TAGANN CIALL le haois. Sense comes with age. Sometimes but not always; not where men and sport are concerned. I speak from experience, writes Pól Ó Muirí
I am writing this after having taken part in St Paul's Golden Gloves handball competition, an annual event held in Belfast. I am in pain. Every inch of my body is sore. My knuckles are sore from mis-hitting the ball, my fingers are stiff, my arms are leaden, my thighs are tight and my buttocks are just sore - and not in any good sadomasochistic way either. No, they are just sore.
Still, if there is one thing about handball it is this - it is always fun. Oh, you can play like a dog - I frequently do - and you can be worse than the worst player ever - I frequently am - but it never stops being fun. I speak as a recent returnee.
Having played almost continuously from my mid-teens to my late 30s, I took the head staggers a couple of years ago and gave up. Not that anyone noticed.
There was no huge internet campaign to bring me back; there was no horrified Armagh shriek like when Geezer called it a day. The telephone did not ring off the hook with people saying: "Handball needs you". No, the silence was deep and deafening. The gloves were left to grow mouldy in the wardrobe and the tins of little blue balls grew dusty in their incarceration.
Of course, the reason no one noticed that I had stopped playing was because I had never won much while playing. I have an enviable record of not winning finals. In fact, I have an enviable record of not even reaching finals. I don't like to boast but in over 25 years of action, I have never made the final of any singles events. I admit that my record is somewhat sullied by the one all-Ireland intervarsity title and the odd Ulster club title.
But they, you note, were club titles, achieved with the help of team-mates. Now, don't get me wrong - I did contribute. I just don't remember much about it because handball is a game in which the measure of one's achievements is in singles titles and, to a lesser extent, in doubles.
It is the glory of individual victory that all handballers crave. My comeback coincided with my turning 40 and having the opportunity to play in Masters "B". Masters means simply over 40 years old and "B" is top secret code for someone who has not won anything. (Did I mention I had not won anything?) Though why we qualify for the title of "master" when we have not actually won anything escapes me. Would you call a kung fu teacher "master" if he keeps getting his head kicked in? In a cynical move that would gladden the heart of the most bitter hack who ever lived, I calculated that most of the people who had beaten me while I was a novice would (a) have either moved up a grade or (b) be in prison. (I am from west Belfast. People went to prison. Deal with it.)
Unfortunately, my first joust at the Masters' title was spoilt when I fell off my bike and broke my arm. Chance number two at Masters' glory ended because, well, I was beaten by a better player and a former acquaintance who had obviously not realised that he was supposed to have moved on. He shook my hand as we left the court and blessed me on my way with a cheery: "You used to be good." (Such is the infamy that the line has now achieved that my Armagh club mates now greet any small victory I achieve with: "You used to be good.") Campaign number three of the player formerly known as "used to be good" lasted slightly longer than campaign number two.
I won the first round but lost the second. Campaign number four beckons. Hence the trip to St Paul's as part of an all-out effort to become good once again. (Did I win? No, I didn't frigging win. Have you been reading this at all?) Of course, I have an excuse. There was no Masters B grade in this year's competition.
As a result I was put in Men's C, which was essentially every young buck from minors to masters who had not - as yet - won anything. Needless to say, facing off with young lads in their 20s was not part of my Masters' master plan. I was hoping for people as old as me - older if possible. I wanted players with dodgy hips, Zimmerframes, glass eyes and piles. What I got were gunslingers. In my defence, I did win my first round game against one 20-something. Thankfully, he had hurt his shoulder. (Yes, thankfully! I'll take whatever advantage I can get.)
The second round game did not go quite as well. I managed to ambush a young blade from Tyrone (Tyrone!) and sneaked the first game by the skin of my teeth.
That was as good as it got. The young blade from Tyrone (Tyrone!) decided that grand-da had gotten too big for his boots and delivered an unmerciful lesson in what it means to be 20 and fit. Suffice to say, I spent the rest of the game marvelling as the little blue ball passed me by. Bye, bye, little blue ball. Bye, bye. Slán abhaile and codladh sámh, little blue ball.
I am not totally disheartened. I played in the same competition last year and won two of the four games I played. This year, I won three of the four and lost in a tie-breaker. On the whole, that is an improvement. I used to be good. Perhaps I might be again. Roll on Masters B. Roll on the Zimmerframes.