12pm
There’s a flag blowing in the city cemetery. It’s blue and gold and it’s planted by a graveside, waving proudly.
Brian Óg McKeever died far too young. At 17, he was already playing on the senior team at wing back and he was as hearty as he was the day he came on in the first half of the minor county final as an under-15.
The man was a warrior far beyond his years, and his passing left a hole in the club that will never be replaced. Steelstown Brian Óg’s was named in his honour and following the legacy he left, with so little time, is the best thing the parish could’ve done.
1pm
A text message comes through from a really respected club member and it’s the nicest thing anyone could’ve done for me today. I’ve been away from the club for two years now and I still don’t know what to do with my evenings without senior training to attend, an under-16 session to take, or club notes to write.
The semi-final was a weird sensation, watching from the stand having no part in the side’s success and looking on in envy as they enter that joyous huddle after the game. For the first time ever, I feel like I have no part of it because I’ve contributed nothing, I’m not even a sub. I’m not part of it.
I get this message though and it just sums up the club – the best part of it at least. It reminds me that I have played a part in the team’s development, as a team mate and a coach, and I should be proud of their success this evening. Boys are always looking out for you, making sure everyone is alright, making sure everyone is involved.
I love this club.
2pm
I pick up Eoghan. We played on the same minor team together and the whole way up through the school sides. He’s a fine ‘keeper but he’s been desperately unlucky to have a county-standard club stalwart ahead of him for the last 10 years at senior level.
Eoghan hasn’t been involved this season at all though, he actually had a procedure done on his heart just at the start of the week but he’s not going to be allowed to whinge about it today.
“Get in, ya heartless b*st*rd.”
2.30pm
Dermy is a good man. In his last year as a minor, he tore a cruciate ligament in his knee. It was a disgusting journey back for him and, finally when he returned, he tore a cruciate ligament in his other knee.
Years passed without this real underage prospect doing anything and a knee problem became a hip problem and a hip problem became a knee problem and that became a good eight seasons missed with injury – despite trying every year to ignore it.
But he had made himself useful in that time. He took the under-16s with me, he ended up being assistant manager with the senior team and he was in charge of the reserves for a while too. When he didn’t carry any of those official roles, he was filling water, he was lining out cones, he was always in the front seat of my car en route to a game.
Now, as we drive for Owenbeg for the intermediate championship final, it’s just like old times – except Eoghan is still banging on about his bloody heart in the back of the car.
3pm
The stadium is already packed 45 minutes before throw-in. There’s a minor game on beforehand but the blue and gold is filling the place and there’s a buzz in the air.
Boys are here that I haven’t seen in years. People who were away travelling, boys living somewhere else now, those who fell away from the football and others that you just genuinely had forgotten about are showing up because there’s a real sense that this is the one. This is going to be the club’s first championship at senior level right here today.
F**k 2010.
3.15pm
The boys are out warming up and Gary is there. Holy sh*t, Gary is there!
He’s 37 but a more naturally talented footballer you have never seen – maybe with the exception of Enda Muldoon. The man could make a football talk and ever since he moved to Derry from Down 11 years ago now, Steelstown mouths have never watered as much because of the magic he can produce on a football pitch.
He only got back with the reserves at the start of the summer there but there’s not a game that passes without some poor defender being left on his arse and the sideline being reduced to ohs and ahs at just how good and evergreen this man is. He’s on the bench today, this could be a secret weapon.
3.20pm
Barney has a bib on him and he’s firing water around and collecting balls from behind the goals.
He’s played a huge part in the team this season – he has done for the last three or four years in fairness – but he’s not playing today because he’s missed the last six weeks with a job in America.
He’s here though, of course he is.
He’s actually due to return for good in two weeks time but what use is that? The game is today. So he’s flown back from Chicago for the weekend for a Derry intermediate club championship match because there’s nothing else more important than this. He’s forked out hundreds of his own money, flown through time zones and come back for two nights because there’s nowhere else on this Earth you could possibly be on this Sunday of all Sundays.
I asked him to do a story on it last week. “Piss off,” was his response. He didn’t come back to be paraded around like he had done something special. He came back to help out, to be part of it. He came back because imagine we won it. He came back because how the hell could he not?
3.40pm
Eoghan’s getting asked left, right and centre here how he’s feeling. He’s going through the same story about his heart and answering them all intently.
“For God’s sake he’s grand,” we’re just trying to rush him to a decent seat. We’re not complete assholes though, you can tell he’s getting a little anxious talking about it over and over and it’s making him feel more guilty or concerned that he did a session with the under-21s this morning.
“Right, Half-A-Heart, hurry up, would you?” What are club mates for?
The parade starts and the roof is lifted off of Owenbeg.
The game starts and the whole world stops.
4pm
Euphoria.
Neil rattles the top corner of the net with pure conviction. He’s actually jumped about 10 feet into the air as he follows through because he’s kicked it with that much desire. The place is falling over themselves as men, women and children rise to their feet in crazed unison and a roar of “Steelstown, Steelstown” echoes across the pitch and up over the Glenshane mountain dividing the north and south of Derry.
We’re going to do it.
“Jesus, my heart can’t take this.”
Eoghan gives me a look.
4.15pm
Half time and it’s all square.
– We’re getting cleaned out in the middle.
– It’s not the midfield’s fault, we’re winning no breaks.
– Our defence is eating them alive but we’re under far too much pressure.
– Why aren’t we kicking it in more? Everything is sticking.
– Fitness will tell.
– I’d love to see the free kick stat count. The ref is giving us nothing.
– His heart is grand.
5pm
A 20-minute purple patch isn’t capitalised on like it should be. They’re crying out to be beaten but we won’t just put them to the sword.
Two goal chances have come and gone, we’ve survived a heart-attack moment at the other end – no offence, Eoghan – and the changes around the middle have helped to no end. The momentum has been with us for what feels like forever but we’re still a point behind in injury time. Again.
F**k 2010.
5.05pm
It’s last chance stuff now. Do or die. The crowd are all on their feet, the manager is behind the wire having been sent there by the referee and a frenzy of noise is ushering the team up the field for one final attack. Mickey has it a good 60 metres from goals but he can produce magic from anywhere.
He’s fouled though, of course he is. Any man would do the same but as he tries to take it quickly, his leg is being held and he reacts. Stamps. It’s stupid, he knows it is, and the red card is warranted. What isn’t warranted is the decision of the referee to then overturn the free kick and give the opposition a free in the other direction. No hop ball, no explanation, he pulls a rule out of his arse and Steelstown won’t get another touch of the ball in this final and no more chance to equalise. Mickey’s mistake is punished more than it should be.
5.10pm
Heartbreak.
Blue jerseys drop like flies to the turf as the final whistle sounds and it’s white and black colours that invade the field.
I try to console the managers – team mates only two seasons ago – with words of recognition for the job they’ve done since taking over a team in ruins at the start of the summer but it’s falling on deaf ears. Everyone’s steaming after the ref, demanding an explanation for not giving the hop ball, for not sending their man off earlier in the half, for just about anything but he gets into the tunnel and we’ve nowhere else to take our frustration out.
Then, you have to face up to the reality that the season is over, the chance is gone, and that’s it. It’s over. It’s over.
Photos by Margaret McLaughlin.5.15pm
I’m looking around at the ruins of the battlefield, bodies laid out, motionless and inconsolable. I’m standing in a pair of tracksuit bottoms having offered no help whatsoever. What gives me the right to stand here now?
Neil comes through the crowd, head bowed, visibly shaken and his arms come around mine and the pair of us just break down. You could feel it there, the years put in, the sprints, the reps, the shit we all chatted about one day being champions. You can feel it but you can feel it all pouring away.
5.30pm
It would’ve meant more to us. We would’ve celebrated harder. Better.
5.40pm
We’ve all had our moan about the referee, we’ve all cursed the missed chances and silly decisions but we’ve all already accepted that the game was there for us and we didn’t take it.
This is all our fault.
Photos by Margaret McLaughlin.6pm
Men like Hugh are still here, picking boys up, offering words of encouragement. He took us at minors, he took the seniors for four years and got us to Division One for the first time ever. Everyone loved him, his tenure was successful but you need a fresh voice every now and then. He probably would’ve liked to stay on because he knows the job he can do but today he was in the stands (after helping out with the county underage teams) and he was shouting and roaring more than anyone with his Steelstown hat on.
Two of the lads he took at minors this year were starring on the pitch today and he’s there for everyone now again.
I love this club.
6.30pm
Dinner at home.
“I don’t want to talk about it”.
7pm
I send the secretary on a screenshot of the rules to confirm that it should’ve been a hop ball at the end, not a free kick.
It’s not going to change anything but I want the referee taken to task. He can get away with not sending their man off by saying he didn’t see it and he can get away with not giving us more free kicks because, honestly, that just sounds like we’re whinging.
He cannot, however, form a defence for deliberately making up a rule in the last 30 seconds of a championship that denied us a chance of getting another touch of the ball. And he shouldn’t be getting away with arguing afterwards that he made the right call.
8pm
“Do you drink?”
One of the five boys I had coached at under-16s and made it onto the team today are asking me in the pub. I don’t know if they’ll be disappointed if I say I do and have someone they might’ve looked up to now seem a little more rough around the edge; or will they feel awkward about the pint in their hand if I say I don’t.
“I’m driving.”
9pm
The postmortems are only underway. Darren is an impressive creature. He’s a big man, he’s an honest man, and he’s a man’s man. On the field, off the field, he takes full responsibility for his actions and he puts his neck out there time and again.
He’s trying to get to the bottom of why we were so short-changed in the middle today. He knows he wasn’t dominated by his man, he’d tell you if he was. He’s lost in three championship finals as a senior player now and the comparisons with Mayo inevitably start.
He’s having none of it. And he’s having none of their “classy statements” that are being released in the wake of their All-Ireland defeat either.
“A hurricane is killing thousands of people in Haiti and these boys are releasing statements about a game of football they lost.” It’s hard to argue with him even if we’ve all fallen into that same pit tonight.
10pm
Aidan asks Darren straight out if he’s transferring next season. He got married in the summer, he moved to county Antrim, he’s just turned 30 and you could see the thinking.
“No chance.”
Darren can’t see the thinking.
Aidan’s going to head back up the road soon himself. He’s living in Belfast now and he’s working on Monday morning but it won’t stop him sitting past midnight in a bar in Derry wondering what went wrong.
He’s a serious, serious player who was on the sideline today but he doesn’t completely rule out the idea of playing in the summer again.
We needed to hear that.
11pm
James is going to give it one last proper go next year. He hasn’t been fit, he knows that himself, but next year that is going to change.
12am
I’m going to play next season too. I’m going to come up every weekend, train on the Friday, play the match on the Sunday and head back down to Dublin that night.
None of us have any bloody idea if any of these convictions will ever pan out but one thing is for sure and that is, right now, we want to believe that they will.
Photos by Margaret McLaughlin.1am
Barney takes off. He’s got a commute in the morning that takes him across the Atlantic.
Neil has pulled up a chair and we’re dissecting just why this one is the toughest to take. This man is an inspirational figure. The way he plays ball, the way he talks about ball, the way he talks about wanting to talk about ball, it’s in his veins.
He led from the front today, he put it all on the line and he simply couldn’t be stopped but, unfortunately, that’s not always enough in this team sport.
We’re running out of time. Last orders will soon be called but we’ve only got a few more years of a window to win an intermediate championship as well. Then we need to push back into the senior ranks. If we ever want to win a senior title, we’re running out of time.
When this lad comes through from minors and if that lad puts the weight on and if we can keep those boys interested and that team together and get them all through before the older boys retire, we have a real shot. We can do it.
1.30am
But we shouldn’t have let this one go. We missed our chance. We really, really need and want this championship.
Now I’m explaining to Neil a thing I heard on a podcast over the weekend about how there’s a misconception about happiness and that there’s not really any such thing as happiness.
It pointed to the example of the Boston Red Sox and, how when they lifted the curse of the Bambino, they almost lost their identity and purpose. They wondered if Mayo fans will feel a little anti-climatic if they finally get over the line. All you have in life, the theory reasoned, is either struggle or boredom.
Our struggle will continue. Therefore so will our purpose.
2am
I can tell the barman thinks we’re talking complete nonsense now but I feel pity for him. I’m wondering what it is that he’s building. I’m wondering what his dreams are and will he ever feel this sense of purpose.
I’m happy with this struggle and in the knowledge that the judgmental sod behind the bar will never have that same drive or achievement that you get out of the GAA. The same drive that had Darren sitting with me for an hour and failing to mention his promotion in work – because, to him, it was inconsequential. To him and to all of us, our goal is trying to achieve success in football. It’s the most difficult challenge we face so it’s the only one we really care about.
2.15am
Neil says that, if we had won the championship, we’d be swinging off those lights above the bar and not sitting here talking about the misconception of happiness.
3am
James is an idiot. He should never have brought us back to his house at this time on a Sunday night.
His wife has work in the morning, one of his three young children has school in the morning, and soon they’re all going to be woken up by the sound of drunken men falling over themselves laughing at how Mark floored Ryan in town in front of an adoring crowd. The story is probably already exaggerated but it would’ve hurt Ryan’s pride anyway.
Any other club might worry about things like that but the pair arrive together to James’ still arguing about who started it and, soon, we’ll all be making jokes about it.
4am
We have to leave. James’ family is awake and it’s sobering. The craic that the young lads are having with the older boys is the sort of thing you don’t want to cut short because that’s exactly what will have them looking forward to training again in January. Everybody’s relationship is on a new scale now, even Mark’s and Ryan’s.
Four of us head on to Mark’s – Eoghan and Neil are with us – and Eoghan has long since stopped worrying – at least for a night – about the problems he was having with his heart. He’s been given the all-clear for now but obviously it’s a concern. It’s gone from his mind though.
We’re laughing, stuffing our faces with McDonald’s and flicking through the local papers like the craic you have at a wake interrupted by depressing pauses and that reminder that you’re here for a reason. There’s a constant undercurrent of grief.
“F**k it anyway.”
We couldn’t think of another topic quickly enough. No-one wants to talk about the game anymore.
Mark, what actually happened with Ryan?
“Jesus, four out of five of the experts here tipped us to win. F**k it anyway.”
Remember that time Eoghan got stuck on top of the fence in Belfast?
“F**k it anyway.”
5am
Eventually, we have to let go.
We have to let go of the game, accept that it’s gone and let go of this company. We can’t stay attached with this comfort and its safety in numbers forever and, sooner or later, we have to face up to the reality of this loss alone and go back to the real world.
F**k Darren. That hurricane is awful, sure – much more awful than anything we’ve ever been through – but you can at least understand the Mayo players’ hurt. It’s all relative.
We have to go our separate ways though – now, and over the winter. The promises and vows we all made tonight might never see the light of Spring but we’ve healed as much as we could this evening.
Mark has a Steelstown flag planted in a flower pot outside his house. I never thought he cared that much even with all the years he’s given – a good 20 now at this stage.
It reminds me of Brian Óg’s grave. I wonder if the flag is still waving up there. I wonder will it be waving again next year. We’ll bring him his championship medal one day.
Just not this time.
F**k it anyway.
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