Morning break. Crisp bags rustled. Juice cartons popped. Mouths moved silently, savouring sugar-laden delights. It was supervision time in the canteen. Teacher-friendly pupils acknowledged my presence, with a greeting or a comment. Others kept a wide berth. Junior, from the latter category, took me completely by surprise when, eyes aglow with star-like brilliance, he paused and giving a right hand salute cheered, "Man United. Yeah!"

I must admit that up to then I wasn't a keen enthusiast. I vaguely knew of the achievements of Manchester United. My only claim to "fame" in the sporting sphere is a crooked finger, acquired during a pupil-teacher basketball game many moons ago. It nestles close to my long finger like a character, having had one too many, leaning against a lamppost. Later, on that fateful night, I gave a forceful kick at the basketball, resulting in a sprained ankle. My body crumpled on the tarmac like a suit of clothes dropping from a hanger. An ice pack, a bandage, and a stool on which to rest the ankle were supplied; my team spirit honoured. I was glad to escape the fray.

I took pride of place on the chalkboard before Irish class commenced. An avid footballer enlightened me on its meaning. Manchester United had beaten Bayern Munich in the European Champions' league. The excitement and joy were palpable. If only stair na Gaeilge would arouse such ecstasy! I learned that Roy Keane hadn't played because of an ankle injury. We have something in common! "They did it for him really," I was informed. This statement speaks volumes.

Champions, it seems, are risk takers. It appears that young people need heroes, compassionate heroes, who know about the creative forces of the soul and also about the enchantments and injuries, the knots in the thread of life, which can slow one's steps temporarily.

Alex Ferguson is said to have found his holy grail in Barcelona. His conquering Reds evoked such newspaper headlines as, "Glory, Glory, Man United," and "Fans Pay Homage To Their Team". Interestingly, the legendary Grail Myth has a wounded hero. It is a sacred wound which, psychologically speaking, shatters an old condition and opens the door to a new awareness; a new world view.

Later on in the day, I met a member of the school's football team. He and his mates had lost to the "away" team. His smile was fragile, and the beads of perspiration, glistening on his body, gave off the pungent scent of disappointment. My banal utterance, "you will be lucky next time", did little to soothe his sense of desperation. I knew though that he would recover, and looking to the future would give the game his best shot once again.

Lads are not the only ones to get their act together. A group of girls, who formed their own band some years ago, took the initiative to help ease the plight of the Kosovan refugees. Confidently relying on their own devices, they performed on stage for the entire school, raising close to £400 for the cause. Alternative music, I was told, is their style and is comprised of rock, pop, and ballads. It is dance music with spine shattering rhythms and strong vocals, prompting hips to sway and toes to tap.

Hopefully, "having woven their spell in life's rich tapestry", to quote M People, they will go a long way. Perhaps, in the future, important items will feature among exhibits in the Irish Music Hall of Fame. They deserve a salute already.

Girls United. Yeah!