Post by Brendan on Jan 16, 2010 16:05:58 GMT
Hi to All:
Hail, rain or snow we played soccer every day. The place and venue was irrelevant, the round object full of air was kicked around for as long as our imagination and energy lasted into the night. Day or night, big or small spaces, walls, railings, fences, tarmac, dirt, grass or concrete was our Wembley Stadium. We didn’t care! For that moment in time, it fed our dreams of playing for Liverpool, Manchester United or Leeds.
Playing soccer, Gaelic football and boxing meant thriving in a fantasy of hope for the present and fuelling our dreams for the future. We all played because we loved the game. The lucky ones who had the skill made others look drab unintentionally; they were the big fish in a very small pond.
The seven barracks’ became the seven nations where competition was ripe, gripping, clean and exciting. When we weren’t playing soccer on the small green behind the garrison shop, or in front of the boiler house, or on the green across from Click O’Reilly’s house, or in the schoolyard, we’d be kicking a ball against the laundry wall, boiler house wall, or against the shed in the schoolyard until we were exhausted. The wind-down of post game analysis took place for twenty minutes beside the fuel shed, we compared our skill set to George Best, Jonny Giles and many others. The loud and tumultuous slagging became history after a nights sleep.
Good memories I must say.
Brendan
Hail, rain or snow we played soccer every day. The place and venue was irrelevant, the round object full of air was kicked around for as long as our imagination and energy lasted into the night. Day or night, big or small spaces, walls, railings, fences, tarmac, dirt, grass or concrete was our Wembley Stadium. We didn’t care! For that moment in time, it fed our dreams of playing for Liverpool, Manchester United or Leeds.
Playing soccer, Gaelic football and boxing meant thriving in a fantasy of hope for the present and fuelling our dreams for the future. We all played because we loved the game. The lucky ones who had the skill made others look drab unintentionally; they were the big fish in a very small pond.
The seven barracks’ became the seven nations where competition was ripe, gripping, clean and exciting. When we weren’t playing soccer on the small green behind the garrison shop, or in front of the boiler house, or on the green across from Click O’Reilly’s house, or in the schoolyard, we’d be kicking a ball against the laundry wall, boiler house wall, or against the shed in the schoolyard until we were exhausted. The wind-down of post game analysis took place for twenty minutes beside the fuel shed, we compared our skill set to George Best, Jonny Giles and many others. The loud and tumultuous slagging became history after a nights sleep.
Good memories I must say.
Brendan
