Donny Doherty diary in the Irish News

[Square Ball]

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

[ONeill]

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.

[onlyonefut]

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...

[zoyler]

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!

[Arthur_Friend]

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.

[RadioGAAGAA]

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?

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.

[THEREALGRASSROOTS]

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

[red hander]

Today's offering has the headline: WHAT'S THE BLOODY POINT?

Words are superfluous...

[Rav67]

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.

[ONeill]

So, it has evolved into a serious diary.

[miss mess]

This really has no point to it.  Im sure Paddy Heaney would agree

[Rav67]

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.

[give her dixie]

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......

[ONeill]

I think Hawkins is the sports editor. Gourley should sue for the allegation that he spreads an inflammatory illness of the lung.

[No1]

Paddy, 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.