A few years back I had a chat with Noel McCabe, the then Nottingham Forest scout who sent Roy Keane on his way from Cobh Ramblers to English football, and he told me about a young fella, around 15 or 16, he'd spotted playing for a Dublin schoolboys' team who he reckoned had everything it took to make it all the way.
The problem was the young fella in question wasn't for shifting and for the first time in McCabe's scouting career he was confronted with a teenage Irish footballer who had no interest whatsoever in moving to one of England's (then) leading clubs. McCabe was puzzled by the situation and decided to pay the young fella a visit.
He arrived at the house, to be greeted by exasperated parents and the young fella himself sitting on the couch in the living room with his arms crossed defiantly, the expression on his face reading: "Leave us alone, would ya - there's nothing you can say to make me change my mind". After a gentle interrogation the truth was outed: the young fella had met the girl of his dreams and was extremely, nay acutely, in love. Not even the prospect of scoring the winning goal in an FA Cup final at Wembley would tempt him to leave her behind.
Now, Noel told me this story half laughing, half weeping, but I sensed that my non-wussy, non-girlie credentials were at stake and I had to feign disgust at this young lad's lack of ambition and his willingness to allow his heart over-rule his nifty left foot. Truth was, I was thinking: "Go on ya good thing". Imagine a young fella resisting all those carrots dangled before his eyes for the sake of lurve? Bless him. Damm it, they probably broke up when he was an auld fella of 16 and a half, but I hope they didn't. Maybe, if he had put himself through a hellishly emotional scene at Dublin airport - "I know you'll meet someone in Nottingham ye louser, I just know it" - he'd be advertising crisps by now and earning £50,000 a week, but maybe he wouldn't.
Maybe he would have appeared on Ceefax, page 312 (football news in brief), these past few days, as one of the young Irish lads released by their English clubs. Every day, this time of year, it's the same. "Brighton and Hove Albion boss Micky Adams has handed free transfers to Warren Aspinall, Martin Ling, Keith McPherson, John Westcott and Paul Armstrong." Paul Armstrong? Twenty-one-year old Dubliner, former Irish under-21 international, been with Brighton since he was 18. Shaun Carey? Another former Irish under-21, released by Norwich City last week.
Sean Mannion? Stella Maris old boy, 20 years old, offered full professional terms by Stockport in the summer of 1998, made his first team debut last season, when he was still a teenager, in the English first division. Janie, the future looked so bright he had to wear Ray-bans. Last week? Let go by the club, but Wrexham and York City are showing an interest.
It's ironic enough that in the week that all these names keep popping up on Ceefax Brian Kerr should have bemoaned the serious lack of educational development amongst young Irish footballers earning their keep at British clubs, based on his experience with the under-16 team at the European championships in Israel recently.
"We've asked the players what they do in their spare time at their clubs and they tell us they play snooker and watch television. Very few of them are being educated about life, about books. Their concentration levels are very poor," he said.
And you'd have to worry about the future of the young fellas appearing on page 312. What happens to them if another club doesn't sign them up? It's wonderful when they make it, but when they don't what on earth have they to fall back on? At times like this you'd wish they'd all fallen madly in love when they were 15 or 16, and passed up on the chance to be deemed a failure in life at the grand old age of 21.
