Mother nature spoils Celtic’s fun

PITCHING IN Castlebar Celtic club officials and substitutes are pictured trying to clear rainwater off the pitch at Celtic Park last Sunday. Pic: Conor McKeown


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Oisín McGovern

A COVERED stand is a rare thing to find at a soccer pitch in Mayo.
With this being the west of Ireland, umbrellas are advisable at most grounds at all times of year.
Surveying the skies fifteen minutes before kick-off, it looked as if the heavens would be merciful and that portable shelter wouldn’t be needed.
The phrase, “Better to have it and not need it, than to need it and not have it,” came to mind. So back to the car we went to fetch a flimsy black brolly.
With one minute to kick-off, a respectable crowd had gathered around for this cup clash.
When Paul Kilcoyne’s whistle pierced the air it must have punched a hole in the sky, for we were soon met with a deluge.
Not one suspected that this shower would unravel the fixture, but it soon began to tell on the pitch.
The first thing Mother Nature laid waste to were the ‘championship’ haircuts.
Immaculately groomed heads were quickly reduced to soggy cleaning mops, but the pitch still held up.
Those watching on were forced to either squint from underneath an umbrella while others stood their ground and waited for hypothermia to set in.
Local reporters try to do multiple things at once; from keeping an eye on proceedings, while keep a listening ear, while trying to hold and umbrella, while trying to preserve the notes from melting on contact with the rain.
A pool of water begins to form in front of the assembled press, and at first we joke that it is like having an extra defender standing on the wing.
As tackles began producing bigger and muckier splashes of water, it soon becomes clear that Celtic Park won’t hold up for much longer.
Paul O’Malley from the Western People points out that it’s a great day for slow motion action shots.
However, it’s not a great day to be player — and to their credit, they served up an entertaining half of football considering the circumstances.
As time goes on, the twenty-two men on the field begin to look less like soccer players and more like Olympic divers and dodgy skateboarders.
A call to harms came as soon as the half-time arrived, pitch forks and wire brushes are summoned when only divine intervention would have sufficed.
The exercise is short and fruitless, akin to throwing rocks and spears at an Abrams tank.
It becomes obvious that Celtic Park won’t safely accommodate another 45 minutes, and Mother Nature is declared the winner.  
The moral of the story? Always bring an umbrella.