Ah now. I have just finished a splendid lap of honour during which I was so warmly embraced by every chalky-sleeved type I know that I had considered going back to school and milking it till I collected enough qualifications for a real job. Now this. Lip from a reader who writes:
"Hey *!@!!* You wouldn't be sticking up for @*!Eing teachers if you were doing E@$%ing exams. Get a real job!"
Well, Bozo. You think if I could pass exams I'd be doing this job?
Well, that's what I was going to say. Yet like the old donkey in the cartoon who looks at the cart and thinks, "Uh oh, it could be a trap", I backed away. I mean, if they can turn on the teachers, what hope is there for sports hacks? Time to change the tune.
Sports-writing 101, or Here's the Deal: when Dubya loses it everyone gets into the bunkers except the truly expendable, namely: Sports Hacks, PR people and Radio 2 disc jockeys. Here's your cyanide pill. So long and thanks for all the cliches.
Face it. If the sports-writing community vanished the nation would be convulsed with apathy. We have an image problem. People think our lives are a holiday, yet we do nothing but moan about sport and how awful it is. You don't have to be Terry Prone to figure how the whiney/smartass routines play to people with real jobs. From now on I'm singing a happy tune. Pollyanna with a typewriter sort of thing. Just like the ad says.
So here's a story where nobody dies, resigns, tests positive, sulks or fouls. It is with genuine pleasure that I bring you happy and significant tidings from the world of Under-11 Camogie. (Disclosure: The author admits to being a shadowy figure within this subculture. Known generally as "the fat, half-blind umpire", the author operates on another level also. He is controlled by one of the players on the St Vincent's Under-11 B squad and her mysterious colleague from the murky mini leagues. Control's instructions before games or training are unvarying: "Just don't talk to us or talk to anyone else or do anything to embarrass us. Okay?")
I should point out that the St Vincent's Under-11 B squad are largely impostors, being so far under the age of 11 that many of them have to be burped and winded at half time. They are the Anti-Bangers. They won't metamorphose into full blown championship winning Under-11 until next year or the year after, by which time the country may be too small for them and they may insist on playing in some kind of World Series affair if the cash is right.
I mention this to establish context. Saturday's crunch game against Round Towers of Clondalkin was merely the fifth game they had played. Ever. The previous four had brought some heartbreak, including an unlucky 11 goals to one defeat against Whitehall Colmcilles in the season opener. That stung. Whitehall fielded a Goliath who could pick up the ball and play it from the hand. Yikes! It was March 24th. Things looked bleak. Yet there was never fewer than 20 at training after that.
After the Whitehall trauma, the Vincent's Under-11 Bs stopped scoring goals altogether and concentrated instead on the zen arts of defence, a policy which was to reap dividends on Saturday when they took a surprise, two-goal lead in the sunshine at Moyle Park. Calls were made on mobiles up and down the sideline alerting the world that history was being created. Foolishly, TV had committed all its resources to the FA Cup final. You may be reading the only published eyewitness account.
By half time the lead had doubled. The Bs were scoring goals for fun. Literally. Jumping up and down after each one. Whooping. Asking each other how many they had scored, were they actually winning? Fun. I don't know when I last saw people having real fun on a pitch.
Not only that, but they were going to galaxies where no 11Bs have gone before. Not one, not two, but three St Vincent's 11Bs were seen lifting and striking. That takes guts. It all does. Take it from "Old Yeller", it all takes courage.
The second half saw Round Towers playing into the sun and up the hill. They were heroic, but they had no chance. They pulled two back and drew three saves from Clare, the indomitable St Vincent's Under-11 B goalkeeper. Clare didn't have to worry about her puc-outs on Saturday. Other matches have been pretty busy in that department.
Ah it was a classic. A seven-goal thriller. The easy option of points spurned throughout. The striking crisp and queenly. Personally, the sense of occasion was heightened by the introduction, at right corner forward (following a sensational dropping), of a relative of the Fat Half-Blind Umpire, Yes! Control! She was in the locality as the final goal of the game was scored by the St Vincent's Under-11 Bs. She played a full part in the post-game celebrations, which included orange, crisps and, in one poor soul, a little light puking.
They'll be together for years and it was a pure thrill to see their first win. You only get your first win once, after all. Now don't tell me we never give you good news. In fact, these are precisely the sort of stories you'll want to be hearing in that nuclear bunker.
* (Note to lawyer: Control has been reading Harry Potter and has taken to calling me Cornelius Fudge. Yet it is I who am not to embarrass her. Please check legality.)
