The First Week --

Monday:

I'm sore and bruised after last night's game. I was wasn't actually playing but I got a few belts when I tried to stop a row between Fr. Dan and the Parish Priest of Kilmagranny. I don't know who hit me but I'm hoping it was one of the other crowd. 'Twould be hard to take if it was one of our own. That's the fifth game that I've been a sub even though I'm training as hard as anyone and its not like we're ripping the championship apart. As it is, we're in shocking danger of going the whole season without scoring a goal. I'm going to have a talk with the Team manager who is also our Club Chairman and let him know how I feel. A man can only take so much and after that, its time to act.

Tuesday:

I called up to the Chairman and Team manager on my way home from work. Sweating I was. He got expelled from charm school when he was four and we've never hit it off. He was getting down from his four wheel drive Nissan when I met him. He took a long hard look at me. What do you want, he says to me. I told him straight up that I wasn't happy. Not one bit. He told me that the place to do the talking was on the field. I replied that I would talk all night if I got me chance on the team. He got a bit angry with that and told me not to be a cheeky bollix. He also said that he had seen me sniffing around Cathy Curtis and that I should forget about that because one, and he held up his index finger, Cathy was practically engaged to Willie Furlong, our Club's Senior Corner back and two, and he held up the finger next to his index finger, some might consider my sniffing around as almost incestuous behaviour. Then he told me to feck off out of his yard. I left knowing full sure that he was in no doubt that I was serious. And Cathy Curtis is related to me by marriage. So he can shag off , I said aloud and to myself as I drove back home.

Wednesday:

Bad news! Just got a text from the Team bus driver. It seems that Tom Murphy, our right half back, has broken three bones in his hand and won't be able to play for a while. Me and Tom have been battling it out all year for that position and its bad luck for him but, as the saying goes, one mans meat is another mans poison. This might be the break that I've been praying for. I get to training half an hour before everyone else and I start to do a few laps of the field before the rest of them arrive. I'm fair bollixed by the middle of the second lap but I keep going 'cos I want to be warmed up before we start training. The last thing I need is to pull a hamstring or get a groin injury because I' haven't prepared right. At the end of training, our manager, who hasn't said a word to me all night, announces the team. When he gets to the half back line, he expresses hope that Tom's injury mightn't be as bad as feared but he won't be playing in the next game. I'm in!

Thursday:

Went to the Doctor this morning to get a sick cert for the rest of the week. Don't want to risk an injury or getting banjaxed at work. The doctor insists on examing me. I tell her that I'm down to two Snack boxes a week and that I'm starting on the Silk cut as a way of giving up the fags. She's a bit reluctant but I turn on the charm and she gives me a cert for two days. Home to watch TV with a few bars of chocolate, for protein, two packets of Pringles and twenty major. This is the life.

Friday:

Cathy sent me a text. Wants to know will I meet her after training tonight, in the car park. Will I what? She tells me to bring a sleeping bag and some protection. I get the sleeping bag down from the attic, which still smells like a small furry animal curled up and died in it and put my DJ Carey Ashguard in my gear bag. All the protection a man could need. After training, where I played a stormer and cleared ball all night, I hang around until the Club car park is empty. Cathy drives arrives in her Opel Kadett , 93KK, and does a few wheelies. The stereo is blazing and she's dressed to the nines. Got the sleeeping bag, she asks. I sure do. Got the protection? I whip out the Ashguard and she looks at me and then drives off. Women! I'll never understand them. I go home and cook some pasta and eat half a dozen bananas. Healthy body and healthy mind. Then I check my gear, rub down the hurls, two 36's and one 37, and hit the feathers. I'm wrecked from nerves and an overdose of potassium. Bloody bananas.

Saturday:

I decide to rest today and I don't get out of the bed until one o clock. Another text from Cathy. Will I meet her later? I need to prepare for the game tomorrow and so I tell her I can't. She doesn't reply. I'm regretting turning her down but you have to treat em mean and keep em keen says my bachelor uncle Jimmy and he should know. He's a hoor for the women. Or so he says. Have a fry up for brunch ( that's an American word for when you have breakfast and lunch at the same time) and then down to the bookies to back a few nags. Lose fifty euro and decide to buy a Lottery ticket. Shite as well. I'm not drinking tonight so I buy six cans of Dutch Gold to put in the fridge for after the game tomorrow evening. But there's nothing on TV and I get bored and drink five of them, No point in making a pig of myself.

Sunday:

Can't sleep. Me head's spinning. How will I play. Make sure to drive low ball to the corners. And not up in the sky. Maybe even have a go meself for a point or two. Finally get to sleep only to get woken up by the phone ringing downstairs. Its Father Dan. The game is off. The Great Aunt of the Secretary of St. Peter's, who we were meant to play tonight, is after dying. The game is called off as a mark of respect. The fecking ould bitch. I go try to go back to sleep but the day is ruined now. I dial Cathy's mobile number as I could do with her soft words and strong arms. A man's voice answers it. Shite. Its Willie Furlong! It couldn't get any worse. Sorry, says I, in a foreign accent, wrong number. Jaysus, that was close.

The Second Week

Tuesday:

One day off the fags. Training tonight. Just about to leave work when the boss calls me over. Wants to know whats the story. About what, I says to him. About me not being in work last Thursday and Friday. He's really getting on my wick. So I told him that I had a cert from the doctor and that was that. 'Cept that it wasn't and he told me that the cert was in too late. And that he was docking me two days pay. Bollix. On the way home, I passed by Cathys house, But I've other fish to fry so I keep going. Its hard to train on a full belly so I wolf down a quick sandwich of two fried eggs and a skinless sausage, then grab me gear bag and up to the field. Notice a lot more cars there than usual. And I see some of the Senior team togged out. I thought they were playing away tonight. I thought wrong!

Wednesday:

I'm wrecked. Didn't get back from the hospital until after midnight. Three stitches from a gash on my thumb. Last nights training was a match between us and the Seniors. Willie Furlong, as ye know, is a corner back. And I'm normally a right half back. Not last night I wasn't. The Manager, looking straight at me, said he wanted to change a few things around. Said he wanted to try a few new ideas to see if we might improve our goal scoring average ( which is zero ). Pratice, says he, makes perfect. And I end up at full forward and Willie is marking me. I scored a goal off him and it was a red rag to a bull. The next high ball comes over. Up goes me hand. Down comes Willies hurl. And out comes the blood. F**K you, he says, and all belonged to you. Anyway, I kept going with what PJ, our medical man, calls a ''an emergency temporary holding solution''. Anyone else would call it what it is. A Band Aid. Bollixed though I was, I go to work and get sent home cos the boss says I'm not fit to work with the injury. And I can't afford the forty euro to pay the doctor for a cert. I get home, take two Ponstan and go to bed. That's two days off the fags.

Thursday:

The cut stings but I'll live. Go to work and then training. Not a word from herself since last week. Treat em mean and keep em keen, my arse. Tom Murphy is still out so I expect to be picked. I am. At full forward. It turns out that we're playing the postponed game tomorrow night and then playing Ballycoyne on Monday night. Fixtures committee. They wouldn't fix a wrestling match. Just about to leave training when the Manager comes over to me. Now's your chance to do your talking, he says. And it will be your last. Tom Murphy will back soon and you'll spend your time where you should. Warming your hole on the subs bench. I don't know why he doesn't like me. I'm not the one who got his daughter pregnant. Jaysus but I'd hoover a fag.

Friday:

I'm a bag of nerves. Back on the fags. Bought a ten pack. Of Major. Wages are a bit slack this week so its as well I'm off the drink. Anyway, its the game tonight, against St Peters. The Townies. I break my pre-match routine and drive meself to the game, stopping off at the shop to buy a bottle of Club Energise and two Mars bars. I' m there good and early. But so is she. Well, hello stranger, she says. I thought you'd emigrated. How's the hand? I'll live, I says I and I asked her how she was getting on. You heard the news, she says, knowing full well I hadn't heard a thing. Me and Willie are splitting up, she says. 'Twas getting awful serious. When did that happen? Tuesday night, she says. Now, I don't know if its her or the match but me stomach is in me mouth. I spend ten minutes in the jacks and then tog off. We're two points down at half time. The manager keeps giving me the eye. Ten minutes into the second half, I get the right ball for the first time all night and I turn me marker. Damn near ripped the net in half. But the ref says I over carried. Shite and Onions. But I get a goal after our 21 is saved and in the heaving and hoing, I got a foot to the sliothar and it trickles in. Job done. We win and that's that. As we tog off, the Manager says that if other results go our way, we have an outside chance of making the Junior top five. Yis need to win on Monday. Same team, he says. On the way home, I get a text from Cathy. Call me, it says. But I'm too knackered. Tomorrow.

Saturday:

Up early and into town. I've been saving for new pair of Puma boots. I pay five euro to park, ninety five for the boots. A fiver for tea and a salad sandwich leaves me shy of a hundred. Wonder if the local supermarket might want to sponsor my gear for the year. But they're hungry out so I doubt it. I get home, cut the grass, feed the dog and watch a bit of racing on the TV. But I fancy taking the new boots for a test drive so I head up the Park. Jaysus, I'm like a greyhound on speed. Turning this way and that. They've a red stripe down the side of them. I tell you one thing. If I don't bate the full back from Ballycoyne, then I'll dazzle him.

Sunday:

God made Sundays for resting. I'm living in the house by meself now so a few minutes gets it clean. Then the doorbell rings. Guess who. Willie Furlong. He wants to talk. Wants to say sorry for the stitches he left me with. 'Twas wrong of him, he says. Didn't we grow up together, he says. The same school, he says. Hurled together, he says. After all, says Willie, are'nt we from the same place. We shouldn't let women get in the way of that. He sticks out his right hand. No harm done, says he. Let's shake on it. I don't see like I have a choice and anyway, I want no bother from Willie, so I shake his hand. Two hours and three pots of tea later, he's still sitting at the kitchen table. He tells me that he's wicked fond of her. Wants to marry her. I must have a fecking Samaritans sign outside me door. He gets up to leave. He's f**king massive. Biggest I've ever seen him. I'll take a bating like a man, says he. I tell him the only thing I want to bate is the fullback from Ballycoyne. Take him left, says Willie. Take him left and he's bate. Day of rest me arse. I'd have been more relaxed if I had spent the day potholing with Osama Bin Laden. To top it off, Willies only out the door when Cathy texts me to wish me luck tomorrow night. Says she won't be there. Thanks be to Jaysus for that. I'm in bed by eleven o clock but its gone one by the time I get to sleep.

Monday:

Keep me head down at work. Twleve euro an hour and all pride I can swallow. Most of the lads on the team are farming or working for themselves or on the road selling stuff. I took this job after two years in college. I missed home and lots of classes. Being a man of habit and superstition, I drive meself to the game. Eat a Mars bar and a Twix. Maybe I'm diabetic. Three quarters of an hour later, we're in the dressing room and Father Dan comes in to say a prayer. And to give a team talk. Don't forget, he says, that these boys are hardy. Nearest thing to mountain men youse will ever meet. Yis will need eyes in the backs of your heads, he says. Yis all know what they say about the men from Ballycoyne. We don't but we nod anyway. Just as we leave the dressing room, Father Dan stops us. One more thing, he says. Tonights ref is Paddy Cash. The man in Black! The last time we had him, we ended with more men sent off than we had left on the pitch. And that was in a challenge match. As soon as the game starts, he blows against us for choping down. Even though we were in possession. By half time, were four points down and have three men booked, including me. On the sideline Father Dan is having fits. He has to be dragged away from Cash. Second half is more of the same until we get a 21 and Joe Fitz buries it. I've been taking my man left all night but I might as well be taking a bull for a walk. I swear he even tried to bite me. Eventually it works and I get in for a late goal. And we win by a point. After the game, I have to drive Father Dan home cos he shaking with rage and fit to be tied. I won't be saying waht he said to me but that ref will have to do some prarying to get past our Lord on Judgement day. And he might want to check out who his father is, while he's at it.

Sex, Fries and Videotape:

The Third Week

Wednesday:

Got a text today. From Father Dan. Team meeting tonight. No excuses, just be there. I drive over the club. Get a bottle of water, in the club bar. I'm on the GI diet. Its all about slow release sugar. But you're allowed a Mars bar as a treat. Anyway, I'm sitting there wondering what the feck is going on. Our manager, with a big sour puss on him, is over in the corner, talking to Willie Furlong. All the Junior panel are there. In comes Father Dan. Looks very agitated. Says he wants to speak to us. Man to man. Just him and us. I'll start with the goalie, he says. And then we sit and wait. Haven't a bollix as to whats going on. Eventually, I get called in. I'm sweating like a pig. Sit down, says the priest. He picks up a Newspaper. Did you see this, he asks me. Its the front page of one of the local papers. The headline says '' Kilkenny's alarming rise in sex diseases''. What do you know about that, asks Father Dan. Jaysus, I don't know where to look. Nothing, Father, says I. Good, says Dan. That's what I wanted to hear. Now, says he, keep it in your pants and you'll be fine. And that was it. I go back out into the Club bar. Cathy is there, with her arm around Willie's shoulder. Your well she asks. As could be expected, says I. And then I go home. Jaysus, what a night. No training. No practice. No tactics. Sexually transmitted diseases and Cathy Curtis. We'll never get out of the Junior this way.

Thursday.

On me way home from work, I meet Billy Ryan, the bus driver. Did I hear about Wllie, he wants to know? Hear what, says I. He went for a trial with the Underdogs, says Billy. Didn't make it and he's wicked pissed off over it. You'd be as well to stay out of his way for the moment. Shite. That's all I need. A manager who hates me. A priest who thinks I'm a shagging pervert. And a horse of a man who'd ate me without salt. I get home home and feed the dog. Didn't hear the front door open. Frightens the life out of me. Cathy is standing in my kitchen. Wants to talk. I'd rather not, says I. But I'm as soft as butter and I offer to make her a cup of tea. Its not tea I want, she says. I want to know what your intentions are towards me. I want to know where I stand. I know you fancy me. There's no point in pretending, she says. Jaysus, what a week I'm having. She fecks off after I stutter and stammer out a few words. I'll be waiting, she says. She won't be the only one waiting if word gets out to a certain man who failed the Underdogs trials. Hard to stick to the ould diet when the pressure is on so I chip a few spuds, fry a few rashers and plank me arse down in front of the TV. Half way through a Swiss Roll when I remember I'm supposed to be somewhere else. Training. Bollix!

Friday:

The more I think about giving up the fags, the more I smoke. Puffing and panting me way around the Park as we do a few laps before we have a training match. Tom Murphy is back but I'm after making the full forward position me own. Sour puss is prowling along the side line. I chase a ball that's going over it. You can thank the priest for your place on the team. You know where I'd put you. You'll get your comeuppance soon enough, he says. Jaysus, but he's some pain in the hole. After training, he tells us that if we win on Sunday by eight points or more, then we're through to a play off against Cluain Mhuire. Win that, he says, and we're in the top four. A semi final! I have every intention of going home. But like the song says, the road to hell is paved with good intentions and nine or ten of us decide to head into town. A few pints maybe and a bit of dancing. I'm drinking Light beer on account of the diet. By two o clock, I'm so drunk I can't remember my name. Falling around the streets looking for a taxi. No sign of the lads, anywhere. What looks like a Quarter Pounder in me hand. Jaysus, I have to get home.

Saturday:

I have no idea where I am. Not in my own bed and that's for sure. Fecking leopard skin quilt cover. Satin sheets. Heaps of pillows. I climb out of the bed. Find a pair of jeans that look like mine. In the jacks and I look at the dozen bottles of shower cream and Tea Tree Shampoo and jars of this and that. Smell rashers and eggs frying. Walk down the stairs. Slowly. Head pounding off me. Cathy's father sitting at the top of the table. Her mother spooning out grub onto plates. Her two sisters looking at me as though I have two heads. And Cathy walks in. How'd I sleep, she wants to know. God but you were drunk last night and ye with a game on tomorrow. I open my mouth but nothing comes out. Not words, anyway. Sit down says her dad, you must be starving. Nothing, he says, like a feed of beer to get the ould hunger going. So, there I am, on a Saturday morning. Eating a breakfast, cooked by Cathy's mother. Sitting next to her father. Her two sisters staring at me. And Cathy saying nothing. I wish to Christ I knew what was going on. All I need now is for Father Dan to walk in. With Wilie Furlong. And they both with hurls in their hands and they making to bate the crap out of me. After breakfast, I do the washing up with herself. Eventually, she puts me out of my misery by telling me that her and her sisters were coming home late last night and they saw me falling out of a taxi. Brought me to their house. Cathy put me in her bed. And she slept on the couch. Thanks, says I. You're welcome, she says. Her father gives me a lift to the park to collect me car. Spend the rest of the day watching TV and then off to bed.

Sunday.

Although its a mystery as to how we are in with a chance of a semi final, its a bigger mystery as to why the County Board and even the GAA president himself doesn't expel the team we're playing today. St Mary's of the Scared Heart and Blessed Jesus is their club name. But the rest of us call them the Terminators. So far this year, they've had fourteen players sent off, one match abandoned and their manager banned for three years. And she's the principal of their local primary school! We'e told not to drive alone to the game. Father Dan is already in the dressing room. PJ, our medical man, is going through his supplies. I got an extra box of bandages, he says to the priest. Our manager is in the corner. Lads, he says, yis know what ye have to do. Then Father Dan says a decade of the rosary. 'Tis more like the battle of the Somme than a hurling game. After our warm up, I jog up to the full forward position. The full back shakes me hand. Then he clatters me onto the ground. Them's a fine pair of boots, he says. You must think you're Henry Shefflin. Then he drags me back up off the grass and pulls me close to his face. I've had them all, he says. The big and the small. And you're no different. Christ! I wish I was Henry Shefflin. Then I wouldn't be in this god forsaken place with a mad man marking me. The GAA family my arse. I think I scored two goals. I can't remember. It helped that they were down to twelve men by the second half. At that stage, I was sitting on the sideline. With PJ holding an ice pack to me head. We must have won by more than eight points 'cos Father Dan is roaring and shouting. We don't bother to shower and we head stright home. But not before we see our manager roar off out of the carpark in his four wheel drive. With the St. Mary's full back throwing rocks at him.

Monday:

I wake up with a headache that would kill an elephant. And its not from the drink, either. Lucky enough that I had booked a days holidays 'cos there's no way I could work today. Decide to take this GI diet seriously so out comes the grill and away goes the frying pan. Head still hopping off me so I go back to bed. Wake up after a nighmare involving Cathy Curtis, Willie Furlong and a silage pit! No training tonight so I light the fire, stick on the DJ video and have a light snack with a bag of mixed nuts and a large Twix that's been in the fridge since Thursday. All topped off with a few cans of beer. And a diet yogurt. And a packet of Pringles. And two pizza slices.

Tuesday:

Finish work and go up to training. No sign of Sour puss. Or Cathy. Father Dan is in charge of training. Less is more, he says. Let the ball do the work. Low ball, low ball, he shouts. Then he has running and shooting off our weaker side. We finish training with a warm down. Seems Father Dan is a great fan of the Mickey Harte method of training. I thought Mickey Harte was a singer. He must be quare fit as well. Getting into my car and see Wilie coming over towards me. I got kicked out of the Underdogs, he says. So I heard, I say. He must'nt have heard me cos he repeats himself. I got kicked out of the Underdogs. They can stick up their arse for all I care, he says. A shower of wasters. And they speaking Irish all the time. I felt, he says, like I was in an episode of Ros na Run. There's other ways of getting into Nowlan Park he says. And I'll tell you another thing, he says. What's that, says I. That Eamon Cregan, say Willie, he's only two ends of a bollix.