Aug 05

An Dochtuir – I Presume

Talking Balls Comments

Massaging the calves, thighs and stars of the egos.
From July 2007. There’s many a fella dons the shirt for his county, and many’s the unsung hero. Here we paid tribute to An Dochtuir fit enough to run onto the field, fit enough to do a stitch in time. The man himself knows who we’re talking about.

At the weekend, Talking Balls was in conversation with a highly dedicated and professional doctor who works in his surgery by day but come the weekend and occasional week night he dons the black sweatshirt – not a hoodie, our superhero is too old for a hoodie he was told – and metamorphoses into An Dochtuir, patroller of sidelines, massager of egos and physician to the pampered and the proud. Yes, our man is An Dochtuir for one of our esteemed county teams. Patient confidentiality and professionalism – not to mention the hypocritic oath required to declare players fit when they are or aren’t (delete as appropriate) -prevents us revealing his identity.

Resisting the temptation to say to the manager – ‘here an Bainisteoir a chara, young Mark’s having a stinker, I’d pull him off and put Micky in, at least he can kick the ball straight and doesn’t run up blind alleys’ – our fella is the master of discretion. An enthusiastic club footballer he never troubled the thoughts of any county manager with his wiles – other than perhaps the double legendary Sean O’Neill when a student at Queen’s. ‘Did ye play a bit yerself?’ our man asked the legend Sean, unaware of the pedigree of the man who was teaching him the basics of catching and kicking. Our discussion shifted to the sublime – if he performed his duties in the nude we felt he would draw more attention to the plight of An Dochtuir, but he was less than impressed. ‘I love my county,’ he declared, a tear in his eye. ‘That is enough for me.’

So, the next time you see one of these brave individuals, run onto the field of play to tend to a fallen hero, risking life and limb – especially if Micky Moran is the opposing manager and you’re working for Tyrone – spare a thought. These men and women ask for nothing in return but the coveted black sweatshirt with the legend An Dochtuir emblazoned across the front. In years gone by their forbears lost their lives in Culloden, the Boyne, Ypres and Passchendaele, on the beaches of Normandy and in the Sands of Iwo Jima. None however compare to the heat of Clones, the ticking timebomb that is Thurles, or the Cauldron of Croker. General Lee would have been proud of them and so are we!