Squareball, GAA t shirts, irish tshirts, GAA gear

This week Ger Manas takes a look at the Cul Camps. Bucketin’ rain couldn’t dampen the enthusiasm of the tribe of youngsters taking part. But what did they learn? How to leave their belongins lyin’ at their hole was one major outcome he reckons.

This week in our club the pitch has been like one of them pictures ye see from time to time on that David Attenborough’s show of a swarm of ants round an oul piece of cheese or whatever. Them VHI Cul Camps is on and for the first time now I had the chance to go up and take a looksee.

Tis great to get youngsters up thonder at the field kicking ball or puckin a sliotar round the place. Great for them, great for the coaches, most of all it seems to be great for the parents that roll up in their big fancy four wheel drive jobs, them clean as a whistle, dislodge the weans and head of for the days shopping, pamperin’ golf, meetin’ the boyfriend for a bit of whatever. Most of the parents’ feet don’t touch the ground in the carpark. Specially them yummy mummies – ye know the good lukin wans that spend too much on clothes and make up and never have the hair out of place – they can’t believe it that a load of muck savages from the GAA is taking care of their wee brats for near enough four full days. In the middle of summer. Sure seventy euro or whatever it costs is for nothin’ plus they get a free football kit. Deevine – as I heard one yoke say.

Up I went anyway – saw a few of the usual suspects loiterin about – a few of the freeloaders, one or two I’m pretty sure hadn’t paid their money but they were there anyway. Most of the youngsters I would know from going to watch the grandson in them Under 8 blitzes and that would have been there. An inch or two taller than I remember them, the legs stretchin now and them movin’ about with a ball showin’ a wee bit of grace and movement that wasn’t there a year ago. More streetwise these boyos now in their own wee ways but still cubs all the same.

There were about 140 at the camp, all shapes sizes, all ages, boys, girls, camogs footballers, hurlers – all rarin’ to go. The coaches had them well organised into county squads and graded and off they went doin’ their drills and bits and bobs. I saw youngsters there I swear they’ll never kick football or puc a ball unless they get everything transplanted but jaze they were havin’ great oul fun. But ye never get weans without some sort of ou argy bargy – Iwas standing watching a game of football for the U-13 lads and the next thing ye know the two buckos started punchin’ the dung out of one another. Jaze, that’s hardly good enough sez I to mesel. I called them over: “If I see ye at that it’s a quare boot in the hole you’ll get from me that’ll be sorer than anything ye can do to each other. Now clear off and play the game,” sez I. I was mightily pissed off that these two bollixes were takin’ the shine of the thing.

Needless to say there wasn’t a parent in sight – by this stage the hair was takin’ shape, they was teeing off on the tenth or they were lying back havin’ a smoke. One parent had the cheek to ask me who was in charge and what would happen in if something went wrong. Sez I to her, ” Wouldn’t be you anyway, dear. I saw you this morning and ye couldn’t wait to get out of here quick enough.” She muttered something about GAA culchies all being the same and strutted off in her high heels, wigglin’ her backside in white jeans that were way too tight but jaze they looked the part. Maybe twas better she didn’t hang around when ye think about it.

The next day I went up half the childer had run off into the dressing room the weather was that bad. It was pissin’ down rain like one of them monsoon countries. And ye wouldn’t believe the scene of devastation on the pitch. The weans obviously just dropped everything at their arses and ran off – there was hoodies, hurleys, helmets, shirts lunchboxes. Twas like a scene from Baghdad after them Yanks bombed them back into the stoneage and all their belongin’s were blew round the place.

I gave out something shockin’ to me grandson and he stands lookin’ at me. I’d found his helmet I bought him lyin’ there in the field with his name on it. Twas like water of a duck’s arse. Soon as I finished givin’ out – away he goes with the wee mates kicking a ball among them. At the end of the day the mothers all arrive back in the 4X4s – the good lookin’ yoke in the tight jeans was very friendly and apologised saying she didn’t realise who I was. I thought to meself “If I was thirty years younger ye’d know me all right” but thought maybe it wasn’t right said out loud.

Anyway, in they all jumped to the jeeps, and away like blazes to whatever other summer scheme was baby sitting the youngsters next, leaving tracksuits, hurleys, balls, lunchboxes, helmets and God knows what else lyin’ about for meself and the other fellas to clean up. Until they all came back the next morning for more of the same.