On Any Given Sahurday
Setting: A dressing room in Croke Park October 1'st, 2016. A couple of minutes before the throw in.
Jaysis Lads. I don't know what to say really.
3 Minutes till the biggest final of our non-professional [not counting the free cars and all that] lives. All comes down to today.
Either we heal as a team, and forget about two own goals we gifted then gurriers or we're bollixed. Point by point, we give it all, 'till we're knackered.
We're fecked right now fellas, believe me. And we can stay here, and get our arses handed to us, and back up the M4 and the N60 trophy-less, or we can fight our way back, into a sea of Green and Red. We can climb out of hell, and swagger into Coppers as champions. One point at a time.
Now I can't do it for you. I'm too old. I look around, I see these young faces, and I think ... I mean, I made every mistake a middle aged man can make .... double denim, that experiment with the man bun, buying shares in Eircom, asking out Mary from the camoige team and not realising herself and Biddie were ... Well yis could have warned me about that one.
I pissed away all my decent selectors, believe it or not. I chased off, my only decent full forward. And lately, I can't even stand to watch re-runs of my post match interviews on Sky Sports.
You know, when you get old in life, things get taken from you, that's part of life. But you only learn that when you start losing stuff. You find out that life's this game of just taking your points. Because either game, life or GAA, the margin for error is so small. I mean, one mistimed dig to the head of your marker in front of the umpire, and you don't quite make it, one hand pass too slow or two fast, and Paddy doesn't quiet catch it, the points we need are everywhere around us. They are in every break of the ball, every minute, every second.
In this team, we fight for dem points. In this team, we tear ourelves, and everyone else around us to pieces for dem points. We work our bollix off for dem points. Because when we add up all dem points, that's going to make the fecking difference between winning and losing.
Between having SAM, or the losers medal, a cauld mug of tae, and ham SAMwidges.
I'll tell you this. In any All Ireland Final, it's the fella who's willing to take the black card, who's going to win that medal. And I know, if I'm going to take Sam home, it's because I'm still willing to lamp my marker when the ref isn't looking for that point. Still willing to take the black card for the cause. Because, that's what living is, curling those sweet points over the bar from the 40 yard line, the 6 inches, and the sweaty armpit of your marker in front of your face.
I can't make you do it. You have to look at the fella next to you, look into his eyes. Now I think you're going to see a fella dat will go dat inch with you, you will see a lad, who will sacrifice himself for his club, the parish, but above all for the county jersey. Because when it comes down to it, you're going to do the same for him.
That's a team lads. Either we heal now as a team, or we will die as just another bunch of loser culchies, used by The Association to squeeze another replay payday out of Croker, since they fecked up the Garth Brooks payday.
That's All Ireland Sahurday buckos. Sin e.
Now what are yis going to do?
{Inspired by On Any Given Sunday, 1999, Directed by Oliver Stone}
Setting: A dressing room in Croke Park October 1'st, 2016. A couple of minutes before the throw in.
Jaysis Lads. I don't know what to say really.
3 Minutes till the biggest final of our non-professional [not counting the free cars and all that] lives. All comes down to today.
Either we heal as a team, and forget about two own goals we gifted then gurriers or we're bollixed. Point by point, we give it all, 'till we're knackered.
We're fecked right now fellas, believe me. And we can stay here, and get our arses handed to us, and back up the M4 and the N60 trophy-less, or we can fight our way back, into a sea of Green and Red. We can climb out of hell, and swagger into Coppers as champions. One point at a time.
Now I can't do it for you. I'm too old. I look around, I see these young faces, and I think ... I mean, I made every mistake a middle aged man can make .... double denim, that experiment with the man bun, buying shares in Eircom, asking out Mary from the camoige team and not realising herself and Biddie were ... Well yis could have warned me about that one.
I pissed away all my decent selectors, believe it or not. I chased off, my only decent full forward. And lately, I can't even stand to watch re-runs of my post match interviews on Sky Sports.
You know, when you get old in life, things get taken from you, that's part of life. But you only learn that when you start losing stuff. You find out that life's this game of just taking your points. Because either game, life or GAA, the margin for error is so small. I mean, one mistimed dig to the head of your marker in front of the umpire, and you don't quite make it, one hand pass too slow or two fast, and Paddy doesn't quiet catch it, the points we need are everywhere around us. They are in every break of the ball, every minute, every second.
In this team, we fight for dem points. In this team, we tear ourelves, and everyone else around us to pieces for dem points. We work our bollix off for dem points. Because when we add up all dem points, that's going to make the fecking difference between winning and losing.
Between having SAM, or the losers medal, a cauld mug of tae, and ham SAMwidges.
I'll tell you this. In any All Ireland Final, it's the fella who's willing to take the black card, who's going to win that medal. And I know, if I'm going to take Sam home, it's because I'm still willing to lamp my marker when the ref isn't looking for that point. Still willing to take the black card for the cause. Because, that's what living is, curling those sweet points over the bar from the 40 yard line, the 6 inches, and the sweaty armpit of your marker in front of your face.
I can't make you do it. You have to look at the fella next to you, look into his eyes. Now I think you're going to see a fella dat will go dat inch with you, you will see a lad, who will sacrifice himself for his club, the parish, but above all for the county jersey. Because when it comes down to it, you're going to do the same for him.
That's a team lads. Either we heal now as a team, or we will die as just another bunch of loser culchies, used by The Association to squeeze another replay payday out of Croker, since they fecked up the Garth Brooks payday.
That's All Ireland Sahurday buckos. Sin e.
Now what are yis going to do?
{Inspired by On Any Given Sunday, 1999, Directed by Oliver Stone}
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