It’s been 2 months since our final league game. The delay since the final whistle in that game up to now can tell you how the season finished.
We were relegated.
I consummated my flirting into a reality and now the face another season of Division 2 football, the third tier of the Galway League system. Older players have either finished playing or are considering retirement. Younger players won’t have much interest in travelling to far off places like Connemara to play league games. Our manager has resigned and committed himself to bringing our new pitch and facilities into production. A new manager is coming in, much to the dismay of one player who doesn’t get along with him. The outcome is that he is joining our rivals for one season. The new man in charge has promised to bring in players from outside parishes. Decent players they might be, but they won’t be long losing interest if things go wrong. That’s where it went wrong for us this year. The solid group that had started the season so well started to fall apart at the first sign of trouble.
When I finished Part 5, we were left with two league games against the same opposition. The situation was that we were in 9th position, 3 points behind the team in 8th. They had one league game left, against the same team we were playing. What made it interesting was that our opponents had nothing to play for in their final three games. If we got enough points to overtake our nearest rivals, we’d still be waiting until a week later before we knew our fate. That was irrelevant however unless we got results, which was no guarantee in our current form. There was no guarantee what team would show up, or even who would show up.
We travelled away for the first of the double header. 15 lads turned up, decent numbers considering. One of which included a lad who had not turned up since last November. All would be forgiven if he could make a difference that day. However, 4 players had been training with the local GAA club that morning, so they were not exactly in the best shape for 90 minutes of football after the journey. The mood was cautiously optimistic however. We felt our opponents would not go all out, as evidenced by placing a young teenager in goal for what must have been his first opportunity in the first team. It signalled a desire for us to test him out, with shots from distance early on.
We kicked off and immediately took the lead, or so we thought. A cross bounced across the goal and our left midfielder came in and seemed to get enough on it to knock it in. Yet it had transpired that he handled it past the keeper. He received a yellow card, despite his protestations. Both sides had their fair share of possession but we seemed the more likely to do something with it. After 10 minutes, we won a free-kick 25 yards out from goal. We have a central midfielder with a sweet left foot, a specialist from set-piece situations. However, he was reluctant to take it. Only after coarse persuasion from our manager did he step up and curl it into the top corner. One up, playing OK, a great start.
What followed for the next 80 or so minutes was nothing short of a nightmare. By half-time it was 3-1 and we were completely out of our depth. It’s hard to know what the hell happened in the minds of the lads out there but it all fell apart. The lads who were at training earlier that morning were clearly struggling, most crucially our goalkeeper. He was at fault for two of the goals conceded after failing to come out twice and claim an oncoming ball, allowing the striker to swoop in capitalise. The other was a defensive mistake from a corner. The shit had hit the fan and it got to our other central midfielder. He is nothing if not vocal during the game and any decision that went against us would see the referee receive a barrage of abuse and questioning from him. He received a yellow card eventually for his dissent, as other players tried in vain to calm him down. We were in absolute disarray. At half-time, we tried to convince ourselves that the game was still there for the taking, that we could fight back and get a draw. There was no reason why we shouldn’t. It was up to the players out there to tell themselves that it wasn’t over! That a draw was a good result that we can follow up with a win. I looked around and saw that this was wishful thinking in the minds of some.
The second proved uneventful for the first 10 minutes, until we were caught on the counter from a corner. In desperation, our left midfielder was caught out and brought down a player. Some might have given a straight red for it, but it wasn’t necessary. He was already booked from the handball in the first half and received a second yellow that effectively ended our chances of getting back in the game. However, our other booked midfielder continued his one man quest to criticise the ref and he too got another yellow card. We were down to nine men in the space of 30 seconds, with about another 30 minutes to play. It eventually finished 7-1. The fact we took the lead made it even more appalling. I sank to my knees at the full-time whistle, having come on with 10 minutes to go. The subs joked amongst themselves who should go on and enjoy that thrashing we were getting. I wasn’t laughing. A tear welled in my eyes, for I thought that was it.
Despite our abject performance and the result, amazingly we still had a chance of avoiding the drop. Our goal difference was never going to do us any favours even before the 7-1 defeat but it turned out that team’s level on points in the promotion/relegation spots are forced to play a play-off against each other to separate them. If we could win our last game, that took place the following Friday and the team above us lost their last game, we could have a play-off. That glimmer of hope however would do little ease the ill feeling that followed our heavy defeat. Already we had two lads suspended and many more would not bother turning up again. Our new manager was watching the 7-1 defeat, no doubt pleased at what he was taking over of. He approached the referee at the end of the game and requested the first red card be rescinded, but the second one, the player with whom neither of get on with, he said “to never mind that one”. It sets a great example.
All week I could think of little else but the game on Friday. It was all we spoke about at a committee evening the Wednesday before. I was getting severely wound up emotionally about it, which wasn’t doing me any favours. I was more liable to make a mistake or get sent off in such a state so I told myself to focus. Yet, Friday dragged on slower than it took our keeper to get off his goal-line to claim the ball the previous Sunday. And believe me, I’ve seen fucking turtles move faster than he did that day. He was one such player who would not bother to turn up, leaving us in a difficult predicament finding a replacement. I suggested at the meeting we use our right back, a young lad who plays in goal for the GAA club and it is a great prospect for them. It dawned on me that this could be construed as a ploy to let me play, and our manager joked with me about that. “You’re only codding you are”!
As it turned out, he wasn’t there either. Very few people were. By the time the game kicked off, we started with the same number of players we finished with last week. NINE! Nine players in a team looking to beat a team that hammered them 7-1 days earlier. Needless to say, we had everyone behind the ball until reinforcements arrived. And we defended resolutely. It was a far more committed performance than what took place the previous Sunday. There was defiance in the face of adversity as we chased long balls, hammered everything clear, we worked for each other and never gave up on anything. It took a while before our opponents got into rhythm but they weren’t getting a sniff. The back four were solid, while our replacement goalkeeper was assured and vocal. What we lacked, apart from the extra players was a focal point of attack upfront. We did create one half chance with our nine players, and not long after we increased to 10, as a 40 year old slotted into midfield. He may lack pace but has great vision and knows how to play the game. At half-time it was 0-0, we were still in with a shout. There was still hope. I was playing well and happy with my performance but knew the next 45 minutes would be tough. I was willing to put my body on the line for the club if needs be. However, we still needed another attacker. Someone who could get us a goal.
Unfortunately, the person we were frantically calling would never show up. I asked the side-line at various intervals when was he showing up? 10 minutes I was told. 10 minutes later I would ask again, no definitive answer would follow. By half-time we could not go on with 10 players any longer. We decided to throw on a 16 year old who watched our games. He plays hurling locally and never played football before in his life. So while fitness wouldn’t be an issue, his first touch would be. I didn’t care, we had a full complement and now had a right chance to make something happen. Whether our key striker would ever show up was irrelevant to me. We had 45 minutes left to save our fate.
The second half was a tight tense affair. Our opponents increased the pressure and more chances came their way as the game dragged on. We were out on our feet with no subs to come on. We won a couple of set-pieces that came to nothing, and we created one half chance where one of our players rounded the keeper but was left at a tight angle so his shot could only drag agonisingly across goal slowly before one of their defenders cleared the ball. It was our best chance to take the lead. Our opponents best chance came in the final minute, when I was slow to react to a fluffed save from our keeper, the only mistake he made all game; that came back off the post and fell to an oncoming attacker. Surprisingly, he also fluffed his shot and our keeper clutched it to his chest. Minutes later, the final whistle went.
My initial reaction was shock, as I thought there was another 5-10 minutes left. The final stages of the game had flown by. I sank to the ground again, aghast, gasping for air, and cramping up. I got to my feet and slowly walked to the side-line, shaking the hands of our opponents, still in disbelief. It slowly dawned on me that we were relegated. And I couldn’t accept it. Surely we deserved another chance after that performance, full of spirit and desire. However, we did not. It was performances like the one the week before and throughout the season that sealed our fate. That was what we deserved. And then, I was angry. Angry that we couldn’t have shown the same spirit a week previously, angry that some people couldn’t be fucking bothered to turn up and who treat this club like a hobby. Angry that the efforts of the few dedicated people that would count for nothing. They, we, didn’t deserve that. We shouldn’t exist to serve the half-hearted, we exist to serve the club. The club affords the opportunity to those who want to play the game. However, we want to win, that is the bottom line. 2 relegations in 3 years is not fucking good enough.
Anger, and sheer despair consumed me that night until several units of alcohol followed to quell it. Even writing this piece, and the previous editions, leaves me shaking my head at how we failed to stay up. We had our chances, and we didn’t take them.
The future? I’ll be back regardless! I would play for no other club. I am getting my hamstring checked up at a Physio as soon as the GAA season finishes, so it’s likely I’ll miss some part of the early stages of the new season. It’ll be interesting to see how the new manager approaches it. He will be the third manager I would have in four seasons. Going forward, we need stability and I am actively working with the committee to provide that stability off the field. And on the field, hopefully I will be writing a new series next season, prospectively titled “Bouncing Back…. Again” (title pending)
I have a new girlfriend to be flirting with anyways.
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