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A time for everything. . .

LIKE HIS FIRST steps and his first words, the first time your young fella hurls in a match, it’s something you’ll never forget. Of all the places to be in our club, Under 8 hurling is where it’s at – it beats them all for the innocence, and the beauty of the fledgling game.

As one oul lad says, leaning over the wire, pipe in gob, hurl in hand: ‘you can see their DNA from the way they hurl when they’re wee.’ By the way he hurls the ball, by the way he carries himself; from a shrug of the shoulder, to a side step, to the young ciotóg who’s strong side is the wrong side. The genealogy’s plain to see.

It’ll start indoors maybe, hurling with a plastic bas that can do no damage worth talking about, although the odd skelp can sting a knee and concentrate the mind. The loose whaling as a cub hurler pulls with gay abandon – the shiny new helmet he got for his birthday makes him lose all fears. Like the superheroes on the television, he, himself, alone, sees a field around his body that fends off any invader. Invincible he is, invisible to foe, rock solid to his friends. He sees the ball. And nothing else. He’ll be neat and tidy when he grows a bit and he’ll hurl, no fear of that.

Times go by. . . when they learn to lift and strike, it’s as if a new world has opened and unfolds before them. Henry Shefflin in the back yard burying the ball time and again. . . bottom corner, top corner. Round the dog, past the trampoline, over the bar. Shanahan to Canning, bang. The neighbour’s window gets a rattle but thanks be to God for the new double glazing. The sliotar throws back in, a flying ground stroke scalds the backside of the cat as she runs for cover. The dog ambles off the field in the manner of the inneffectual junior corner forward who’s just been given the shepherd’s crook and called ashore. Happy he’s no longer in the line of fire.

Come Spring, come the big day. The biggest stage of all. The Blitz. First time hurling against another team. The new club shirt, clean in parts but the hint of the pre-match pasta stains the front.

It takes our lad a minute or two when the ball’s thrown in, the ferocious pull, the big tubby lad a few inches taller who bestrides the pitch like a seven year old collossus. His weight throws the others about like rag dolls. Our man gets a fierce belt on the knee, the tears well up as he goes down. Next ball a shove in the back and after that another clip as he tries to lift. The cat moved a lot easier than these boys and the garden was a safer place. He feels the burning in his eyes. ‘Come on our fella’ says the coach, ‘you gotta stand up for yourself, or do you wanna come off for a while?’

The eyes flamed a look, through the bars of the helmet. Defiant, determined, twas as if he’d been set free. Next ball. Next ball. Like his grandfather slicing in the bog, hurley down, he nicks the sliotar, neat as can be. One second the hand is there, the next the ball disappears and he’s away to the side. With a flick off the wrists he drives it down the field. The cheers of his mother unheard. Next ball. Tidy as you like. Another hops at his knee, he gathers and clears. You see it takes any man a minute to get into his game. And so it begins.

To everything its place and everything has its place. But when you’re Under 8 hurling, it’s the only place to be.

Ger Manas - the man with the opinion on everything and nothing.

One of the great things about football, hurling and camogie is the amount of balls talked about it. There’s nothing better than heading to an away match in the middle of nowhere and passing the journey talking as much shite as you can about the merits and demerits of players.

“That Alan Brogan, d’ye ever see how high he bounces the ball?” “Paul Hearty can’t kick the ball straight out of his hands.” “Who’s better at hitting frees – Colin Corkery or Ronan O’Gara?” “Does Ger Loughnane coach his school hurling team.” “€15 into a camogie match, sure they’re women.”

Move it on then to the bar later in the evening and the debate gets heated, more passionate, less coherent – but still great craic. We are all fans and we all have our own wee bit to add to the debate. Talking Balls brings it all to your desktop with pure, uninhibited, well-informed ignorance.

If you’re stuck for something to argue about when you’re out and about then you’ll get a few starters for ten here. Remember as our resident expert Ger Manas famously said: “Fail to prepare, prepare to foul.”

Porcelain slender grip on the hurl

The goings on over the last year have made one particular coach ask not what he has done for his club but what his camogs have done for his blood pressure.

It all started one evening in a local bar. Our man had made the near fatal mistake of agreeing to coach the club camogie team for one night and one night only. The previous management setup had walked having had some success and succumbed to a better offer elsewhere. Less said the better.

Our coach’s one night in May was a pleasant enough experience but he soon discovered that coaching a bunch of girls aged 16-23 with one or two other ladies of advancing years was not the homely situation he thought it would be. Behind the matronly skirts of camogie there was an edge. A real edge. To the uninitiated camogie virgin coach this is a game played by unfit larger ladies that would be better sticking to the sofa and Sex in the City. Not so my friend discovered. Not so.

Our man entered a world that was deeply wondrous and strange but highly, highly enjoyable. After his one night love affair with the game he parked the subject and concentrated on the senior hurlers – a dedicated bunch that were determined to mark their passing with at least some achievement. But onwards to that night in the bar, the uncompromising camogie captain, centre back and a county star in her own right, as persuasive in her conversation as in her tackling marked him for attention. He was convinced, reluctantly, but with a hint of enthusiasm to coach the camogs for one year only.

Well, one year has passed into three. Coaching is as much about the coach learning as the players learning. So what has he learned? That camogs train their asses off. That they work as hard as any fellas he’s ever worked with. That the turnouts at training tend to be better. That they have an insatiable lust for many things, but mainly to learn and get better. That they can sledge with the best and that’s only their own teammates. At times in training he has to walk away shocked at the chat of young ladies but laughing all the same. And their skorts? A thing of wonder. Feminine, shapely and doing justice to the physiques they take the care to look after. When they lift and shape to strike it is a thing of rare beauty – much better than kicking the larger ball. Porcelain slender grip on the hurl, the wrists flick and sliotar travels. Absolute grace under pressure.

And our man has discovered that when they play, camogs play to win. And win they do, and boys do they enjoy it.

But that was three years ago, this is now. And he’s still there. Some sport with this camogie. Forget football, this is the real thing.

Snake charmin', kangaroo boxin', crocodile wrestlin'. The One and only Super Dooher.

Ger Manas extols the virtues of the player who wins the breaking ball. Who better than a man who wrestles cows, chases horses, tames lions and tickles crocodiles’ toes – supervet Dooher does it for Ger as he takes a serious look at Tyrone and Donegal.

I always loved a player that could win breaking ball. The lower the percentage of coming out with the ball, the bigger the balls on the player I find. Ye always have some namby pamby boys on the field that flitter about round the edges and aren’t worth a shite but my man is the bottom feeder – he’s like an oul duck rootin about in the muck and the dirt, comin out with things he’s no right to find – this man is king in football.

As far as I’m concerned the daddy of them all is that fella Brian Dooher. If he was a duck he’d be a la king. I went up to Clones – now I normally wouldn’t be that fussed on Clones, the smell of them burgers drives me mad – takes me back to the oul sites in London – and the walk up that Hill does nothin for me hip either but Jaze I enjoyed myself last week. I was along with the son and his young fella – but them Donegal people at matches are great. They have the look about them that they never get out much and there aren’t as many arseholes at matches when Donegal are playing. They seem to be happy whether they’re winning or losing. There was a few young girls beside me now and the thing they were happiest about was your man Kevin Cassidy’s legs. When I looked he was like a f*** mule with those legs. He didn’t grow them standing leaning on a bar. Well this one young thing all she wanted was them sticking out of her bed. She looked like she meant it too – she reckoned more donkey than mule.

I was lookin forward to see Donegal put it up to the Tyrone boys. I thought now maybe they might depending on which Tyrone team turned up. Well sure ye all saw what happened. Mickey Harte is one ruthless boy – young McGinley called ashore after 13 minutes. I’d have had him out of there sooner but I suppose they knew maybe he’d relatives at the game. Big McMahon did a lot better on Big Colm McFadden although he reminds me of a few of the older school full backs that used to have a bit of an oul gut for extra leverage. If ye ever seen that film One Flew Over the Cuckold’s nest, McFaddon would remind ye of the big Indian. Big ponderous civil big f***er who gets on with things. He gets that big hole of his between himself and the goal and jaze he’s hard to shift.

It was shaping up as a right oul game, great weather for it too and we’d a dacent feed of sandwiches the wife had made. I couldn’t get over that fella Dooher. I thought he’d be finished after them operations and him running about after animals all weeks. I heard from another boy he was chasing goats about to get fit but that could be wrong. Did that once myself with a team in Mayo – one fella got a prolapsed arse where an oul Billy of a thing prodded him in the hole. Got the boys quare an fit – running up hills and leppin over streams. Beats paddlin about in a canoe like them Derry boys were at with Paddy Crozier. Be no f***in paddlin on Sunday in Casement Paddy sez I although it would have been handy last time if the game was played the first day.

Anyway yer man Dooher, whatever he be’s at, he’s winning ball he had no right to win pointing here, charging about there. He looks like one of the Indian’s yee seen on Dances with Wolves – all hook-nosed, straight backed with a fierce oul bit of pride in him. Many’s the bull he’s grabbed by the horns but yon’s as honest a performance as I saw. That young fella Mulgrew too shiftin round the place like a ghost – one time he gave one of the fancy disguised passes he gives and the Donegal man tackled him anyway. The goal was as good a goal as I seen. O’Neill’s hands were as fast as a teenagers in the back row of the pictures with his young wan. Big Durkan’s a big hoor too, so Mulgrew did well to get the ball in the goals. I dunno what Durkan was doing for the penalty, throwing the ball away and then standin lookin like a f***in gomb as yer man rolls it in. Knowing McIver I’d say he slapped a few arses at half time. If was the Donegal lad that was marking that Conor Gormley when he caught the ball under one arm I’d be embarrassed. Devenney I think it was. That man’s a great footballer but he needs less wind and piss and more make your mind up time. Is he gonna do the business or not – we all need to know. Tyrone look good but I’d say that could be Donegal’s load blown.

If any young cub’s is watching them Tyrone fellas – look at Dooher and O’Neill. First things O’Neill did and him not fit was nick a Donegal short free and set up a shot on goals. Dooher worked up and down the pitch, makin his own rules- hungry for the ball and knowing where to go get it. Hunger’s what made Napoleon’s boys go on the long march; it helped in the siege of Derry and it brings out the best in men. That Dooher fella, he can Dance with my Goats any day I’ll tell ye.

Wilde Hanlon's target market.

On the back of reports last summer that the GAA was seriously under-exploiting the tourist potential of ‘our national games’, Talking Balls is proud to announce its association with an exciting new venture designed to make the whole operation more accessible to non-national would-be GAA fans. In association with Wilde Hanlon Enterprises a new tourist support scheme has been revealed. Initially offering four distinct packages designed to cater for all sorts of fans, the scheme is simplicity itself in its construction and execution.

For a predetermined fee, Wilde Hanlon will match the tourist up with an established GAA supporter who will give him or her an authentic matchday experience. The four packages available are as follows.

The dispassionate and objective expert: usually a spectator with a minimum of some club management experience, the dispassionate expert will offer incisive and insightful analysis as the game progresses. There will be no partisanship or raised voices and the expert will provide the non-national with tasty technical morsels, demonstrating where any given ball should be played at any given time. As part of this package, a flask of tea and ham sandwiches will be provided.

The supporter in the know: a spectator with ‘inside knowledge’ of the team particularly who has been breaking the drink ban, who has been courtin’ the manager’s daughter or the full back’s fiancé and crucially when the mercurial injured midfielder will return to the fray. Typically he/she will either have a clubmate or relative on the panel but will remain coy about specifics. Packages are currently available for Donegal and Roscommon football, and Offaly and Derry hurling games.

The shirt tugger – for female or gay fans. This supporter unashamedly follows the GAA to pull, and is happy to escort likeminded males or females to the ground. Will use any means to get access to the players and will flirt shamelessly with any player in a county shirt – married, divorced, engaged, straight or gay. A warning to tourists- they should not offer any realistic competition to the shirt tugger – rather they should target, chase and catch their own players. Satisfaction almost guaranteed.

The awful hoor altogether: this premium level accompaniment guarantees an eventful day out fuelled by many litres of beer. The pre-match period will be spent in the environs of one of the closest pubs to the ground. During the match itself the awful hoor altogether is guaranteed to provide a stream of vitriol, abuse and invective at the referee, opponents, opposing supporters not to mention under-performing members of his own team. Sure to be first over the wire in the event of a row, the awful hoor altogether promises a genuine GAA experience.

It is anticipated that other categories of support will be provided for in due course. For further details contact www.wilde-hanlon.com or email Talking Balls for the usual level of response.

Follow me. . . and I will give you the rest.

This week, Ger Manas takes a fond and fatherly look at one of the modern greats. Film buff, footballer, fans’ favourite and all round fun guy, Armagh’s indomitable leader Kieran McGeeney – fighting the good fight this Sunday against Derry.

I spent a good bit of time up with Joe Kernan’s team in 2002 when they won the All Ireland. Them fellas had more mumbo jumbo and philosophy going on than you’d believe and only half what you read in the media is true. The other half you wouldn’t believe it anyway. Jaze there was some fired-up boys altogether in that set up. I’ll tell you that South Armagh is some place – it’s no wonder folks needs helicopter to get in and out.

It was about that time I first really took much notice of that fella Kieran McGeeney. I’d always thought he was a humourless enough hoor of a boy – I mind one night the Armagh team was on telly – they’d won the Anglo-Celt and it was Kieran’s first year as captain. He looked like some man had pissed on his pasta instead of having just won Ulster. I could understand him now lookin’ as bored as a hooker at the end of a shift but in them days Armagh was still all fur coat and dirty drawers. Sez I to mesel’ thon boy would need a shot of something to crack thon smile. Nowadays, well he still looks dour enough betimes but I’ll tell ye, he’s the real McCoy. I met him again at a do one night after Tyrone beat them in 2005 and I sez Kieran, no matter what, you need to come back. If you don’t people will think you give up cos you was bate and no man wants to spend all their days thinking about standing on a sideline watching them Tyrone hoors pull away. He says ‘Your right Ger. By the way have you seen the new Harry Potter movie?’

Ye soon learn. Well there’s some fellas that smile when they shouldn’ and others go round the field scowlin at everyone. That Ciaran Whelan for example sickens my shite with the f***in stupid big Sepp Maier gloves on, grinning like yer man jaws outa James Bond. Jaze I love oul James Bond. Once I got over the fact he was English – thanks to me oul mate Sean Connery that I played golf with once – I thought James was a great lad. He tackled some women did James Bond – reminded me one time I went on a rugby tour and there was a public school centre played for us – got caught goin’ flat out under the cover of a lifeboat. ‘You’ll only live twice.’ I remember him saying to me, as this young one tore her dress on a splinter getting out of it. That’s one thing me and Kieran share – a love of good films. He had me watching that American football show about Inches. I couldn’t understand a word them big black fellas were sayin’ – they never spoke like that when I was on the sites in London. Anyway, not many people know that he watches Cool Hand Luke again and again and can eat a hundred hard boiled eggs. He is William Wallace.

Anyway, you wouldn’t catch McGeeney ridin’ in Lifeboats. No Sir, he’d be on the captain’s deck, steering the ship and if she went down, he’d go down with her. I was talking here a while back about Brian Dooher. Well, Geezer as they call him does it for me too. He might have got skinned by Brian McGuigan – he told me that it was a privilege to be skinned by Brian and I have to agree – and Sean Cavanagh – but when Armagh needs him he delivers. He may be slower now, but he reads the game like a ship’s captain reads his charts. The distribution can be wonky from time to time as he gets on, but sure I have problems down below and I know how he feels when the desire is let down by the performance – part of getting older Kieran me oul son.

See McGeeney is a gaelic and athletic man through and through. He’s no dead fish – I hear he eats fish sandwiches with nothin’ on them – and he goes with no flow. Players round the place would do well to look at McGeeney with his press ups using one wee finger, his attention to detail, his inches all round him. One thing he should do is cut the chat – a man that’s done what he’s done and won what he’s won doesn’t need to chattin’ down to boys. Only exception I’d make is them Aussies – jaze I loved it when he shovelled into yer man in Croker. Afterwards he sez to me, if it’s boxin’ they want, let’s call it boxin’ but don’t call it football.

I’ll be lookin’ out for him now on Sunday now, when they play Derry. I remember he toul’ the papers after they won the All Ireland about how much it meant to a man called Charlie Grant that coached him when he was a cub. Boys like McGeeney remember things like that and boys like the fella he was talkin’ about will always remember boys like McGeeney. I remember sitting in Croker in tears watching lads I had coached lose an All Ireland Final. It was like watching one of your own dyin’ and there nothin’ you could do. Difference with McGeeney is the fellas got to watch him winning. I’ll tell ye, he’d need a martini or two, but Jaze he’d make a great James Bond.

I was watching that lad Greg LeMond win the Tour de France one year I was on holiday over there. I drove about a hundred mile to watch the hoors and they flew past me in about five seconds. Anyway, LeMond won the oul thing and I remember seeing in the paper he had an abscess the size of an orange in round his bag where the shorts were chafin’. Every night the doctor would drain off what they could and the next day off he’d go, chafin’ the bit out. Always liked the ould tour and I was fierce disappointed to hear about the dopers. Anyway, my point is, yer man Tony Griffin from Clare is some fella – cyclin across Canada for his da. My cubs wouldn’t cycle to the shop to get me a pint of milk. Young Griffin’s oul boy died of cancer – so he decided to set up fundraiser. Great job and fair play to him. Dunno the details but sure if someone rattles a tin at you throw in a few Euro.

From rags and rages to riches. . .

This season you have to go to see the riches to rags and back again story of Oisinderella – it has it all – pints, points and punts.

Poor oul Oisinderella thought she would never get to the ball – in fact she couldn’t even afford the taxi having lost all her readies on a well intentioned but foolhardy punt. That is until the big orange pumpkin turned into a wonderful coach called Big Joe, the donkeys previously known as the McEntees actually turned out to be thoroughbreds and the handsome young prince called Geezer delivered riches untold to Oisinderella and her ilk.

Also featuring Jack O’Connor as the whiner Twankey, guest star Francie Bellew as a Mrs Doubtfire-esque fairy godmother – and back by special request, Tyrone’s Conor Gormley, Ryan McMenamin and Brian Dooher allstar as the three ugly sisters. Also featuring Buttons – who lives in Oisinderella’s pockets cos there’s nothing else in there only… Buttons. Buttons lives in terror of being given away to the Evil Bookmaker sponsored by none other than Paddy Power.

The dramatic tour de force features specially adapted versions of modern classic tunes including Coldplay’s Fix You, Johnny Cash performing Sunday Morning Coming Down, Van Morrison’s Have a I Told You Lately That I Love You, sung acapella by the three ugly sisters, as well as ABBA’s Take a Chance on Me, You Better You Bet by the Who and the Rolling Stones You Can’t Always Bet What you Want.

The plot – well it’s simple really.

Oisinderella lived at home – a big fish in a small pond – always busy – there was always something somewhere to be cleaned out. But every time Oisinderella went for the ball, the three ugly sisters always called her names and were always cruel saying the nastiest things that weren’t true. Then they sniggered and laughed when Oisinderella went and cried about it. Especially when they had the last laugh. Poor Oul Oisinderella couldn’t hack this – especially with so many other things going on in her life. It was tough being a big girl’s blouse she thought to herself as another dream – and a pink slip – turned to ashes. Burnt again.

Conor the biggest ugly sister burst into Oisinderella’s world: “I will put you in my pocket and feed you on farts as Brolly told us to do”, said Conor.

“Oh no you won’t,” said Oisinderella,

“Oh Yes I will,” chorused Conor and Ryan.

“Oh no you won’t,” said Oisinderella,

“Oh Yes I will,” chorused Conor and Ryan and Brian.

“Oh no you won’t,” said Oisinderella,

“Oh Yes I will,” chorused Conor and Ryan and Brian and everyone from the dastardly County of Tyrone. Oisinderella hated people from Tyrone – she couldn’t put her finger on it – she just did. They didn’t really mind her – they knew she had been to the ball just the once and would never ever be back and that was sad – nothing else.

At this Oisinderella turned and burst into tears, she sobbed: “I’m only happy when I see the big orange pumpkin. Why are the ugly sisters being so nasty to me?”

“Because you’re a big wean and you cry a lot…” chorused thousands of people who were already sick of the pantomime. We wonder why…

Not to be continued…

Massaging the calves, thighs and stars of the egos.

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!

Mags is a fine figure of a woman. . . but no so good for Ger's blood pressure!

In this week’s column, Talking Balls resident expert Ger Manas looks at a subject not dear to his heart, GAA fashion. With jerseys getting gaudier and shirt designers losing more and more sense of taste, Ger applauds that timeless design classic – the camogie skirt.

I was down in Castlebar there on Sunday giving me oul friend from Mayo John O’Mahoney a hand for the match against the Dubs (I had to tell Ger Loughnane I’d see him again). Now I wouldn’t share big John’s politics but I’ll tell you he can fair give an oul’ half-time team talk. He says to me before the game, ‘Ger, tear you on there, I’ll say nothing till we get to half time.’ Well, I toul them boys a few home truths about the Dubs and that Pillar Caffrey strutting about thunder as if he was on traffic duty or guarding a love Ulster rally. ‘Remember,’ sez I, ‘the way they jundeyed your physio in Croke Park and the way Pillar dozed into John Morrison.’ ‘Morrison deserved it,’ says Mortimer – I think it was. I laid it on straight ‘There’ll be no f***in jundeyin the day unless it’s by a Mayo man.’ I was disappointed with the reaction of the boys now I have to say in the first half.

Well you wanta have heard O’Mahony at half time. He could have been in the Dail already tackling Bertie about the Tribunal or shaking hands with Big Paisley or something. Jaze, he quoted Parnell, Nelson Mandela, Maya Angelus, Al Pacino and General Patton. He produced every losing medal Mayo ever won and by jasus it worked. There’s a tear in my eye now thinking about it – I know my blood was up at the time. I was still pumpin’ when I got home that evenin’. But, Jaze, the blood pressure was bad enough without the scene I saw when I got in.

The niece’s daughter plays half forward for our camogie team. She’s a great girl, strong on both sides – great wrists. Well, her and a few of the girls were in our house – they’d had delivered from them O’Neills a batch of these red yokes – ’skorts’ I think they call them – the girls wanted them she said. Well jaze I’ll tell you, I never seen a more obscene and revealing sight like it in my life and if that’s what camogie’s coming to I’ll be jackin it. These jobs are like a cross between them hotpants Twiggy used to wear when I was about in the sixties and a belt.

You want to see that for a sight. As tight as a nut round the backside and I swear to all and holy, they couldn’t show more of their thigh off if they were wearing nothing down below. That fake sunburn stuff they all wear makes it worse. I asked her what was wrong with them pleated skirts that come down round the knee – they are grand and warm and they protect the thigh if you get hit with the oul ball on a coul day.

Sometimes if it bounces the right way the sliotar can get caught up in them which can work out well enough for you. The neice’s daughter toul me these things are all fashion and the county girls have them. What I couldn’t understand is that these yokes are dearer for about half the material. Anyway, the long and short of it is we struck an oul deal there and then that they could wear them at matches but not at training. I couldn’t be putting up with that two nights a week – jaze – the wife’s happy enough to see me headin’ out without me coming home in bad oul form with the blood up and her havin’ to sort me out.

I was sitting there the night and I heard on the wireless that Dessie Farrell and the boys had gone professional. That Donal Cusack – he’s a sharp hoor. They talk about managers getting paid and being professional? Load of shite – I remember managing a team out in Galway one time and the boys used to throw me the odd sides of beef from time to time and fill the car with a drop of diesel out of the tank down on a farm and maybe an envelope now and then. I got the roof re-tiled once and a fortnight’s holiday in a fella’s villa in Spain. I dunno what’ll be the end of this pay for play – but I’ll tell you one thing after Sunday and a few other games I seen – the Dubs is lucky they aren’t getting paid by the hour.

Finally, good luck to Omagh CBS in the Hogan Cup Final. I took them boys Noel Donnelly and Dinky McBride up at the Poly for the odd session. Noel always talked about former CBS manager Terry McGurk’s inspirational words: ‘We’re working lads, we’re working.’ Couldn’t have put it better meself.

Cherish and support the young players, for they are the future of our games.

Inspirational words for the next generation From Gaelic Football Skills by Michael O’Sullivan.

“While playing, the young player may release such feelings as frustration, insecurity, fear, bewilderment and confusion. By playing out these feelings, he brings them to the surface, gets them out into the open, faces them, learns to control them and abandons them. Through participation the player can become emotionally stable, mature and capable of controlling his emotions in a game situation.”

Talking Balls came upon this classic volume when we were reddin out the attic and by God we’re happy we did. To clarify things a bit we thought the following pointers may help you deal with these tell-tale signs:

Frustration: player may throw his hurley over the wire, pull on the medical bag or even his strike his own helmet; often this emotion can lead to an assault on an opponent. Commentators often refer to players getting frustrated as an excuse for inexcusable stupidity.

Insecurity: the young player may feign injury or even call in sick to school to avoid playing a game; he/she may say ‘if I don’t play well in midfield can you put me back to corner forward’; other symptoms include tears after missing a score usually accompanied by verbal abuse of the ‘you’re a useless f***in so and so etc’ sort. Best addressed by avoiding excessive critical abuse and coaches laying off the sports psychology they picked up from reading too many sports autobiographies. Rule of thumb: Amateur psychologists = professional arses.

Fear: generally brought on by playing in a grade too far above them or by marking a big lump of a fella who would break one of your lad’s spindly legs with a flick of his thumb. Fear can be caused by unsporting comments like ‘I’ll break you if you touch that ball again…’ There can also be a fear to tackle, shoot, block or even catch the ball. Natural lack of aggression or competitiveness can lead to the player being branded a yella b**tard. Now we wouldn’t want that would we?

Bewilderment: always good to touch on this in your team talk at half-time lest your players kick the ball the road they were facing in the first half as soon as they get possession from the throw-in. ‘Don’t be bewildered now lads…’ isn’t heard that often in dressing rooms but it should be. Can also be brought on by a clash with the big opposing full back or by marking a player whose boots they couldn’t even lace. Some players can go through an entire season looking bewildered. This is caused by bewilderment.

Confusion: most commonly occurs after the pre-match team talk or after being told they are coming on as a sub. ‘Am I right corner forward or left corner forward’ (as if it matters). This player has usually satisfied him or herself with the prospect of an evening kicking the ball up and down the sidelines with the other nine subs until faced with the terrifying prospect of actually playing. Bad coaches breed confusion.

If you can successfully identify these symptoms in your young players and deal with them the players will become emotionally stable, mature and capable of controlling his emotions in a game situation. Remember though, the potentially disastrous consequences if you fail? Your players will turn out just like every other GAA player the length and breadth of the country. Now that’s a price worth paying isn’t it?

Next week, from the Coaching Manual – encouraging young players by bringing them to county games and discussing what they have seen. I bet you can’t wait to read that one?