Forever on the outside

Because of all these little conventions and stigmas the whole estate became depressed and filthy. Crime soared in proportion to unemployment. The economy took a downturn, causing an exacerbation of the entire situation, and it generated an ever-increasing downward spiral of depression, hopelessness and defeat. The worst effected section of the population was the children. They were the future and the example we wished to foster them with was not the one that they witnessed every day; day after day.

On a stroll through the neighbourhood one evening I witnessed the decay at first hand. I saw the burned out cars and the abandoned motorcycles. I saw the badly treated horses grazing on the litter-strewn common park and the empty beer cans scattered around the grass-bereft football pitch. I walked through the remnants of the previous night’s bonfire and the wire reinforcing of the melted tyres became entangled in my feet. My final discovery was to hear the sickening crack under my foot of what I found to be a used syringe, no doubt the property of a junkie.

I shivered when I thought of the consequences should a small child, of which there were many, pick this up and accidentally prick him or herself. I saw that the children played on the roads beside this scene of catastrophic disinterest. Hundreds of them were innocently casting about encouraging their imagination to turn them into heroic racers, football players and movie stuntmen.

I came upon a small group of people who were huddled together on a patch of grass in the centre of the road between two rows of badly designed houses and maisonettes. A flustered man was surrounded by scruffy kids in various stages of undress and he was handing out pieces of paper and barking garbled instructions at them all. I stood for a while and tried to work out what was going on in this street scene. When he threw a ball out in front of them I saw that it was a training session for the local Darndale United under 12 schoolboys football team.

The whole atmosphere changed as they all organised themselves into teams and began to play a match. The shouts became confident and the language became more tolerable. The coach stood to one side and lit a cigarette and tried to look knowledgeable. He was doing his best, just one man against the odds. I stood to one side and slightly behind him to watch the game. The transformation I saw was quite incredible. In one quick few moments these kids had turned from downbeats to superstars and I also saw that they were no longer just existing on a Corporation housing estate, they had been brought away to Old Trafford, The San Siro and the Bernabeau Stadium on the wings of their fertile imaginations. Imaginations that I had concluded to be well and truly battered into unconscious non-existence by the harsh realities of everyday life.

It was a pleasure and a joy to behold as these tearaways, who viewed the world through eyes of cynical worldliness, tore excitedly into the game and put aside their adult words and ways as they returned again to the childish competitiveness that is an essential part of every child in the world. They were, in that moment, no different to the more privileged children of the more affluent families in the world, they were, simply, children.

The manager sidled up to me and asked what my interest in the game was. I know that he looked suspiciously at me as he spoke, maybe he thought I was someone who was trying to prey on the kids but I quickly re-assured him on that point. I voiced my surprise at the lack of a parental audience but the manager, Johnny, snorted in derision at my innocence. I noticed that the boys had some natural skill but needed a little direction. Having played the game myself, I pointed out to Johnny some of the small faults in technique that arose from time to time in the boys’ play. He immediately jumped into the gap I had opened by asking if I cared to “lend a hand” by coaching them from time to time. This ‘time to time’ became full-time but I never minded.

When I first came upon them they were half-way through the season and were nowhere near the top of the league, the under 12D section of the D.D.S.L. a league that comprised of teams from all over Dublin and its local districts in Wicklow and Meath. We spent a few nights concentrating on basic technique and ball control because their fitness level was second to none and didn’t need to be improved upon. We then moved on to positional play and a sense of teamwork and spirit, of which there was an abundance. We played a friendly match against a local team from Coolock and we used this opportunity to move players into positions more suited to their talents. The opportunity also allowed me to see the decrepit state of the kit they had to wear for playing a match. We lost that match 3–1 but we gained a lot of knowledge from it. I also felt slighted by the taunts that were aimed at our players from the opposition, both before and after the game. This was mild compared to what I had to endure in the coming weeks.

I consulted with Johnny and he agreed to place a request for a new kit with the club committee. Even though the answer was negative they did give us a slightly better kit to use instead. We worked on our tactics again over the following week and we organised another game against our illustrious neighbours from up the street, the difference was startling.

Johnny had taken the newer kit and had it cleaned for free at a local dry cleaner's shop in Darndale Shopping Centre. He then ferreted some money from the committee and a local councillor and bought new socks for the kit. On the evening of the match we had 18 players with us, an increase of 3 on the previous occasion. The faces of the boys as they walked out in their new kit were very telling indeed. With our insistence that they came with clean boots came a newer recognition of what their responsibilities were to themselves as players and to us as a team. They walked with a cockiness and a hint of pride that wasn’t evident previously. The taunts were greeted not with snarling faces but with a knowing smile that the best place to answer them was on the pitch, with a ball at their feet.

They walked in single file along the winding tarmac pathway to the pitch. They all laid claim to various shirt numbers and sneaked backward glances over their shoulders to see if they were really still attached to the shirts. Even the most anarchical of them seemed to hold pride in the team and themselves and their shoulders were back, their heads erect and their gait strong and purposeful. When we reached the pitch they took the new regime seriously. They immersed themselves in the pre-match warm-up that I had instigated and they then organised themselves into their positions on the pitch. It was a remarkable transformation and it looked polished, professional and slightly intimidating to the opposition.

We kicked off and began to pass the ball around. They called each other’s names and played the game as it should be played; they played as a team. What was previously a motley collection of individuals had become a team, whose spirit had been forged in the face of adversity and with the gentle assistance of some understated coercion from the management. We won the match by 3 – 2 and the taunts abated somewhat after the game. Johnny produced a bag of cola tins that he had procured from somewhere that I was too nervous to ask about and the lads went home happy and refreshed, their spirit and good graces renewed.

The first official game after the mid-term break was looked forward to immensely by everyone. Following the success in the friendly game the boys developed a huge interest in team play and tactics. They seemed to hunger to improve their technique and to hone their skills and the training became a complete pleasure for everyone concerned. Some of the players showed lovely touches and silky skills. They began to christen each other with nicknames and they laughed and joked amongst themselves interminably. They defended each other against any accusation and began to walk to and from training together, forming little clusters of matey conspiracy between them.

We went about our business in a sporting fashion and as the season progressed we found that our reputation began to precede us in our travels across the length and breath of Dublin. When teams came to play us I found that they were intimidated by the infamy of the area rather than our team’s skills on the pitch. When we played away we silenced them with pure skill and talent and I found that I preferred playing away from home to the atmosphere that pervaded when we played in Darndale.

I noticed too that the boys adapted a very sporting stance on all things. This may have had something to do with achieving some success on the field after a few years of dismal failure but it was an improvement nonetheless. Our league position changed dramatically during the second half of the season and we would come runners-up in the final analysis, but it was our cup run that showed me the reality of people’s attitudes and petty mindedness.

We began quite comfortably out in Blanchardstown, where we defeated Verona very easily by 5–0; ‘Rocketman’ Perry scoring three goals of class and precision in the first ten minutes. Our next game was harder; we played Home Farm - from the ‘A’ section - in Mobhi Road, not far from home. We won that game 1-0 with a superbly worked corner kick releasing ‘Swifty’ Harris on the edge of the six-yard box to slam the ball home with five minutes left. The third round saw us visit The Lawns in Ballyfermot for a game against Ballyfermot United, also in the ‘A’ league but near the bottom. We were cock-a-hoop after our defeat of Home Farm and there was never any way that ‘Ballyer’ were going to cause us any trouble. We won 7-0 with hat tricks coming from ‘Rocketman’ and ‘Stonewall’ Kenny, with ‘Swifty’ heading the last one home following great work by Tommy Keenan on the wing.

That result put us in the quarterfinals and our exploits were becoming legend in the halls of the football establishment in Dublin. Our players were floating a metre above ground and it was difficult to bring them back down again. It was difficult in the sense that we felt that they had a right to feel good about themselves but we also felt that the fall would be harder if it came about because of defeat on the field of play. We were proven wrong in this right after the very next game we played.

We were at home to Dublin Bus, a team from Clondalkin. I could tell by our team’s attitude that they seemed to be totally at ease when they took the field. The preparation was not the same as it had become and I sensed a distinct feeling of complacency among them all. It was almost as if they thought that they could lay their shirts on the grass and expect them to win the game for them. We lost heavily and they all trudged off the pitch at the end of the game. They didn’t, however, retreat into themselves and they didn’t throw recriminations or accusations at each other or at the referee, which is the usual gripe among football players. They recognised that they had just had a bad game and they were comfortable with the fact that it wasn’t a return to the bad old days. They simply needed to be told the reason for the bad performance and I told them that in no uncertain terms. As they left the dressing room Eric Purcell simply winked at me and patted my arm with his hand and said, “don’t worry, boss, we just played bad.” How could one be angry? The awareness that they had of the unimportance of this result was astounding to me. It was a product of how they lived, no doubt; a side effect of the cynicism that existed in their lives and minds but also it reflected the childish innocence that shone from their eyes.

We put that result behind us very quickly and continued with our league programme. We knew that it was impossible to catch the leaders and overtake them to win the title so we concentrated instead on the cup run. It was, after all a very prestigious competition and we didn’t half fancy our chances of getting somewhere in it. Our immediate aim was to reach the semi-finals where we would play in a controlled atmosphere, with linesmen and all of the ceremony that the lads had only ever witnessed on television.

We played the quarter final in Bushy Park against Rangers F.C. they were a strong side and they were a mid-table ‘A’ team. They had a solid tradition and a very good club name but we didn’t fear them. We ran them off the park and bedazzled them with one touch passing, scoring four times to their two.

The semi final came around shortly afterwards. It was to be held in Frank Cooke Park, the home of Tolka Rovers F.C. On the Wednesday evening before the big game Johnny and I went to watch our opponents, Belvedere, playing against Cherry Orchard in Fairview Park. What a game it was. It was end to end stuff with a standard of play that we could only ever dream of and the pair of us left that evening afraid of what they would do to our little troop of merry makers. We did, however spot a few little things that might help us out on the following weekend. I noticed that their full backs were a bit slow and that the big centre forward did not have a very good first touch. We planned our tactics around these little flaws, coupling it up with an aggressive policy in midfield and defence. Nobody likes to be tackled with venom and our little gang of ragamuffins were more than venomous in their desire to bring these connoisseurs down a peg or two.

We started the game well enough. The pomp and pageantry seemed to affect our lads quite a bit and they appeared sluggish and nervous at the beginning of the game. The other team seemed equally as nervous but our nerves quickly eased when Rocketman picked up the ball on the right wing and skinned the fullback. He cut inside and unleashed a powerful shot, which left the goalkeeper floundering in its wake. Swifty made it two about three minutes later and it knocked the stuffing out of the other team completely. We ran out easy enough winners in the end without troubling the scorer again and we were in the final. It was a dream beyond even the wildest fairytale.

The congratulations we received from everyone at the end of the game were loud and long. Club managers against whose teams we had played all season came along to watch and cheered us on. It was nice to receive the adulation and even nicer to be asked my opinion on games and tactics. We just looked forward to enjoying the final. We had nothing to lose and we strove to just enjoy the day.

The final was to be played in Dalymount Park, a former international venue. Our opponents were to be Cherry Orchard, the leaders of the A league. They were a very strong side and they treated us with respect. We lost heavily that day but we collected our medals and held them with pride. We were all ushered in to the lounge afterwards for celebratory speeches and drinks and everyone mixed well with everyone else. A party atmosphere abounded and it felt nice to see everyone having fun and smiling. Towards the end I noticed one of the adults that accompanied the opposing team encouraging the players to hold their bags in their hands, in case they were stolen. He looked at me and blushed when he saw that I had heard him. I looked at the faces of our lads and saw that some of them had heard him. They were brought back to earth in that split second. It seemed that, even in the midst of the alleged inclusiveness of sport and among sportsmen and children, that we were still outsiders after all.

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Biography

Jack Portland was born and raised in Dublin. He has two children and is employed in the construction industry. A visitor to the Dublin Writers Workshop, he has had stories published in Electric Acorn 10 and 11. He has completed two novels and a children's tale. He is currently working on a third and fourth novel, an anthology of short stories, a second children's tale, a book of children's poetry and a book of non fiction about the married life of Sheree Gillcrist, the famous Canadian poet. As yet unpublished, he will be submitting material to publishers in the near future.