The phone call came on Friday afternoon. It was Ray, our club’s senior manager, and he had a problem. His first-choice goalkeeper was on holiday. His substitute ‘keeper was unavoidably absent.
The second team, the team I’ve been playing full forward with, were missing their ‘keeper too and the seniors were due to be out against Whitehall Colmcilles, who were top of the league. “Would you have any interest in playing in goals for us next Wednesday?”
Given I’ve never played in goals in a serious game of any kind, this was ... surprising. I’m 41. I should know better to just leave it to someone else. But of course what I actually said was: “Yeah I’ll do that. Have you got a video of your kick-out routine you could send me?”
I should have been nervous all weekend, but my innate, reckless self-confidence convinced me I’d be fine. It was only when Wednesday morning came that the unvarnished reality of what I’d volunteered for began to creep up on me. Senior football? At my age! By the time I’d left the office, I had literally no idea what I was doing.
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“Can someone bring a cap? You don’t expect me to kick 45s, do you? What’s phase 3 supposed to mean again?” I thought the third message (about our kick-outs) was the one likeliest to convince Ray that he’d made a terrible mistake, but, to me at least, he presented a picture of calm.
I park up outside the dressing-room. A couple of players are talking about the corresponding fixture last year. “That was the game with all the goals wasn’t it?” My ears prick up. “We scored five that day, didn’t we?” I breathe a sigh of relief — ah, they’re talking about “our” goals. “Of course ... they got five as well.” Sweat starts to gather at my collar.
The game begins and my first kick-out is scheduled to go as long as I can kick it. I stick rigidly to the schedule. The ball crawls over the 45, breaks, falls to a Whitehall player, who kicks it wide.
My next kick-out, in a pleasing diversion, is due to go as long as I can kick it, and this one does at least travel. We win the break, and my kick-outs are back to 50 per cent.
With barely five minutes played, their full forward is bearing down on me. I am a little out of my goal to begin with, so I retreat back to the six-yard box. Encouraged by how good that feels, I retreat some more. In fact, the only thing stopping me from retreating all the way through the net and into the bushes behind me is a brilliant interception from our corner back, who stops a certain goal.
I start to feel a little more comfortable. I decide to go short with my next two kick-outs. They both work out. I get involved in open play. I’m now lord of my domain. With a minute left at the end of the first half, we get a free in the right corner, about 21 yards out. Our main free-taker is right-footed, I’m a leftie. I see my chance.
I start racing up the field, at easily twice the pace Cluxton ambles about at. I make it well past the 45 before I’m sent back. I’m genuinely gutted. And the free is missed, to add insult to injury. As I’m making my way back, our centre back says to me “All right Murph, no problem. Let’s just relax here.”
We’re 2-3 to 0-5 up at half-time, and if you weren’t an idiot, you could see his point. We’re four up, with a novice keeper —the last thing we need is for our team’s weak link to start having delusions of grandeur.
Whitehall get the first score after the break. I boot the resultant kick-out straight to their left-half forward, who at least misses the chance I’ve given him. For my next kick-out, I unerringly pick out the same player.
The next kick-out will land on a runway in Dublin Airport, if I can hit it that far. The ball obligingly travels a good distance, but it’s straight to the opposition again. Another point. I’m now 0 for 3 since the break. The shout comes in from our sideline — “phase 3, phase 3!” There’s a chance I knew what that meant three hours ago, but I’ll be damned if I’ve a clue what it means now.
I go long again, another loss. They get another score. I’m now under severe pressure. The goal I’m defending is right beside the clubhouse. There’s a big crowd off to my left, and they’re all making themselves heard. And this is when I get it. This is why the role of goalkeeper is so important.
I wait. I wait some more. Our corner back makes a run. I have time to hit him, but I dither a moment too long. They have four in the full-forward line, on a big press. The volume rises another notch. And then our wing forward makes a brilliant run, I can’t miss him, straight down the middle, and we’re away. In that moment, my understanding of what it takes to do this job week in, week out expands beyond all recognition.
The rest of the game is sketchy enough. With 10 minutes to go, I dither too long even for the ref, and he throws the ball in, with our lead down to a point. But when we go four up with two minutes left, I think to myself that even if I threw one in now, we’d survive.
In the end, we win it by three. In the huddle, I’m genuinely delighted to have got through unscathed. “You don’t mind if I write a column about this someday, Ray? I mean ... I don’t want to blow our cover if you’ll be asking me again?”
A pause. “I think you’ll be okay to write a column about it all right.”
