High into the sky. Curling. Dropping.
'YESSSSSS' 'f**king LEGEND BRENDAN KELLY' 'COME ON FERBANE'. Declan jumped to his feet. All thought of tiredness gone now. 1 point up,still close enough to lose it, but not this time surely. He looked over at Joe Brady, slowly picking himself up, looked at Brian O'Leary. O'Leary looking at his watch. The world looking at their watches. O'Leary putting the whistle to his lips. 'Blow it. BLOW THE f**king THING BRIAN'.
'Peeeep. Peeeep. Peeeep.'
Dec collapsed on the ground. The adrenaline and sheer fear of losing that had helped him in the last minute flowed out of him to be replaced by absolute exhaustion. Exhaustion and disbelief. And sheer, sheer joy. He bowed his head into the turf, 'Thank God. Thank you God' were the only words he could force out as his mind raced. Raced with the bad days, the defeats, Máire, Oisín, Clara, Rhode, Tullamore. YESSSSSSS'.
Mel hauled Dec up off the ground and they were joined by a delirious mass of players and supporters. A heaving, throbbing scrum of sheer ecstasy as the years of frustration were chased away by that one moment of unadulterated joy. Paddy Burke raced over, and grabbed Mel out of the scrum, and gave him a bearhug. Mel hugged him back, and as they danced around the field, the only thing he could say though the tears stinging his eyes as they mixed with the sweat was 'Thanks Paddy. Thanks Paddy. Thanks Paddy'.
Dec shook hands with Joe Brady, and a few of the other Rhode lads, as the pandemonium continued. Brady gave a rueful smile. 'Well done Dec, ye deserved it. I suppose it wasn't going to happen to ye again after all. Congratulations'.
'Cheers Joe. Fair play to ye. Hard luck'.
Dec punched the air with delight as he went to greet his mother, father, Máire and Oisín, and a thought crossed his mind in the middle of all the madness.
'Thank God I didn't retire'.
.....
'A chairde go leir. Tá an athas orm an corn seo a glacadh are son foireann agus na muintir an bhFear Bán'
A cheer rose lustily around O'Connor Park as Mel raised the Dowling Cup to the sky, and Dec, holding Oisín in his arms, beamed as well wishers and opponents alike clapped him on the back, and congratulated him. All the bad days were receding like the ebbing tide, the memories being replaced by a whole new batch of brighter, happier ones. Máire hugged his arm, as Oisín waved his flag like a little soldier of a victorious army.
'And three cheers for Rhode. Hip Hip Hooray. Hip Hip Hooray. Hip Hip Hooray. Go raibh mile maith agaibh. There'll be a big night in Ferbane tonight!!!'
Mel finished his speech to a roar and a laugh, and headed back down the steps into the throng, his arms holding the Dowling Cup like a vise. Finally the sea of people parted, and as he looked up, he saw Dec and went over to him. Dec reached out and touched the cup. 'f**king long time coming this one Mel. f**king long time.'
Mel nodded with a broad grin. 'Come on. Let's get out of here. The pints are on in Gavin's '
........
'Well Dec, that was some game today. Some result. f**king Brilliant'.
Big John Murray, proud owner of another county medal, and deserved it as much as anyone, was beaming with delight as he came over to Mel, Brendan, Murph and Dec in Gavin's.
'You can sing that John. Absolutely fantastic'.
'And next year we'll take them all again'.
Declan looked around as he saw auld Paddy McIntyre standing up to sing a song, just like the old days, the old happy days. Except now the happy days were back, and ths songs could be sung again.
'Next year? Next year me hole'
All eyes turned to him, and Big John's mouth opened.
Dec took a sup of his pint, and looked around.
'Sure aren't we out in two weeks against them hoors from Westmeath in the Leinster Club!'.
The lads laughed and clinked their pint glasses as Paddy closed his eyes and began..
"I curse the day I sailed away from the Dear old Isle of Green,
On a foreign strand where I now do stand and the deep sea rolls between.
In dreams I fly where I roamed a boy 'ere my worldly cares began.
And my vision shows where the Brosna flows, in the green fields 'round Ferbane'.
That's it lads. Thanks for reading. I'm as knackered as if I had played the year myself.
As an aside, Ferbane are out in the county championship first match tomorrow night, against Shannonbridge, so hopefully life will imitate my ramblings :D
An bhFéar Bán abú.
Cheers
Good man AZ, ye big softy. ;)
az , congrats could sense the desperation on declans behalf, feels like most of usf every year our respective clubs play in the championship.
t
Big optimist more like :) Sorry to O'Neill, who was looking for all sorts of carnage in the final, but the Cosy and Gleesons and Hineys in Ferbane that night would provide a fair bit of that anyway :D
round of applause for you AZ, absolutely brilliant. enjoyed every sentence of it!!!
Everyone who has ever paleyd the game could feel the pain and ecstacy of the whole story, it's too close to the real world for my liking! Well done that man!
Donny can come back from America now. The competition is finished up :D
Absolutely brilliant AZ, s'what got me into the board. The definition of pedantic? Brendan Kelly scored the winner, not the one to put them 2 points up.... ;) :P
Jaysus it was even closer than I thought :D
If he'd known it himself I'd say he would have sh*t himself and put it wide!! :D :D
That's why the pros have proof readers I suppose. Anyway the change is made :D Brendan is the hero still :D
Outstanding AZ.
Great work, I take it the "hoors" beat Ferbane in Leinster since the story's over ;)
Nah Croi. They get held up in court for 3 months fighting over who was supposed to wear blue in the final, and Ferbane get a walk over. ;D
Tyrrellspass Lomans final this year :o :o :o Must get some money on it :P Anyways I thought them feckers in the DRA were supposed to deliver quick judgements...
What colour are Athlone? I was going for Tyrellspass and Athlone :D
Jaysus, forgot about them, they play in blue and white, prob more chance of Lomans making it though, Athlone haven't done anything in years, might get better odds on them... ;)
(http://www.athlonegaa.com/graphics/teampic2003.jpg)
Brilliant. Fair play to you AZ enjoyed that alot. Cant beleive i only stumbled on this tonight. Would love to see them have a go at Leinster ;)
Spent the last two days reading intently through that AZ - absolutely superb stuff. The reason we all love it is we can all identify with the characters, the situations and the emotions. That's definitely worth a few bob to ya in one of the papers.
I wanted a happy ending but not a cliched one. Declan scoring the winner would have been so predictable but breaking up play to set up the winner for Brendan - well done!
By the way where in your imagination did you get the name Marius Rock??!! :D :D
A Rhode lad I used to play with and against was called Paddy Stones, and he had a brother called Marius. Hence Marius Rock :D
AZ thats a hell of a read
Fantastic stuff AZ, thoroughly enjoyable reading.
absolutely brilliant read-- i enjoyed each and every one
and a fantastic result in the final
i hope they carry it on into Leinster!
AZ Paddys still playin away in Boston
Fcuk sake AZ this should have a thread of its own....I only discovered it tonight cos I thought yiz were still talking about that muck in the Irish News :-\ :-\
Maith Thu Fein.....
Unfortunately life did not imitate art on Saturday night as Shannonbridge defeated Ferbane 2-09 to 0-09.
I could write another chapter on the post mortem in Gleeson's and Hiney's that night. It was in Doon, so we didn't even get a chance to call into Gavin's.
In a twist from Declan Grennan's world, the Offaly championship is round robin initially, so there are 2 games left in the group against Tullamore (The county champions) and Rhode (The favourites). It'll be tough for Ferbane to not find themselves involved in a relegation play off at this stage.
Was heading to Galway from Dublin for a Stag this weekend. Before getting to Galway, we were going to Pallas karting at Tynagh.
Anyway, traffic was jammers at Moate on Saturday lunchtime so I took the left for Tober. Sat Nav recalulated, and rather than taking me back on the main Dublin/Galway road, it took me via Offaly and Ferbane..!!!!! ;D Had never heard of the place until following the story on here...
No sign of Declan and the lads though..
My campaign to raise Ferbane's profile is working ;) The Ferbane lads were all obviously preparing for the game against the 'Bridge.
Brilliant stuff AZ, fair play. The final brought hairs to my neck much the same way as Shane Hynes last minute goal in 2003 Louth SFC final against the Mary's. That drew us level and we went to win the replay. I'd imagine the scenes around Lordship were similar to Gavin's!
Now I think you need to take a few weeks off and recharge the batteries after a long, hard season and then prepare for the Leinster Championship ;)
That's great work AZ. It's tremendously descriptive and you can almost touch the atmosphere it creates. Well done.
Fcuk sake. Was hoping it was all a dream and he's a War Veteran with no legs.
Anyway, deadly stuff AZ. Thread 'o the year.
For anyone interested, Ferbane pulled off a great win over county Champions Tullamore last weekend in the county championship. Declan's performance is unreported at this time :D
pull that mask up a bit higher AZ, we can still see your face!!
A wee slip up there AZ!!! ;) :D
he revealed his true colours there alright!! :-[ ;D
As championship fever builds I reckon that Ferbanes finest deserves another outing ;D
A blast from the past there alright :) That was hard fecking work :)
PS My Da got this in the email format a couple of years ago. Don't know who from, but probably the same email I got. The brother asked me did I write it, so maybe there was a bit more of me in it than I thought :)
The first few pages of this thread are a laugh. Haterz into loverz!
AZOffaly, great work - haven't time to read them all but the first one is very enjoyable.
Come on AZ!
Declan was a once off :) I am trying out a blog, but I don't know if it's worth doing or not.
http://shane-sportsramblings.blogspot.com/2011/06/smell-of-cut-grass-summer-means-gaa.html (http://shane-sportsramblings.blogspot.com/2011/06/smell-of-cut-grass-summer-means-gaa.html)
Good stuff, AZ Offaly. I hope you keep it going.
Mrs. redandblack4ever