“Woudja ever get up off-a yer arse and write something!” says An Fear Rua to an t-Imreoir the other day…

Easy for him to say, says I to meself, but as he was paying for the dinner, I thought I’d better humour him. They must have nothing better to do in Gowlnacalley but sit around the place and write articles about the state of the nation or anything else that tickles their fancy. Meanwhile, down in me own little corner of the country, we’re desperately trying to get on with the re-development of our club grounds.

We only bought our own field in the early 80’s, as the club had been de-commissioned through the 50’s and on into the 70’s. Emigration, you see, had robbed us of the necessary bodies to field a team. Back in 1976 the tide had begun to turn and we re-emerged with a Junior team for that year’s championship. For years we struggled to get fifteen and many’s the poor unfortunate that was nabbed on his way out of eleven o’clock Mass iv’ a’ Sunda’ mornin’ to make up the numbers for a game at the other end of the county.

Changed times now, mind you. We have three adult teams (one senior and two junior), a ladies team and a host of underage teams of all sexes. Not bad going for a wee parish of 600 odd souls (most of them very odd!). Our grounds were first opened in 1986, complete with new dressing rooms, which made a grand change from togging out in the turf shed of the ‘local’ and running a quarter of a mile to the pitch for every game.

They were great days though. Football and hurling didn’t seem half as serious. There was no training to speak of (until a couple of weeks before the Championship), matching togs and socks were unheard of (unless you were in a county final), and the subs wore either leather jackets, duffel coats or fair isle jumpers instead of fancy shellsuits or tracksuits (that’s if you had subs of course).

Referees frequently togged out in their ordinary Sunday clothes (for league games anyway), and a meal after the game was a ham sandwich or a packet of Tayto in whatever pub the other crowd drank in. Underage games were the best craic of the whole lot. How many of you played U-14 when you were ten and marked some buck who’d cut himself shaving that morning? My cousin played his last U-12 game for us when he was fifteen. We’d have had him the following year too, but he abandoned seventh class and headed to England to work for Murphy instead.

That’s another thing. Does seventh class still exist? They used to register bucks at home in seventh class so they could play for the school in the evenings, and spend their days running the farm for their oul fellas. I presume it was the same countrywide.

Then there were the characters you’d find on the sideline. I remember one man exhorting a young lad to “Drop your front bucket, for Christ’s sake!” when the poor soul was a bit slow on bending down for the pick-up. Or the lad who encouraged one of our crowd to flatten an opponent. “Flatten him?” says one of the oul crew, “He wouldn’t flatten cow shite!”

I’d better stop it there, because I’m beginning to sound like me own oul fella, reminiscing about the good old days. It’s only fifteen years ago for God’s sake, but how the GAA has changed in the meantime. Now, of course, there’s sponsors for everything from jersies to boots to post-match meals. There’s intensive training that lasts from January to October and is as regimented as anything at county level. It doesn’t end with “”Next score wins lads” anymore either. It feckin’ well ends with ten more laps.

The characters are either gone from the sidelines, or we’re just too busy to listen any more. You won’t see the oul man with the cap, hobnail boots, walking stick and the Sunday suit anymore, standing on the sideline extolling the virtues of catch and kick. They are there alright, but now they’re wearing Levi’s and a pair of NIKE runners with the Walkman the granddaughter got for Christmas tuned into the big game in Croke Park. Sure they’re too busy to be shouting obscenities.

It’s so professional now that T na G are showing club games live on the box, there’s an increasing trend of payments to club managers and water is provided for players in blue plastic Lucozade sport containers instead of pub issue Smirnoff or Paddy bottles. Even league games now start on time, a “warm-up” is more than just booting the ball in and out of the goal area, and you have no hope of winning the county championship unless you have a physiotherapist of good standing.

Ah it’s changed times alright. Sure there’s even a few nancy boys playing it now, according to John Ryan and the GI crowd. Maybe d’Unbelievables were right after all: ‘Some a’ dem’ lads are only dow-en for the showers….’