The summer that was.

I have lived in important places, times
When great events were decided : who owned
That half a rood of rock, a no-man's land
Surrounded by our pitchfork-armed claims.

I heard the Duffys shouting "Damn your soul"
And old McCabe stripped to the waist, seen
Step the plot defying blue cast-steel -
"Here is the march along these iron stones."

That was the year of the Munich bother. Which
Was most important ? I inclined
To lose my faith in Ballyrush and Gortin
Till Homer's ghost came whispering to my mind.
He said : I made the Iliad from such
A local row. Gods make their own importance.

Epic by Patrick Kavanagh.

That was the year of the Iraq bother. Bar-stool history. Epic moments in time dispensed with faster than it takes a pint of Guinness to settle. The throw away remark did have the desired effect of transporting me back to age seventeen, shocked and awed at the rain-fire that fell on Bagdad all broadcast live through Sky and CNN. War was live.

Not that it was of any real significance to me, my priorities at the time were girls, Manchester United and minor football. In no particular order. The leaving cert was a speck in the distance. At season’s end. Try as they might, Derek Mahon, Heaney or Patrick Kavanagh couldn’t elbow their way in. Though Kavanagh seemed to sometimes stick.

As with any GAA summer, it began in winter. Squelching sneakers pounding their way round the hall as techno music blasted its encouragement. We would be fitter, faster and stronger than any other side. The problem is every other team adopts this mantra and it is the dreaded skill and mindset that decides silverware.

I was a severe latecomer to football. The other code dominated my upbringing to such an extent that little attention was given to any other. Watching your friends cover themselves in glory however is a powerful incentive and I decided I wanted a piece of the action.

Every summer that a person recalls fondly seems to be a glorious one with the weather. This was no different. I had a job on the building site, lugging twelve inch blocks in the blistering sun, grabbing a bite before training and generally feeling as invincible as the building trade.

The league was fun. We were fitter. We were stronger. We were faster than the rest. Our first game will remain a vivid memory. Twelve point wins are common place in any league in any county around the country but to be part of one was a novel experience for me. I remember picking a breaking ball in midfield and glimpsing my opposite number just behind me. The dull sounds of furious studs approached. I would be reeled in at any stage. But I kept travelling before popping it to the corner-forward for a score. I looked back at my pursuer who stood bent over, spluttering in the same pose any one of us could perfect of a Saturday night. This is what power feels like.

The league came and went in an orgy of points, goals and applause. Trundling in the van of a Monday morning, we would take some stopping come championship time. I should have taken up “the gaa” much sooner as exclusive football heads marvelled at my ability to scoop up a moving ball with a flick of my right foot. How else was I supposed to do it? Bend my back?

The weeks before the championship were indulgent and mostly innocent ones. Lucozade sport was consumed everyday because a rep told us it would make the difference. Nobody flinched at the €15 it took for a fat frog. The standard €50 night out doubled. Ours was the world and everything in it.

Round one. The twelve point side. What chance did they have? Routes are mapped to the final. A bus to the ground no less. New jackets. The whole town watching you. But I was about to discover the old maxim that the championship is a different game to the league.

We started well, full of running, invention and a couple of points. But the points were coming a little tougher this time. The shoulders were harder, the tackles lingered a moment more, walking that line between fair and foul. My own marker seemed to think foul was fair. They had the cheek to take the lead before half-time. Quizzical brows during the break morphed into raw fear as our power slipped. I receded into a shell. Gobbled up and spat out by the championship. The muffled groans of the embankment shook every sense. I don’t want the ball.

It was simple shock as the whistle shrilled to signal the loss. It is not supposed to go like this. What’s a backdoor?

A route out. Which we took. Two comfortable wins had us in a semi-final. Against Doneraile. The eternal foes. The same night as the debs. Our dinner would be missed. A coach was hired to take us up after; we brought the tuxedos with us. They hung on the locker key while studs rattled and numbers were handed out. Number eleven for me. Directly up against the centre-back.

I don’t know what in the zone feels like. Nor will I ever, I’d imagine it a sense of serenity during battle. An utter belief that everything you try will come off. That not only the game but time itself will bend to your will. I’m not sure how to describe the complete opposite of that. How to sum up the quivering mass of indecision I was as I approached the field. Winners want the ball. I was the other kind.

I’m not sure how long I lasted; I think it was fifteen minutes before the coach called me ashore. I hadn’t noticed my replacement coming on. So I figured he was giving me some instructions. “You are going off Paul” was his curt reply to my enquiry. I softly walked around the field back to the dressing room with whispers of condolences in my ear. Once inside I threw my gear bag across the room and kicked the bench, displaying the aggression I needed out there. It’s safe in the shell.

We won. In the final. Had a blast at the debs. The game lost to haze of sambuca. The boys did their best not to discuss it around me. Focused on getting served and dresses. They had done their part.

The final came and went. The team we were facing had two Cork minors. There is something mystical about inter-county minors. Especially in Cork. As if they are some hybrid of boy and machine. No mention of their name came without minor attached. We were beaten early. I was hooked around the fifty minute mark this time. The boys nearly came back but the die was cast.

Tears flowed after. The summer was dying and reality would have to be faced. We were minors.

The league semi-final was the last chapter. Beaten out the gate. Our coach called us a disgrace after and said he was going to watch a real team in Newtown down the road.

I found room for Heaney and Mahon, but especially Kavanagh. That was the year of the Iraq bother. God’s make their own importance.