Ger Manas: Holding Back the Years, and the Belly
Talking Balls
This week, Resident Expert Ger Manas extols the virtue of that Elite Band of Men. Age has not withered them. At the rising of the sun in the morning and in the evening, towards the twilight of their careers, they’re still game ball. The over forties, the Masters, the legends. Together one more time.
The daughter’s husband’s brother-in-law has joined the county’s Over Forty squad and the excitement in the house, Jaze, you’d swear he was a minor all over again. Except when he was a minor he thought a ball was something you had at the weekend or when the parents were away.
This man is what them experts call a Late Developer and I suppose it helps that late in his life, the county where he lives up in Ulster managed to lift Sam for the first time in their history. He got desperate fired up with a grá for the association and our games that would put many’s the lifelong clubman and county man to shame. The fire that was lit that day is still burnin; and by God he’s as keen as they come. This man, who has worn the shirt of An Dochtúir with pride, now has the honour of wearing the County Jersey.
So how has this fella made the transition from inept speedster to inept speedster? Well, his fledgling interest in games not by goin’ to them Go Games and Cúl camps. No, this man he fell into bad company up at University. Some boys hit the beer, others started backin’ the women and ridin the horses. This man, he hung around with fellas that actually could kick football. And he had the good fortune to be coached by none other than the legendary Sean O’Neill. When O’Neill tried to give this raw but enthusiastic youngster a few pointers from the road to greatness, our man’s answer was – ‘Did you play a bit yourself Sean?
Nowadays himself and the son rush round the house looking for gloves, boots, a wayward sock and a pair of clean shorts. The wife stands, tolerant, bearing up. A GAA WAG, in her forties. When you ask her what the story is, she shakes trhe head. ‘As you say yourself Ger,’ sez she to me ‘he need a good kick up the hole.’ Adding, with an oul smile as the face melted ‘but he’s in great shape.’
And she’s right. His advantage over other fellas is that he is in good shape. Lethal shape in fact. The waistband on the shorts doesn’t have the ou gut hangin’ out over it like other fellas. This boy has none of them bingo wings or whatever they’re called and no blubber. He’s a right speed merchant and him well into his forties. Not in as good shape as I would have been but sure ye can’t be perfect. I reckon he got the athleticism and speed from his father God Rest Him. And, some stage along the way he learned to catch the ball, to solo and run. Now though, he’s a bit like that Forrest Gump fella in the film – he just keeps on running. . . and running. . . and running.
Anyhow, now he’s playin’ with them over forties or masters or whatever they’re called. These men are legends some of them - they’ve baubles and medals galore gleaming at home in the bottom of cupboards or hangin’ up in Club House boardrooms. There’s shirts hangin’ the length and breadth of the country, bought for thousands at auctions the length and breadth of the county. To be fair to him Our Man has been accepted by the greats because he can run, and he doesn’t hide. And they’re all flesh and blood and enjoy the craic and the games same as the next fella.
So, look out for these fellas on a field near you. These boys with a glint of grey in the hair or mebbe no hair at all; the shudder of the oul hefty gut; the rifleshot pain when you rip that hamstring again. Them all puce cheeks, panting, pushing back the years. Over Forties. Unreal.