The strangest of summers takes another curious twist

Country Living with Francis Farragher

It’s stranger that things seem to be getting this year. There I was on a June Wednesday evening last week having a bit of grub after work when the TV was flicked on and amidst great contrived excitement the first English Premier League match for months was unveiled on Sky.

The feeling was more than a little unusual, something akin to listening to White Christmas or Frosty the Snowman on Midsummer’s Day, but for want of something better to do while the food was being consumed, an eye was thrown on the TV.

The rival combatants were Aston Villa and Sheffield United but for the best part of an hour this was the match where nothing happened . . . well apart that is from the Villa keeper carrying the ball over his own line only for Hawkeye to miss out on the goal because the post and a couple of bodies got in the way.

Playing in front of an empty stadium is probably not easy but on one of the channels, there was the option of adding in sound effects which were plyed with great gusto if the ball came even remotely close to either six-yard box. Here and there though, the producer didn’t get it right, with a massive ‘roar’ from the crowd as the ball trickled harmlessly wide.

I’ve nothing against soccer and for many years soldiered valiantly for my local club St. Bernard’s United but I do have lingering memories of how long – and at times how dreadfully boring – a bad game could be, a cause not helped by playing in goal and especially if your team was on top.

Those damn matches used to seem to go on forever. There was always a half-hour in getting ready when invariably a bootlace would break or a glove would be missing . . . each half always lasted 50 minutes with added-on time . . . while the interval breaks, especially on a cold winter’s day seemed to go for about 10 minutes too long.

But that was us. Junior journeymen in the great world of soccer and no one really expected us to be a Gordon Banks, a Bobby Charlton, a George Best or a Johan Cruyff. We pedalled our wares, did our best, and enjoyed a few scoops after the match.

For more, read this week’s Connacht Tribune.

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