Goodbye’s too good a word, babe
So I’ll just say fare thee well.
Bob Dylan - 'Don’t Think Twice It’s All Right'
This is going to be the last one of these columns. I won’t say I’ll never write another one again, but this particular chapter comes to an end today.
It’s a strange thing.
When I started working for The Irish News 21 years ago, I had a very clear idea of my audience.
At that time I was still in my mid-20s so I wasn’t that far removed from the coalface.
As a club footballer, I thought a lot of GAA journalism was completely out of date. There was little to no mention of tactics or coaching methods - all the stuff I was into.
I was also convinced that most GAA journalists completely undervalued the influence of the man in the bainisteoir’s bib.
I wanted to change all that. I wanted to write for the 18-year-old MacRory Cup player, the Sigerson Cup footballer, and the county U21. I wanted to write for club footballers like myself.
I knew these individuals and I was keen to produce material that was relevant for them.
Needless to say, I knew the auld hands too. On any given Sunday there could have been half a dozen of them in our front room. Oh I knew those men all right.
But I didn’t feel any obligation to write for them. The old guard never got too hung up on tactics or managers or any of that fancy stuff. And that’s what I saw as my specialised subject.
Then a strange thing happened. I stop playing football. I quit sports journalism. I drifted farther and farther away from the coalface.
When I started this column again, I realised I had absolutely no idea what a MacRory Cup footballer was thinking. As for tactics and coaching systems - I had no idea either. Better again, I didn’t care.
That’s when it dawned on me. I’d joined the old guard too.
My people were now the old-timers. Men like Francie John O’Kane, Johnny McGuigan, John J McKenna and Paddy McCrory, native of Kildress, county Tyrone relocated to the North Antrim Coast.
I know these men. You know them too.
Francie John O’Kane fixes our cars.
I can remember calling with Francie John one day. It was the summer time. I left the car in with him before I went on a holiday.
The memory is still fresh. The car business was sorted out in seconds. Then we started talking football. To be more specific, we started talking St Malachy’s, Castledawson.
Francie John is a Sally Anne’s man. It didn’t take long for things to get animated - very animated.
When the conversation started, Francie John was lying under a car. Shortly afterwards he was pacing around the yard in circles, imitating a particular footballer hand-toeing the ball.
This individual had a habit of playing with his head down and taking too much out of the ball.
It was a beautiful summer’s day. The sky was blue and the air was blue too as Francie John expressed his objections as only Francie John can.
I can remember thinking to myself that most people’s trips to the mechanic probably aren’t like this.
Chances are, you’ll know a Francie John.
You’ll know a Johnny McGuigan too. Over 30 years ago when Swatragh were building their clubhouse, Johnny would work all day in McGuigan’s Garage.
Then he’d go home, get washed up, eat his dinner and head up to work all evening at the club. Swatragh built their clubhouse with voluntary labour. It was burnt to the ground. They built it again.
A few weeks ago, our club’s pitch was targeted - again.
John J McKenna is the groundsman. My first memory of John J is watching him tog out at the side of the road when Glen’s pitch was on the Fivemilestraight. There were no changing rooms. Strictly speaking, there wasn’t even a pitch. It was a field.
When they rip up our field they might as well stab John J with a knife. That pitch is like family to him. But when lockdown ends, and the games resume, that playing surface will be like Augusta. You’ll know a John J too.
In writing these columns, I have enjoyed writing about men like this and for men like this.
And of course, I do like telling yarns.
I’ll leave you with this one. I couldn’t get it shoehorned into a column from a few week ago.
It was the article about the daft things managers used to say.
When I asked our WhatsApp Group to provide some examples, Ronan McCloskey supplied this tale.
It was about his brother Davy, who has given his blessing for it to be put in print.
Davy and myself were the same year at St Patrick’s, Maghera. Like all the McCloskeys of his breed, he was rock solid. A strong man. A fine hurler, and a decent footballer.
On the night in question, Davy was playing full-back for the Dungiven seniors. He was marking Paddy Bradley.
Paddy was in his prime. Davy thought he was doing rightly. He’d kept Paddy to a few points.
But the Dungiven manager wasn’t impressed. Davy got the curly finger. As he trudged off the pitch, he was visibly dejected. The manager moved to console him.
“Never worry Davy,” he said. “I’ve seen thon boy destroy good footballers.”
Fare thee well auld hands.
