Little Croker

Little Croker

‘A welcome addition to sports literature for youngsters.’

Sunday Independent

‘One young sports obsessive I know sped through the story.’

The Irish Times

‘Young GAA fans everywhere will want to get their hands on a copy of Little Croker.’

Carlow Nationalist

‘Full of football action, talk of tactics and the highs and lows of the game, this will hit the right chord with young footballers.’

The Evening Echo

‘O’Brien is good at conjuring up the atmosphere of the GAA and the importance that a club has in a local community. Will appeal to football-mad boys and girls.’

Books Ireland

I would like to thank everyone at The O’Brien Press, especially my editor, Helen Carr, Emma Byrne for the amazing book design, Mary Webb (Editorial Director) for believing in me and encouraging me to write this book, and Michael O’Brien (Publisher) for, yet again, supporting my writing ventures.

A huge thanks must go to Paul Faughnan of St Patrick’s GAA Club, Palmerstown, for his technical help and advice with this book, and for all his brilliant answers to my endless GAA questions.

Thanks also to Donal Ryan of St Patrick’s GAA Club, for his kind invitation to watch the kids of St Patrick’s train, and to Marian Butler of WDAR 96fm for introducing me to St Patrick’s GAA Club. Thanks to Anita and Evan for their valued teenage input.

Many thanks to all the booksellers, librarians and everyone involved in the world of literature, who have supported me so kindly.

I would also like to acknowledge the countless hours of GAA footage that Setanta Sports and TG4 provided for me, in the comfort of my own sitting room, which assisted me in getting into a GAA frame of mind to write this book!

Finally, and most importantly, I would like to thank my wife, Mandy, for her support and encouragement, which make the world of difference, and my son, Jamie, for all the smiles, cuddles and games of football that make every day the best day.

‘I
’ll be over in a minute!’ shouted Danny Wilde, captain of the Littlestown Crokes under-13s, to his dad.

Danny’s dad, Mick, was the coach of the GAA football team, which was named after Littlestown Lawns, the estate where Danny and Mick lived.

Mick Wilde had finally managed to gather all the other players in the dressing rooms, but Danny always had his own little routine before he joined his team mates for a home game. Just one moment alone, pitch side, to clear his head of absolutely everything except football and the match ahead.

Danny just loved home games. The smell
of the freshly-cut grass, along with the sight of the chalky straight lines that he and his dad had worked so hard on that morning, really got the butterflies going in his stomach.

Summer had passed so quickly and already September was nearing its end. It was over halfway through the season and it was the second league game since the June break-up. Danny’s team had fought and battled their way to the top of the league, just one point ahead of the other title contenders, Barnfield GFC.

Only four more games after this one, and we could be league winners, thought Danny. Like a true captain, he was confident that his team could go all the way, but deep down inside, he knew that the final game on 8 November at home against Barnfield would be the under-13’s Judgement Day.

Danny turned and took one more quick glance at the pitch that his dad called the ‘Little Croker’, then he swiftly headed for the 
dressing rooms to join his team mates for his dad’s pre-match talk.

Danny’s Jack Russell, Heffo, the team mascot, was sniffing around the door of the opposition’s dressing room. He was kitted out in his all-blue custom-made jersey, and to look at him, one would think he was earwigging for any kind of opposition tactics that might help the home team.

Danny called him as he opened the dressing room door, and backed it up with a familiar two-tone whistle.

‘About time!’ complained Mick.

‘Sorry, Dad. It was Heffo. He was heading into the other dressing room, again!’

All the other players burst out laughing.

‘Go on, Heffo!’ cheered Little John Watson. ‘Here, Mr Wilde, is Heffo playing today?’

‘He’d get his game before you would!’ answered a voice down the back.

The banter was getting out of hand now and even Heffo was barking his brains out. 

‘Shut up, Doyler,’ muttered Little John.

Suddenly Mick blew as hard as he could on his whistle, and everyone froze, except poor Heffo, who scampered down the back of the dressing room and hid behind Paddy Timmons’ training bag.

‘Can I speak now?’ asked Mick.

‘Come on lads, settle down,’ said Jimmy Murphy, the assistant coach, just to give a little bit of back up, even though Mick Wilde never needed back up when it came to managing the team.

‘I’m making two changes from the last game,’ began Mick. The word ‘change’ was probably the most feared word that a coach could throw out in a dressing room before a match.

All the lads – even Danny, who never took his place for granted – shivered a little, and looked anywhere rather than at their coach, just in case it might influence him to leave them off the team. That is, if he hadn’t 
already.

‘Kevin,’ continued Mick, ‘you’re coming in at left full.’

Mick could hear Anto Farrell huff, but he didn’t say anything. He’d have a word with him on the way over to the pitch. Anto hadn’t played well in the last two games and Kevin Kinsella was putting in extra efforts in training. Mick always thought that a coach should explain to a player why he was dropping him, in private, one to one.

‘Now, the other change I’m making is …’ Mick paused and glanced around the dressing room. Every single player in the room, except Anto and Kevin, waited in nervous anticipation to hear their name and join Anto on the bench.

It was almost like a scene from X-FACTOR!

Mick stared at Doyler for a few seconds, saying nothing.

Poor Doyler tried his best not to make eye
contact with the coach. I should have kept my big gob shut, he thought. He’s going to drop me for slagging off Little Johnner.

Mick switched his eyes over towards Barry Sweeney, their centre full forward.

‘Nice one!’ thought Doyler. ‘Safe!’

‘Barry,’ said Mick. ‘I want you to switch with Doyler today and go into centre half forward.’

Doyler perked up. Now he was trying his very best to make eye contact with the coach.

‘Doyler, you’re going to full forward today. Their centre full back is nearly as tall as our big Johnner. You might have a better chance with him in the air than Barry.’

‘Nice one, thanks Coach’ said Doyler.

‘Thank me on the pitch with scores,’ replied Mick, ‘and by the way, if I hear you picking on Little Johnner again, he’ll be the one wearing the number fourteen shirt.’

Jimmy, the assistant coach, grabbed hold of the zip of the kit bag and ripped it open. 

‘Right,’ he said. ‘You know your numbers. Let’s get ready.’

Mick filled in his team card while all the lads dived into the kit bag in search of their jerseys. You could tell who was playing and who wasn’t – the players who were starting were attacking the kit bag like a pack of wolves. The subs, on the other hand, were sitting back from the frenzy waiting until the end to pick up their jerseys. Anto Farrell wasn’t used to this, but this time, just like the other subs, he sat still, in absolutely no hurry to collect his jersey.

Mick handed the team card to Jimmy.

‘In your capable hands, Jimmy,’ said Mick.

Jimmy nodded at Mick and gave him a You can count on me look.

Even though everyone knew that Jimmy was no Mick Wilde when it came to GAA, he had been Mick’s assistant for a long time and had Mick’s trust and admiration. As soon as Jimmy noticed the boys lacing up their boots 
he blew on his whistle to try and muffle the pre-match banter and buzz that was customary in a home team dressing room.

‘Right lads,’ said Mick, ‘listen up.’

‘Come on, lads, quiet down there,’ added Jimmy.

It was time for Mick’s final words of encouragement.

‘Lads, I want you to get stuck in there from the whistle,’ he began. ‘Midfield, chase every loose ball,’ he instructed as he glanced over to Danny and Sean Dempsey, ‘and defence, get in good blocks. Remember the best way to block is to dive at their feet. And Doyler, if you can’t shake that full back and turn and shoot, feed it back to Barry and give him a shot.’

There was a knock at the door. It was the referee.

‘Right, home team!’ said the referee.

‘Okay lads, on your feet!’ said Mick. Then he finished with the final familiar words 
before every home game, ‘When you go out onto that pitch lads, where are you playing?’ asked Mick.

‘The Little Croker!’ replied all the lads.

‘And how do we play every game?’ asked Mick.

‘Like the all-Ireland final!’ cheered the whole dressing room.

Then, with a clatter of studs, the team raced out like an army going into battle.

M
ick Wilde's boys, in all-blue, lined up against the boys in red and green from St Agnes' Boys. Each player, from Paddy Timmons at right corner full back to Danny in midfield, right up to Doyler in full forward, anxiously awaited the throw-in.

Mick tied Heffo's lead to his bag and began his routine pacing up and down the line, while Jimmy just stood with his arms folded looking relaxed.

‘Here we go,' announced Jimmy.

‘Come on the Crokes!' shouted Mick.

‘Ready, lads?' asked the ref.

Then he gave Danny and the St Agnes'
midfielder a nod. Danny and his opposite number raised their heads as the referee blew on his whistle and threw the ball high above them.

Danny was first in the air stretching his left hand above his opponent's. He passed the ball down to Sean Dempsey, then turned his man and headed for goal, leaving the St Agnes' number nine dazed with Danny's pace. The battle had commenced!

Dempsey kicked straight up to Barry Sweeney in centre half forward, who knocked a perfect pass out to Splinter Murphy.

Splinter threw a shimmy around his man and spotted Danny running in behind the full forward line.

Danny raised his hand.

Doyler made a run wide and opened up a gap for Danny.

Splinter knocked a sweet pass in towards Danny, who caught it beautifully on the run.

Danny took a quick glance at goal and 
dropped the ball onto the side of his right boot.

The ball swerved past their keeper and into the top right corner.

GOAL!

‘Come on, lads!' shouted Danny as he fisted the air in glorious celebration.

Mick and Jimmy were hopping around on the side line.

‘What a dream start!' cheered Jimmy.

‘Come on lads, settle down and back into it!' warned Mick.

Jimmy was right – Danny had given Littlestown Crokes the perfect dream start and it totally rattled the St Agnes' boys.

Barry Sweeney caught the kick out and knocked a long, high ball over for a point.

Crokes kept the ball in St Agnes' end of the field for the next twenty minutes, scoring four more points. Danny was playing a stormer in midfield, winning everything in the air and when they tried to break through, Danny
relentlessly pulled off tackle after tackle.

When the ref blew for half time the Crokes were winning 1-5 to nil.

Poor Heffo jumped around on his toes like a ballerina as the fifteen thirsty warriors raided the bag for their half-time feast of oranges.

Mick let the boys have a few bites of their oranges before he started to talk.

‘Right lads, gather around – Timmons don't give the dog orange. Well done lads, super, well done,' congratulated Mick. ‘That was a dream start! Lovely goal, Danny. You kept the pressure on and didn't get slack, lads. That's exactly what was needed. They're putty in your hands out there. They don't know how to cope with yiz at all!'

Mick was in his stride when the ref blew his whistle for the second half.

‘Okay lads, just keep it going. Don't nod off. It's nowhere near over. Keep the pressure on and the scores coming.' 

‘No changes, Mick?' asked Jimmy.

‘Not at all, Jimmy,' confirmed Mick.

Mick wasn't sure whether Jimmy actually would have considered making a change while they were winning so easily, or whether he was just being kind to the subs by making the suggestion heard. Either way, thanks be to the gods of GAA that Mick never had to leave a match in an emergency and leave the reins to Jimmy. God forbid! thought Mick.

Once again Danny was in there like a dog after a bone, winning the throw in and knocking it back to Dempsey. But Dempsey obviously hadn't listened to Mick's half-time words, and now he was too busy looking over at Heffo, who was doing what looked like a breakdance manoeuvre to free his lead from the bag.

‘Dempsey!' shouted Danny.

Dempsey was mortified and furious with himself. His man had gone on a solo and left him for dust. But Sean Dempsey wasn't 
nicknamed ‘Dirty Dempsey' for no reason – he tracked the ball and when it came to the St Agnes' centre half forward and he had cleverly turned Alan Whelan, Crokes' centre half back, Dirty Dempsey went in for the killer tackle.

CRUNCH!

The poor centre half forward didn't know what hit him. Dempsey hurtled into him, taking him and the ball through the air.

The St Agnes' players all circled around Dempsey, while their injured player rolled around the ground – he was so convincing that he could probably have given the Portuguese soccer team a few tips!

The referee blew furiously on his whistle and Mick rushed over with some water and a can of Deep Heat; he was genuinely worried about the young lad, but he also wanted to make peace with his opposite coach.

The shaken centre half forward finally hobbled to his feet and once the ref could see 
that calm was restored he charged and sentenced Dirty Dempsey with one swift wave of the red card.

‘You're off your head!' roared a disputing voice from the home team's line.

It was Dempsey's dad, Tommy.

‘Keep him quiet,' the ref warned Mick, who was seizing the opportunity to instruct Barry Sweeney to drop back to midfield with Danny.

Mick glanced over at Tommy with a Keep your mouth shut or else! look. Tommy Dempsey was nothing but an interfering, loud-mouthed, know-it-all who was itching to be the team coach. He and Mick had had many run-ins in training and at matches and Mick was starting to run out of patience with him.

‘That should have been a yellow!' yelled Tommy.

‘It was a straight red,' replied Mick, and jogged back to his coaching position 
alongside poor Jimmy who was as quiet as a mouse. Jimmy was a big softy who would absolutely never under any circumstances get into a fight, not even to help Mick fend off a big eejit like Tommy Dempsey.

The ref blew his whistle and while Mick and Tommy Dempsey exchanged heated debates on the line, the number nine for St Agnes' kicked the ball nicely into his centre full forward who had run in behind a distracted Big Johnner, Crokes' centre full back. Liam Darcy, Crokes' goalkeeper had come out to cover Big Johnner, but the cheeky number fourteen fisted the perfect pass over his head and in for a goal!

The first Mick knew about it was when he saw the opposite line jumping in celebration.

‘Did they score, Jimmy?' asked Mick.

‘A goal!' answered Jimmy with his hands on his head. ‘Big Johnner was busy watching you two go mad at it.'

Mick was furious with himself. He knew 
that it was his job to keep situations under control and there he was involved in a stupid row instead of organising his players.

‘Right lads, don't let it get to yiz,' encouraged Mick. ‘Pick it up again!'

But it did get to them as, straight from the kick out, St Agnes' won the ball and it was fed out to their right full forward who drilled it high and over for a brilliant point. They were on the comeback and in the next ten minutes they wouldn't let Danny's team get the ball out of their half and managed to put two more points over the bar.

There were ten minutes left to play and the score was narrowed down to 1-5 to 1-3 for Danny's team.

Danny knew that he had to knuckle in and take the game by the scruff of the neck.

He dropped a little deeper into defence alongside his centre half back as he knew that was more or less the range of his keeper.

Darcy, the goal keeper, spotted Danny 
hovering to the side of Alan Whelan and he aimed his kick out towards him.

As soon as the ball came into range, Danny jumped into its flight path and made a cracking catch. Then he turned like a gazelle on the run from a lion and went on a Danny Wilde solo.

‘Go on, Danny!' shouted Mick.

‘Go on, skin them Danny!' seconded Jimmy.

Danny's team mates advanced forward, but watched as Danny magnificently fended off two tackles and powered ahead into St Agnes' centre half back line.

He threw a dummy effort to pass to Splinter who had moved over to support him and then fisted a pass to Doyler, the centre full forward.

The next move was a move that Mick had his forward line practise strenuously: Doyler made absolutely no attempt to catch the pass, he fisted the ball over his marker's head and 
back into the path of Danny.

Then Danny took a chance and instead of letting the ball bounce in front of him as practised, he snapped a shot on the volley and hit a screamer into the back of the net!

Danny had pulled off a ridiculously amazing score that no amount of practice could teach or train you to perfect – it was just pure talent!

Danny's goal had lifted Crokes' heads again and St Agnes' Boys once again fell apart, and no matter how much they tried to get back up-field for scores, the Crokes' defence gelled together and broke them down with ease.

The referee looked at his watch one last time and blew the full time whistle.

Danny's team had beaten St Agnes' Boys by 2-5 to 1-3.

Mick patted Jimmy on the back, and then as usual, let the team mascot off his lead.

Heffo raced onto the pitch and while the 
Crokes' players all congratulated each other and commiserated with their deflated opponents, Heffo put nose to ball and went off on a doggy solo, turning and twisting in circles until he was so tired he collapsed and rolled over on his back on the dry grass.

Mick paced over to the other coach and shook his hand.

‘Hard luck. Good game,' said Mick, politely.

As soon as Mick turned away, a man in a sports jacket with a newspaper tucked under his arm approached him.

‘Good win,' said the man.

Mick didn't know him, but he thought his face looked a little familiar.

‘Thanks. We lost concentration for a bit, but they're good lads. They pulled it back.'

Mick wasn't stopping for a chat, but the stranger put his arm out to suggest a conversation.

‘Eh! I have to say, your number nine has 
real talent.'

‘Yeah, Danny's a good player. He's my son.'

‘You must be proud as punch,' chuckled the man.

The man pulled out his ID card and flashed it at Mick.

‘Sorry, Mick, is it? Excuse my manners. Robert Jenkins is my name. I'm a representative for the Dublin schoolboys' development squad.'

Mick instantly raised an eyebrow and perked up like a soldier on parade.

A scout!

That's it, he thought. I knew I'd seen his face before. He's been at a couple of other games, lurking in the background with his newspaper, like a spy in action.

‘I have to say I'm very impressed with Danny. I heard about him through the grapevine. I hope you don't mind, but I've watched a few of your games and I think 
your son has the ability to play at higher levels.'

‘Oh, yeah? Well, I wouldn't argue with you on that one,' agreed Mick calmly, but behind his calm exterior his stomach was in knots. He knew what was coming next.

‘We meet about six times a year to get a good look at up and coming talent like Danny. Is there any chance that Danny could come for a training session with our squad next Friday?' asked Mr Jenkins.

‘Absolutely!' said Mick, grinning from ear to ear.

The scout, as Mick called him, gave Mick a card with the address of the training grounds and his number on it, and shook hands with the proud father.

‘If there's any problem or anything at all, just give me a bell.'

Then he tucked his newspaper back under his arm and headed briskly off across the fields into the distance, leaving Mick standing
smiling and holding the card tight like it was a winning lotto ticket.