Looking back on summers past – Trevor Quinn

Jumpers for goalposts


Trevor Quinn

Summer in Carracastle during my younger days in the early nineties brings back memories of neighbours and friends congregating every other day for a match in our front meadow which would often finish in darkness five or six hours later.
We jokingly referred to ourselves as Craggagh United (the local townland) and we imagined that we had the best soccer club this side of Charlestown. What seemed like barrels of Mi-Wadi orange were customary drinks during the never-ending matches.
Cut knees, cries of “I was in goals last,” and “you never pass” would routinely be heard from disaffected players. The hooting horns of passing articulated trucks would be heard on an hourly basis as we randomly gestured to the drivers of articulated trucks who drove curiously past a rural field.
After two or three weeks of this footballing mecca, we would be banished to the tightly restricted confines of the front lawn where the bigger more imposing footballers could shove and harness their aggression far more adequately. This was highly detrimental to my slight five foot frame!
The freshly cut meadow would ordinarily be primed for two cuts and subsequently two supplies of bales at the beginning and the end of summer so our excessive football playing would often deteriorate the grass and soil, hampering the crop.
In late August, early September we would rejoice when the bales were collected and we could reclaim our pitch. Now it was ours for what seemed like an eternity. In the later years of adolescence a local welder made goal posts for us (we no longer needed our jumpers for goalposts) and we acquired the old lawnmower.
Myself and the other main football devotee decided to hijack the pristine meadow much to the dissatisfaction of my father who farmed the land. He would usually bow to the immense enthusiasm we showed for the beautiful game however and keep the herd in an adjoining field for a little longer despite their lowing for the rich grass.