A while back I went along to a coaching session where Eamon O’Shea, the Tipp coach was scheduled to speak. Although I’d read a bit about O’Shea, and how he told the Tipp team they would score goals against Kilkenny in Croker, I didn’t really know much about him. Well, I do now.

During the course of the session he ran a drill of backs v forwards. What’s the big deal about that? Well, aside from the fact he didn’t bother with any cones, the drill went ahead without a sliotar. And, whilst the players were encouraged to proceed as if the sliotar was there, what the drill forced them to do was to think about their running and movement.

And so they hurled away without the ball. It was full on stuff 100% as the cliché says. But the running patterns were good. As one wag from our club put it, ‘training like this will save us a fortune in balls.’

He also suggested getting young children, beginners U-8s to practice the movements of the game, swinging the stick and catching the ball; their movement and balance without using a hurley and ball at all. I tried having our U-8s strike an imaginary ball at training on Friday night and it was the best craic we had. “Ok lads, it’s the last minute, your sixty metres out and your hitting this one over the bar to win the game, away ye go.” Cue sixteen lads nailing the ball, myself in the middle of them striking my own imaginary sliotar over the bar.

And the lads? Well they celebrated scoring those points as if they’d won the All Ireland itself. And you know what, not one of them missed, every single one of them scored. Imagine that?

Sure you couldn’t do better than that. Sometimes it takes listening to a fella like Eamon O’Shea. Certainly made me do better.

We all know him. The unreconstructed supporter who, as far as their county is concerned, hears no evil, sees no evil and, depending on how things are going for the team speaks no evil. When he does speak he can be worth the listening. Oh yes he can!

There are the men that loyal to the colours. Faithful to the cause to a fault. McKenna Cup matches? Not a bother. The odd friendly in the backend of beyond? Not out of the question. Talking endless football in a corner bar? Frequently. Sticking up for players? Yes indeed, many would be close friends.

Let us give him a name. Let’s call him Conan. It’s a common enough name. For the sake of argument let us say that he is from one of Derry’s less fashionable clubs.  And let’s imagine that Conan goes to matches with his father, whom he refers to as ‘me da.’

I’ve never met his ‘da’ but I know the sort of him. His son didn’t lick it off the grass you know. He too, an unreconstructed Derry man. Goes to the All Ireland Final every year, him and his son both. Together. Not to support Derry of course. That vintage isn’t often tasted by the corner bar regulars. But like a dog watching the master eat his dinner, the annual Croker trip only whets the appetite for the day when he too can once again feast at the top table.

And what of his loyalty and friendship? Here is a man who may travel round the world exploring new things, bungee jumping, walking the Sydney Harbour Bridge, speeding in the outback, savouring the delights of Bangkok, the street markets of Bolivia. Tucked in the rucksack will be the club shirt, the county jersey and an iPod packed to the hilt with songs and music to ease his lonely heart.

But he wasn’t really lonely. Alongside him there through thick and thin were maybe a few other lads, chancers, eejits and the odd footballer or two who wanted to travel the world and see what goes on in places that aren’t Derry.

One boy, not Conan, buying a pair of self-cleaning underpants from an outdoor clothing store before he left. Maybe suitable for outdoor wear but indoors in the travellers’ tent not such a welcome article.

Our man Conan organised much of the trip. Whilst others were tattooed, shaved and massaged, and tried to impress the local ladies with the lines that maybe worked in Dorman’s and Walshes’, he made sure in the next town they had somewhere to stay.

And when the Club dinner dance came along it was him that got them all together and sang ‘Back Home in Derry’ on video and squirelled it home for the folks. Because back home in Derry, Christmas mightn’t be just the same without them.

Eventually though our man Conan, isn’t that what we called him? He comes home and settled back down to doing what he does. Maybe the jobs are harder to find. Still. Maybe be gets the chance to help out with a team or two. Even working with a couple of the County underage teams and maybe a club team or two.

And although much in demand he maybe gets a day out in Croke Park himself with a camogie team in the All Ireland. And best of all, would you believe it, they won and who ever heard of the team physio being quoted afterwards in the Irish News!  Some people are born to it.

Maybe one day he’ll immortalise it all in a poem or two. But one thing’s for certain, he’s here today!

It was seventeen years go, some say twelve, others are adamant it was nineteen but it was definitely seventeen years ago.

You see him at games now, stooped over a little more than before, hair whiter, wispy beard more straggled. It’s definitely him.

The old style club jacket has an L shaped tear at the elbow, so the innards hang out slightly but he has never felt the need to buy a new one.

Times have changed for him since. Back then he used to line the pitch pushing the whitewashing line machine along the guide line whilst smoking those unfeasibly thin rollies. Occasionally someone would interrupt his work and he would stand hands in pocket gazing over their shoulder. ‘aye.’ aye. Aye. I know. He would never say I have to get on here even tho the paint might leave a dribble on the pitch. If that did happen he had a bucket of fine sand and topsoil that he would throw down to absorb the whiteness before trowelling it up and away over the fence.

In the bar he drank pint bottles of porter with an occasional support cast of John Jameson. He never bothered much with the other club men in the bar. Avoiding conversations effortlessly, often seen deep in conversation with a nervous man called Haggan who some said frequented the local hospital for people with mental issues. The two would stoically tolerate interference from others on their chat. Even the pisstakers among younger club members and a visiting ladies football team to the bar got over familiar. One doll strutted her stuff over familiarly to our man and received the put down “they’ll be well handled before your children ever get to use them”.

A couple of years back Haggan died, penniless by all accounts. His funeral though was a thing of wonder. Oak coffin, club jersey (noone knew why) and a plethora of high profile mourners who all shook his hand.

Three years ago a man called Vincent MacRuairi reckoned he won the club lotto. He went to claim his prize wielding his winning stub. There was a discrepancy of sorts between the stub and the ticket. Result tampering alleged and the prize withheld. MacRuairi needed the cash he claimed, it ws rightfully his he asserted. It ended up by circuitous route with the DRA being a GAA matter. The ruling was a watershed. “we have no hanging chads, or corrupt practices. What we have is common decency and natural law and we rule the appellant did not on this occasion fulfil the conditions to win the club lottery.”

Our friend then continued his business in his own quiet way.

Each week the lotto men sold their tickets. And at mass. Or in the bar. They would see him come and go. And the prize remained uncalled. And he remained The Last Person To Win The Club Lotfery.

Postscript: they say Lightening never Strikes Twice. On Sunday night last, a winning ticket was sold. The winner received the largest amount ever paid in a members’ club lottery. He was and remains The Last Person To Win The Club Lottery.

Today it rained, rained and rained.

The roof’s leaking somewhere gonna have to get that checked out. It shouldn’t be but that’s another story.

The living room needs painted and the leylandii need cut. The trampoline’s FUBAR thanks to Peter. My mothers car clutch has gone again. Amidst all that disintegration and disrepair life goes on and onwards.

At least Soda’s back in decent shape. Happy chasing the cat, arthritis permitting. If I can do the same at her age I’ll be happy enough.