In the 1970’s I played soccer for Ringwood United with quite a few Irish blokes. And typically Irish they were to. Mad as mickey mouse watches.
Small as a jockey, Johnnie R, who was still in his late fifties, rotund brash Bart H, and skinny and long as a greyhound, Sean B. All crazy Irishman and they wouldn’t take the least offence if you called them so. They never lacked a sense of humour, always good for a laugh and they never seemed to take themselves seriously.
On training nights we’d always stand around the goal square waiting for the coach to arrive. Two or three soccer balls were being kicked around and the other guys would be standing around chatting about things in general. It was Johnnie’s undying wish to score the winning goal in a cup final, or some other important game, in the last minute of the contest and he would play his fantasy at training.
He’d call out: “MINNA TA GORE!!” and would dribble skilfully pass eight or ten guys in the penalty area (most of them immersed in conversation with others, completely oblivious to the bobbing and weaving diminutive ‘superstar’) and he’d blast the ball into the net from about a metre out , raise his fist in triumph and race around the ground like a man possessed.
I remember it well and every now and then I have a chuckle about it and sometimes when about 4 or 5 of us are standing around the time clock at work, waiting for it to tick over to 4 o’clock, I’ll say: “MINNA TA GORE,” and they all look at me stupid.
Crazy Irishman? They probably think I’m a mad Dutchman.