DiscoPants
21/03/2005, 12:00 PM
I was clearing up some files on my computer and found this piece I did for college about the joys of live football V Premiership.
My father, now there is a man who loves his sport. He sets off on his bike religiously every Sunday morning to watch his sons play junior football, or to whatever underage rugby or hurling match he fancies. Some Sundays he manages to cram three games into a single afternoon.
I’d often say to him, as I was sprawled across the sofa or sitting in the pub with a nice pint in my hand, “Dad would you ever sit down and relax, there’s a great game on the television today”, to which he invariably replied, “ah it’s just not the same watching it on TV”. Strange man is my father, or so I thought!
Last weekend as this writer sat down on the sofa to watch another football match, the third live game of the day, Ford Super Dooper Sunday, or something like that is how it was billed. If you asked me who won, or even who was playing for that matter, I honestly could not tell you, for the simple reason that I switched it off after five minutes. For some reason at that instant I had a moment of rare clarity and realisation, did I really care to spend my Sunday afternoon watching two PLCs do battle in front of a gaggle of Japanese tourists?
The living room window was open and with the television off I heard the unmistakable roar and the unrestrained joy that only comes when a football team scores. The sounds and smells from the nearby park, wafting through the open window was calling me, begging me to go and investigate.
So I threw on my jacket and off I went to investigate, what could be so important, so as to induce such unbridled emotions? The answer I found was an under 14 schoolboys game, 22 kids following the ball around like demented sheep. The pitch was rutted, rendering the prospect of attractive football unlikely. The pitch marker obviously had a few too many the night before or else he forgot his protractor because the lines were about as straight as wet spaghetti. Parents lined the crooked sidelines, roaring on encouragement to their darling sons, and often abuse at any member of the opposition who dared tackle their pride and joy.
One mother in particular needed reminding that football is actually a team game, she was constantly aghast that the others were giving the ball often enough to her Anto, Anto incidentally was the only six foot 14 year old with a fully grown beard I have ever seen. He seemed intent on making up for his lack of finesse by leaving a different imprint on the game, namely the shins of the opposition players. After his third life-threatening lunge the referee briefly considered booking him but changed his mind when he considered the humiliation of being beaten up by a 14 year old.
I can’t recall either side stringing more than three passes together, or even a shot on target for that matter, but you know something it was the most enjoyable 90 minutes of football I had seen in a long time. The only goal coming when the aforementioned Anto launched a booming clearance from inside his own half which caught the wind and sailed over the clearly petrified opposition goalkeeper.
Football on television these days would have you believe that the game is full of the Craig Bellamy’s and Kieron Dyers of this world. Over-paid, overrated prima donnas who have dishonoured their profession and tainted irreparably the image of the game. What an experience like this has taught me is that for every Craig Bellamy there are hundreds of people out there coaching, playing and organising football, driven by a passion for the game for which they rarely receive or demand any thanks or reward.
Watching kids playing football for the simple reason that they love the game is a gloriously edifying antidote to the crass commercialism and sleaze that seeps from the upper echelons of football today. Give me the twinkling toes of George O’ Callaghan or the untamed wildness of Anto any day. Next time you consider switching on Sky for the titanic clash of let’s say, Bolton and Blackburn, think twice, there are hundreds of underage, Junior and Eircom League games taking place every week in the parks and sports complexes of this country.
A well-known soft drinks company used to run an ad, which went something like, “eat, sleep, and drink football”, sure do all those things, but most importantly of all get out there and enjoy it, believe me you will be rewarded.
By the way Dad if you are reading this, maybe I’ve just realised that you’re not so strange after all!
My father, now there is a man who loves his sport. He sets off on his bike religiously every Sunday morning to watch his sons play junior football, or to whatever underage rugby or hurling match he fancies. Some Sundays he manages to cram three games into a single afternoon.
I’d often say to him, as I was sprawled across the sofa or sitting in the pub with a nice pint in my hand, “Dad would you ever sit down and relax, there’s a great game on the television today”, to which he invariably replied, “ah it’s just not the same watching it on TV”. Strange man is my father, or so I thought!
Last weekend as this writer sat down on the sofa to watch another football match, the third live game of the day, Ford Super Dooper Sunday, or something like that is how it was billed. If you asked me who won, or even who was playing for that matter, I honestly could not tell you, for the simple reason that I switched it off after five minutes. For some reason at that instant I had a moment of rare clarity and realisation, did I really care to spend my Sunday afternoon watching two PLCs do battle in front of a gaggle of Japanese tourists?
The living room window was open and with the television off I heard the unmistakable roar and the unrestrained joy that only comes when a football team scores. The sounds and smells from the nearby park, wafting through the open window was calling me, begging me to go and investigate.
So I threw on my jacket and off I went to investigate, what could be so important, so as to induce such unbridled emotions? The answer I found was an under 14 schoolboys game, 22 kids following the ball around like demented sheep. The pitch was rutted, rendering the prospect of attractive football unlikely. The pitch marker obviously had a few too many the night before or else he forgot his protractor because the lines were about as straight as wet spaghetti. Parents lined the crooked sidelines, roaring on encouragement to their darling sons, and often abuse at any member of the opposition who dared tackle their pride and joy.
One mother in particular needed reminding that football is actually a team game, she was constantly aghast that the others were giving the ball often enough to her Anto, Anto incidentally was the only six foot 14 year old with a fully grown beard I have ever seen. He seemed intent on making up for his lack of finesse by leaving a different imprint on the game, namely the shins of the opposition players. After his third life-threatening lunge the referee briefly considered booking him but changed his mind when he considered the humiliation of being beaten up by a 14 year old.
I can’t recall either side stringing more than three passes together, or even a shot on target for that matter, but you know something it was the most enjoyable 90 minutes of football I had seen in a long time. The only goal coming when the aforementioned Anto launched a booming clearance from inside his own half which caught the wind and sailed over the clearly petrified opposition goalkeeper.
Football on television these days would have you believe that the game is full of the Craig Bellamy’s and Kieron Dyers of this world. Over-paid, overrated prima donnas who have dishonoured their profession and tainted irreparably the image of the game. What an experience like this has taught me is that for every Craig Bellamy there are hundreds of people out there coaching, playing and organising football, driven by a passion for the game for which they rarely receive or demand any thanks or reward.
Watching kids playing football for the simple reason that they love the game is a gloriously edifying antidote to the crass commercialism and sleaze that seeps from the upper echelons of football today. Give me the twinkling toes of George O’ Callaghan or the untamed wildness of Anto any day. Next time you consider switching on Sky for the titanic clash of let’s say, Bolton and Blackburn, think twice, there are hundreds of underage, Junior and Eircom League games taking place every week in the parks and sports complexes of this country.
A well-known soft drinks company used to run an ad, which went something like, “eat, sleep, and drink football”, sure do all those things, but most importantly of all get out there and enjoy it, believe me you will be rewarded.
By the way Dad if you are reading this, maybe I’ve just realised that you’re not so strange after all!