LOCKERROOM: When I'm out and about, shopping or busking or whatever, people often approach me and ask "did you pay for these items Sir?" and in the cells afterwards the conversation takes a conventional twist.
It's the new year, you are a chronicler of sport, what are you looking forward to the most? The World Cup? Dublin winning the hurling and football double? Rugby (these are complete strangers.)
And I always say no. What I am looking forward to is witnessing the continued adventures of the St Vincent's under-11 B camogie team. No other team gives as much entertainment for your sporting dollar, no other side gives as much commitment, no other team has my two kids on it.
They are restoring the family name, wiping away the legacy of the father whose contributions to the junior B grade were instrumental in the setting up of a junior C grade, which was mainly made up of victims of landmines and yours truly. They have a lot of wiping out to do.
Oh dear. When people would accuse St Vincent's of poaching the best players in the area the chairman would bring them out back and say: "Ah, but this too we do" and his eyes would scan the fields until he saw the erratic arc of a ball rising for the sky and falling only to rise again seconds, maybe minutes later, the distinctive signature of Tom Humphries on another harmless solo run.
And the chairman would bring the complainants to the edge of the field where they would gaze upon the ghastly menagerie of the athletically challenged and duly they would turn to him with tears in their eyes. "You're a good man," they'd say. "We shall go in peace and never complain again. We're sorry." If you've seen the fishing trip scene with Jack Nicholson driving the bus on One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest. That was us.
We would go on trips, an annual jaunt to Coventry for instance and down through England, our little hearts bursting with happiness. Every trip the same guy would start up that old sing-song chant. "Everywhere we go," he'd shout with his little lungs bursting, and hearing him our ears would prick up and we would respond in kind. "Everywhere we go," we'd roar in happy chorus. And so it went. "People always ask us 'who we are, where do we come from.' And we tell them."
By now the mentors would have pulled their caps over their eyes but they'd still glance about at us darkly just in case we broke the bargain they'd struck with us before the trip. But we never did, always we sang out proudly like they'd told us to. "We come from Parnells, goofy goofy Parnells."
Once we went on a trip to Coventry which I best remember because someone on the ferry accidentally left the door to the duty free open and we under-14 Bs impaired ourselves further with hard liquor and boxes and boxes of cigars.
We got to Coventry at about 6 a.m. and were taken to the Irish Centre for a welcome and then put out on to a pitch to play St Gabriel's of Warwickshire. By then the neutralising effect which the brandy had inflicted on the enthusiastically-inhaled cigars had worn off and our roundy little stomachs were in a state of turmoil. Some of us were very, very sick.
Of course I write these things expecting someday, somebody from the club will come up to me and say "Arrah you're very hard on yourself, sure you were a fine bit of stuff when you played."
Sadly the memories are too raw and the recriminations about who let me in still echo. The nearest I've come to cadging some insincere praise was a couple of years ago when I described an incident in a game of what we will loosely call hurling. I described how one V Finn either mis-hit a 70, or meant to pass it to me, and the sliotar hit me in the gut and plopped to the ground beside me.
Naturally I was surprised and I glanced at the ball suspiciously a few times, glanced at it and glanced at the ref who appeared to be joining in the sniggering. Finally one Jimmy Graham, whose red speedos often got selected in their own right ahead of me in teams, asked me politely if, like a good fellow, I wouldn't mind awfully picking up the flipping thing and striking it.
The only time we ever drew a crowd was when we were sent out to play the rough boys from Finbarrs or Continuity Finbarrs as they are now known. The St Vincent's committee would raise funds for the real players by running a book on which of us would get creamed first. There were all sorts of novelty side bets on first to shed tears, first to wet pants, first to flee the pitch, which hospital was on call etc, etc.
They'd never tell us it was Finbarrs we were going to play but in the days beforehand we would always have an uneasy sense of it, like cattle going to the slaughterhouse. We'd see the money changing hands, the sudden interest in our activities, men pinching our arms to see if we'd developed any muscle yet, telling us to dry those tears. They said it was all good fun but I still think it was degrading for an under-21 side.
I can remember the sort of outfit we were. Once when we got to adulthood we were sent to be trained by none other than Mickey Whelan. Mickey had a lot of new-fangled ideas about training (he especially recommended we turn up for it) and he had the paraphernalia to go with it.
For one series of exercises he stood us on the goalline and planted corner flags out on the pitch. As Mickey got further and further away from us he shouted back instructions. We were to run to the first flag, do a tumble, get up and sprint to the second flag and vomit and so on and so forth.
Finally with the last flag planted Mickey blew his whistle from somewhere in the gloaming and the first of our gallant men set forth. For legal reasons he shall remain named Michéal. He got to the first flag in good fettle and attempted his tumble not at the flag but actually over the flag, impaling himself briefly and spectacularly like a large cocktail sausage. I don't think Mickey was ever the same afterwards.
For historians among you my time playing for the club ran from 1975 to 1984, which I never hesitate to point out were the golden years of Dublin football and golden years for the club. Things ran a little dry on both fronts after that. Coincidence?
