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Club jersey. Wintergreen. Kinesio tape, new boots, the Gaagle Waterbottle, the new Size 5 O’Neills All Ireland; the firm rimmed sliotar and the freshly banded hurl. It's that time of the year again, the club season is getting a head of steam and it's time to celebrate all that we love about the GAA.
No team talk worth its salt can be without the manager pointing to the Jersey and exhorting lads to play for it, remembering the lost generations and the heroes of the club that have passed before them. An impassioned oration about the importance of the Club Jersey does the soul incalculable good. We only have a lend of it before we pass it on to the next generation. So it is said. An hour and a half later the very same jersey is lying in a pool of muck on the Dressing room floor, before being unceremoniously dumped into bag and taken off to be washed. And who is it that is responsible for this onerous task?
A mythical figure, this person does exist. You all know one. Held up as a true hero in the pantheon of true GAA heroes. Michael Cusack didn't mention The Man or Woman who Washes the Jerseys when he met with the Founding Fathers in Hayes hotel. Perhaps none of them had ever been The Man who Washes the Jerseys. Clearly not. But he should have enshrined it in the articles of the Association. Central to the club ethos is the devoted individual who has looked after O'Neills kit after O'Neills kit since at least the mid 70s. Known to them is the clear difference between Daz and Persil. Powder or liquid, fabric conditioner or not, and the need for a decent dryer if the weather is inclement. Wind direction too, can affect the rate of drying in a modern playerfit Koolite jersey.
Up there in the pantheon of club greats, alongside the man or woman who washes the jerseys, is seated The Man who Lines the Pitch. He may be seated on a ride on lawnmower as he may also double job as the Man That Cuts the Grass. His wife, long-suffering and patient is likely The Woman who Makes the Tea and Sandwiches. She may also be The Woman That Washes the Jerseys. Every club is different but the same. Lining the pitch. It is a craft and skill past from father to son, from generation to generation. Putting out the whitewash in a straight line. It’s a serious business, with no deviation allowed, permitted or considered.
The two teams will be on the field of play warmed up ready to go, yet time ticks away; the fever pitch raised by the talk about pride in the Jersey is starting to fall and dissipate. No ref yet, who's supposed to be doing this game, have you the number for the CCC, you can do it, I'm not doing it, neither am I, are you wise. Fraught and frantic. Then in a swirl of car dust the referee pulls into the ground. A great fella, fair play to you. He was maybe reffing a camogie match up the road. It's all light-hearted and friendly again as you remark to the opposite number in the opposing club; sure with no Refs there'd be no games. In a flash the ball is thrown in and all good will and bonhomie is there for all to see. From being the saviour of the fixture by turning up the ref becomes, well the saviour of the fixture. When will we realise that no ref = no games. And what of the bliss of quietude on the sidelines?
It may run year round and the prize fund may get tantalisingly high but no one ever wins it. In spring the thought of a few grand direct injection to the holiday fund is great. When it’s drawn every Sunday night we live in hope, until we get the club email on a Monday morning dashing our hopes. Next week maybe.
It used to be water at a match was drunk cold from an empty milk jar that had been well rinsed and sluiced through to remove the taint of milk. Guzzling water at half time and it spilling down the jersey was part of a ritual. Then O'Neills invented the GAA water bottle - white with red branding and a wire cage to carry six in, a cage that often got a quare kickin at half time from an irate manager if things weren't going well. To be entrusted with the job of looking after the waterbottles, especially those new O'Neills Gaagle ones, is a badge of honour and a position of true responsibility, approaching that of the Man who Collects the Gate Money (see below).
Miserable. Humourless. Dour. The Man Who Collects the Gate Money at club games will have his communion money safely hidden away with his confirmation cash. To him every penny is a prisoner and he is programmed to answer three to every question, blank faced and expressionless, for that is the admission fee he charges. Three. If he's bored in the house or feels there's a profit to be made he may take himself to an u16 camogie match if he feels he can get a bob or two from the unsuspecting visitor. Even better. Three.
A paragon of fairness and probity, arm signals clear and positioning perfect. Beyond reproach and recrimination, unreconstructed and the ultimate committed clubman. He loves the signal of a wide ball. Looks, sounds and smells like victory.
Generations of players have been taught to play by this Legend. Kicking or striking the right way, toe pointed down and foot straight; striking off the bás. Catching with the hand in a perfect W or letting the sliotar fall into your hand. Every club has one.
At a club near you. The Choice of Champions.#ChoiceofChampions