Football in the Land of Fresh Peace
Foyle Cup 2008, Londonderry, Northern Ireland
Copyright 2008 Stephen Spence
I can’t believe the news today
Oh, I can’t close my eyes and make it go away
How long...
How long must we sing this song?
How long? how long...
cause tonight...we can be as one[ii]
Placing my backpack under the seat in front of me, I look down the aisle at the fifteen young soccer players about to fly from Ottawa to Northern Ireland to take part in the annual Foyle Cup, one of the most prestigious youth soccer tournaments in Europe.
They are already wrestling, wrestling over seats assigned by the airline. This group of sixteen year-old boys, for some reason, seemed to enjoy grappling with each other more than anything. They are like lions in the wild, biting and clawing each other for entertainment. During our most recent bus-trip back from a league game in Boston, one of our players, Alex Chaboud, suffered a minor break in his cheek bone when his face was slammed against an arm-rest while he was tussling with a teammate.
I pulled a book out of my backpack and settled in, prepared for a long peaceful flight, with confidence that, should the fighting become a serious problem, the onboard air-marshals, wherever they might be, would take care of the problem for me. But before reading a single word, a suffocating wave of queasiness rolled over me. I am instantly struck with the thought that I might return to Ottawa with fewer players than the number that had been handed over to me by their parents. I have to assume that by trusting me with their precious offspring, I am expected to return the same number I took. The boys had experienced plenty of weekend road-trips together but this trip was going to be eight days long. Eight days of punching, scratching, kicking, clawing, and kneeing. Bringing one or two back in body-bags because of their obsessive need to pound on each other would definitely not be good for my coaching career.
Arriving at the Ottawa airport earlier that afternoon, I fought my way through a mass of Spagnolos. Graziano (Graz) Spagnolo was one of our midfielders and his brother Saverino (Savi), a keeper. The Spagnolo frattellos were accompanied in the airport ticket area by thirty or fourty of their closest friends and family. Not only did parents, aunts, uncles, cousins, neighbours, priests, and two or three dozen second cousins. insist on witnessing the Spagnolo boys safe departure, I would later learn that they had imposed on the two brothers, a strict obligation to call home three times each day from Londonderry. Three times a day! Sending my wife three or four text messages seemed a little cold-hearted and unfeeling in comparison. I wondered if the Spagnolo clan knew that we were going to the Londonderry in Northern Ireland, and not the one in Vermont.
I was never really all that confident this trip would ever materialize. At no point prior to stepping onto the aircraft, was the trip ever a certainty. A few players had left the team; others had struggled with the financial obligation, and some even threatened to pull out for various other reasons at the last minute. All of this kept me a little doubtful for months on end. But now that we are on the plane, I could finally begin to take it seriously.
Or, could I? It wouldn’t be the first time that passengers had been removed from an aircraft just prior to departure. Was there a distrustful angry mob of family members out there this very minute, leaping past the Air Canada ticket collector, and storming down the gangway toward the plane, the leader yelling “Follow me, he’s this way”? But, when the closing of the airplane door was not followed by knocking on its outside, I knew we were on our way. We were going to Northern Ireland.
About nine months earlier, we made a decision to fulfill our promise of returning with another under-16 team to the Foyle Cup. Our club, The Ottawa Fury, had sent a team last year who stunned many observers by finishing with the bronze medal. Thanks to the great performance of last year’s team, expectations for this squad were high. Thank you. Thank you very much.
Arriving at the Derry City Hotel at around noon, most of the boys, too excited to sleep on the plane, were grumpy and tired having stayed up all night. I refused to let them go to bed until at least 9:00 pm because by keeping them awake into the evening, they would sleep through the night and their biological clocks would adjust automatically. To see my evil plan succeed, I decided to take them out for some late afternoon training. Not surprisingly, declaration of the plan was not met with the overwhelming support of the boys. In fact, I heard word of an assassination attempt being plotted by a couple of the team’s more shady characters.
We made arrangements for “Donall”, a big, burly man with a clunker of a Mercedes passenger-bus with tiny seats and a rattling diesel engine, to take us to a nearby mental hospital to train on a pitch on the hospital grounds. I think Donall loved his football more than his bus, and I believe that driving players around was a way for him to stay involved and share his knowledge of the local soccer scene. He seemed to know everyone in, and everything about, the game in Derry. I would later learn that Donall’s friendliness and love for youth football was common amongst the old-timers in Derry.
By the time we returned to the hotel, changed and headed out to dinner, I knew I that the earliest they could possibly return from dinner, would be near on 10:00 pm, a welcomed time to hit the sack. It was a small, yet not an insignificant, victory.
In the morning, we had a light training session back at the hospital and then returned to the hotel in time to get ready for the opening day’s events. A very special tradition is held on the first morning of Foyle Cup competition. Those teams taking part join in a parade that winds its way through the streets of Derry from the University of Ulster to the venerable Guild Hall (City Hall).
Let me take a moment to explain the significance of the two city names, Londonderry and Derry. The official and historic, and very British, name of the city is Londonderry. But considering that the city consists of 85% Irish Republicans (Catholics), who are somewhat less than supportive of the British (Protestants) mother-ship, the city is more commonly referred to as “Derry”. Adhering to the convention of dropping the “London” prefix is important for your survival while you are on the “City-side” of the Foyle River. (The opposite side of the Foyle, for some reason referred to as the “Water-side”, is the more Loyalist or Protestant area.)
Do not, as I would ineptly do a few days later, refer to “Londonderry” while you are in a Catholic pub in City-side. A fellow sitting at the bar quickly turned to see who had used the forbidden name, and I immediately turned away to disguise my guilt, and looked around myself as if I too was outraged and intent on seeking out the impertinent Protestant bastard who would dare utter such a vile word in this house.
We arrived at the University of Ulster for the start of the parade, carrying Frisbees adorned with bright red Canadian maple leaves. We were immediately accosted by an excited mob of nine and ten year old Irish footballers. As the horde of the red-headed hobbits milled about, I yelled over their heads to our boys: “Stand strong lads”. I wanted them to have Frisbees available for throwing during the parade. However, some of them succumbed to the abundant Irish charm and soon, Maple Leaf Frisbees were being waved about by proud wee wanes in assorted tracksuits.
It was more a march than it was a parade. Two thousand soccer players adorned in their club colours, marched along the narrow streets of Derry, behind a marching band whose sound soon droned off over the ridge ahead and out of ear-shot. International teams carried their national flags just as we did. Some teams sang their club songs, loudly and with the pride of their supporters back home. As we walked from the University of Ulster toward Guild Hall, workers, families, business men and women, came out of their homes and offices and shops to share a smile and give the boys a friendly wave.
The Frisbees started to fly. You had to be alert to the spinning missiles, hissing through the air, able without warning to decapitate those who were not attentive enough to track its flight-path and agile enough to jump out of its way. The red and white flying saucers were very popular with both the young marching players as well as the waving onlookers. The tradition of throwing Frisbees began with Canadian Olympic swimmers at the 2000 Sydney Olympics who, upon entering the pool area, would toss Frisbees into the crowd. It was a Canadian thing.
As we walked along, I looked curiously into the eyes of bystanders, particularly at the mothers with babies. I tried to visualize how life for young families would have been in these neighborhoods thirty years ago when the throngs on the street were violent and angry and not so happy and celebratory as they are this day. I vividly recall clips on the evening news delivering The Troubles of Northern Ireland into our family room. A mother with a young child in tow scrambles across a Derry street, ducking as the sound of gun-fire rings out, and a Molotov cocktail explodes nearby. A young child with eyes bloodshot from tear-gas cries while a parent or neighbor drips water on her face. I can’t help but wonder with each smiling mother I look at, if I am looking into the eyes of the child of one of the mothers I saw on my black and white television so many years ago.
Thirty-six years ago, another group of young people marched through these streets. But on that memorable day, they were not marching to celebrate sport but to draw attention to the plight of Derry residents, whose social and political mistreatment they believed needed world attention. But unlike today’s march that would end in a game of soccer, that day in 1972 would end in bloodshed and the death of fourteen protesters. Seven of the dead were teenagers, near in age to our boys. The events of January 30th 1972 would forever to be referred to as Bloody Sunday. Maybe for some of those bystanders who were old enough to remember, in some way a march like today’s is a march to celebrate that this day was not that day. When I was young, I had learned of Bloody Sunday in a far-off land through television. Now I was on the scene and Derry’s tumultuous history was beginning to tug at my heart.
On August 12th 1969, more than two years prior to Bloody Sunday, another march had also turned deadly. On that day, a Loyalist club called the Apprentice Boys marched, as they did every year, to observe a Protestant victory in the Siege of Derry in 1689. It is a provocative event for the many Catholics in Derry. And, on that particular day, the march passed close to nearby Bogside, the Catholic enclave just outside the walled city, and within yards of where today’s young footballers innocently trudged along. Violent rioting and fighting ensued and after three days of ferocious skirmishes between Bogsiders and the Protestant militia known as the Royal Ulster Constabulary (RUC), more than 1,000 people had been injured. This, the “Battle of the Bogside”, resulted in the arrival of British troops, a military presence in Londonderry that lasted until 2007. Although British troops were initially greeted by the residents of Bogside as a more welcomed option to the notorious RUC, the years that followed brought intense conflict and mutual brutality.
Marching has a longstanding tradition in this area, but not necessarily a glorious one. However today, the smiles and laughter leave no indication of uneasiness, anger, or fear. The spirit of Northern Irelanders seems to display little of the suffering of decades of anguish. However, memories can be ineradicable. Wounds must be fresh enough to carry the recollection of pain; violence so recent that the peace these mothers watching us today enjoy must be revered as precious. So precious and yet so recent, it cannot possibly be taken for granted. Some of these people - those who are my age - have lived through terrible times and I wonder how strongly, and how frequently, they fear its return.
But the little guys in the parade, young footballers scrambling for Canadian Frisbees to take home as souvenirs, know little of The Troubles of their parents generation - thankfully.
July 22, 2008
Ottawa Fury 1 Newmills (Northern Ireland) 1
St. Columbs Park
Our first match of the tournament was played on one of the two immaculate pitches at St. Columbs Park, the local training centre for the Irish Football Association (IFA).
There was a high sense of excitement in the small portable building serving as a make-shift locker room, as the boys dressed for the match. It reflected their readiness to compete, but it also concerned me a little. It concerned me that they might be over-excited and come out too nervous. In the past few months, this team had not been overflowing with self-confidence in their ability to score and their ability to win close matches. They would need to overcome this to have a successful Foyle Cup.
With the Canadian flag hung temporarily on the wall, my boss, Colin McCurdy, our club’s Technical Director, addressed the boys. He pointed to the flag and asked the boys to play for their country. Every eye in the room was focused on Colin. He described how last year’s team had performed well and that he saw no reason why this squad could not do equally as well. “Stay organized”, he said.” They will try to intimidate you”. “Over here,” he said “they hate to lose”. “Do not be intimidated. Give back what they give you, but do not be stupid.”
Although Colin had lived in Canada for eight years, he was originally from Belfast. He grew up during The Troubles and he was tough and street smart, and clever enough not to get sucked in by the wrong people. “All I wanted to do was play football,” he had told me. Colin was known wherever we went. On the first day of our arrival, we walked out of the hotel and entered a nearby convenience store. With seconds, the shop-keeper recognized 53-year old Colin, and said: “You played for Linfield, did yu na?” Colin had in fact played four seasons for Linfield FC. He also had a brief stint with Fulham in England and scored a goal for the Northern Ireland national team in 1980 against Australia. He even played for one season with the Philadelphia Fury of the old North American Soccer League (NASL).
Although it must make him proud to be recognized in public in such a way, Linfield was a Protestant club from Belfast and I suspect being recognized by Catholic Derry City supporters, after all these years, would still make him just a little uneasy. There were many hard-fought battles between the two clubs and although I never saw Colin play, I understand that he was a rough and tough striker who would just as soon bloody your nose with his elbow as score a goal on you. But wherever we went over these eight days, from what I could see, he was shown nothing but respect and admiration.
Colin left the room and it was my turn to speak, I reminded the boys of our plan – to press them deep in their end and run them hard. Anticipating that our fitness level might be superior since we were in mid-season and our opponents had not yet started theirs, I wanted to see if we might be able to tire them out. I advised the boys to stay calm at all times, to deal with whatever adversity came their way without panic or frustration. Every player was going to have to do his part. I told them that there was enough skill in the room to succeed, but only if each one of them played as a proud hard-working Canadian. Fight with all your might to gain possession of the ball, I told them. And, when we have it, be patient; keep the ball on the ground. Wear them out by making them chase our ball. Don’t get sucked into the long-ball game. I shook each player’s hand, as did my assistant coach Lorne, and we left the room to give them some time alone together.
When the boys took to the pristine St. Columb pitch to start their warm up there was no sign of our opponents. Keepers Giancarlo Colasanti and Savi Spagnolo took a few balls and a handful of cones and headed off toward the goal. The rest of the boys ran widths of the pitch to loosen up.
After a short stretch, we played some small-sided games to get some touches on the ball.
Our opposition, Newmills Youth, soon stepped onto the pitch but unlike our series of organized warm-up drills, the Newmills team, exactly as Colin had warned, stood around in small groups juggling and joking with each other. As the Newmills players readied themselves in their own special way, their coach prepared himself with a smoke on the touchline. He periodically and half-heartedly pleaded with his players with phlegm-filled outburst like: “c’mon lads, git reedy” and “knoke it round a little fullas”.
I found it a little odd that just before kick-off, Newmills retrieved their kit and, moved as a team, to the opposite side of the pitch from where we stood. It no longer seemed so odd when, just seconds into the match, the smoking coach strode up and down the entire length of the pitch, yelling at the boys and flicking cigarette ashes toward an undaunted referee.
Right from the start, the noise level of our opponents was much different than our boys had experienced. The Newmills players were instantly loud and angry – exactly as I had been telling our players for months.
I wondered if the Newmill’s coach, huffing and puffing on his Benson and Hedges, while sprinting the length of the touchline and back again, would survive the match. He might very well have been saved from a lung-collapse, when just ten minutes into the game, the referee told him to keep to his side of the centre line.
We had an early chance when midfielder Stefan Mariano, cut in from the right flank, but unfortunately his cross floated easily to the keeper. And then later in that half, centre-midfielder Christian Dmytryk had a similar opportunity down the left side, with striker Stephane Razafemahefa (Raza) standing alone in front of the Newmill’s goal, Christian’s promising pass was cut down before it could reach Raza.
It was an even, albeit unsymmetrical, match. We passed the ball for as long as we could, and the second we lost possession, the ball was sent by our opponents high into orbit toward our backs. Newmills played long-ball over and over and over and over again. Both teams had good chances. We certainly had more than our fair share of opportunities to open the scoring, but just as our league season had gone so far, so seemed to go our Foyle Cup adventure, with goals nigh impossible to come by.
Newmills defenders were unable to keep up with Raza’s speed, and he was able to slip in behind them consistently. He was certainly on his game and growing in confidence with each touch of the ball. He broke clear a couple of times but with each occasion he was unable to get off a shot.
Our inability to score made me uneasy. As is so often the case when goals seem too difficult to get, disaster then struck. With just three minutes left in the first half, a Newmills shot from the outside banged off Alex Chaboud’s elbow as he raised it to protect his face. The referee ruled that his arm was in an unnatural position and awarded a penalty kick. It was an excellently taken spot-kick and Newmills went up 1-0 at halftime, in our opinion, against the flow of play, and on a questionable call.
At half-time, I gave the boys a chance to speak. They were not discouraged by the late goal. In fact, they seemed confident in their own quality compared to Newmills, and I sensed they were in a good frame of mind to pull it out.
To start the second half, I moved our big strong centre-back Alex Catsburg into a midfield position in an attempt to grab more control out of the middle of the park. I replaced midfielder Mariano with speedy striker David Roy, and moved Dino Furano back from a striker position into his more usual wide midfield role.
The combined speed of Roy and Raza caused their backs even more problems. About twenty-two minutes into the second half, Furano recovered a ball deep in the Newmills’ left corner. He played it back to midfielder Dmytryk who played a nice square ball to Catsburg. Catsburg then sent a pretty through-ball to Raza running through the channel. Raza knocked it forward with his first-touch and fired a low shot off the inside of the post and into the net. The boys were ecstatic. Not only was the match all square, it was as if a weight had been lifted from their shoulders, and they now believe they could score. It was just one goal but it was such a great goal – such a badly needed goal - just maybe they could repeat it.
The remaining minutes were tense. The midfield seemed to disappear from the game entirely as each team sent long balls from their own end, up to the strikers who wrestled vigorously with opposing defenders for small pieces of valuable real estate. Both teams held a firm defensive back-line and refused to allow their opponents to break through.
The final whistle signaled the end of a duel. It had been a good test for our team, and the boys performed well. They battled and although giving up a questionable penalty kick, they scratched their way back into the match, earning a draw and, what might prove to be, a valuable point.
As the game ended, the Newmills coach argued fiercely with the referee. Blue smoke spewed from his gaping mouth as he strenuously argued his case. But to the referees delight, the dispute came to abrupt end as the coach needed another cigarette and he had left his fags back on the touch-line.
That evening Colin, Lorne, our team manager Lynn, and I attended a tournament reception at Guild Hall hosted by the city’s new mayor, Gerard Diver and his French-Canadian wife, Alice. Colin was asked to say a few words, and I wondered if it was possible for Colin to ever say, just a “few words”. He did a magnificent job, speaking without notes. He had the place roaring with laughter, which is usually the case when Colin is in any room. Beyond the jokes, he also talked about his memories of playing against Derry City as a Linfield striker. He said how great it was for him to be there, speaking in this room, to this group – referring of course to the historic sectarian divide between the two clubs. It was something he said that might not have happened, even just five or six years ago. After the speeches were over, Lynn presented the Mayor with a bottle of fine Canadian maple syrup, and I presented tournament organizer, Michael Hutton, with an assortment of shirts and hats from our club.
The best part of the evening, was sitting around the council chambers, after the formalities had concluded, drinking beer and listening to old-time stories from three or four local referees who attended the reception. Plenty of memories of Colin as a player were shared with colourful stories of his playing exploits in the day. Colin joined in of course with tales and jokes of his own.
“He was a refrees dreeum dat un” an older referee with a particularly high-pitched, voice told me loudly, while pointing at Colin. He leaned across the table with his elbows out wide. “His elbus ad bee all over du plice, knockin’ inta goys. Me cards wa flyin’ outta me pocket on der own.” I roared laughing and he laughed louder.
Stories of other players from ages past flew by fast and furiously. I struggled to understand, wanting so badly to hear every word of every story. But, the Derry accent is deep and when excited, they speak too quickly for this simple Canadian to understand. If I did not pay close enough attention I would miss entire sentences – and I think beer makes them speak faster - and louder. But, I was having a terrific time. There was no religion in that room, no hostility, and no sectarianism. Just love of football. So much love of football, I am sure they would have gone on all night telling stories and laughing uproariously. I kept thinking: You don’t get this sort of thing back home - maybe for hockey, but not for soccer. I was prepared to stay for the duration but eventually they kicked us out as it was time to close up the Guild Hall.
For whatever reason, we attracted the attention that evening of a kind local man, named Ewen (pronounced “Yoo-en”). He kept us supplied with a continual flow of beer from the moment we stepped into the Guild Hall until we went our separate ways, later than evening. He had obviously been imbibing himself for quite some time. He seemed happy to be around us, giving us his assessment of our team, and telling many football stories. My only problem was that I understood very little of what he was saying, just a couple words here and there. What I did understand though, was that he promised to take us to Paddy O’Donnell’s pub where he would buy us drinks, and where we could listen to some genuine live Irish music. Thinking back, I am not sure if I understood him telling us this or I relied on someone else’s translation.
Ewen kept repeating that he would “pick us up” and take us to O’Donnell’s. I did not want to appear ungracious but I was more than a little reluctant to get in a car with a driver that blootered. As we left Guild Hall and a staff member locked up the gates, we followed Ewen, walking on the cobble stones along the outside of the city walls. Presumably we were heading to his car and I was nervous. After going about 75 yards, we turned a corner and walked another 20 yards up a sloped road, and entered Paddy O’Donnell’s. We looked at each other, perplexed over what had just happened. But soon we were quickly swept up by the atmosphere and the live music. We had a grand time singing and drinking and talking to locals. We even talked to the referee who had worked our game earlier that evening. Oddly enough, he said he was not sure that the penalty he awarded against us was indeed the correct call. A little late for that decision, don’t you think?
July 23, 2008
Ottawa Fury 0 Donegal Schools (Republic of Ireland) 2
Brandywell Showgrounds
The next morning, big Donall drove us once again to the hospital for a light training session. This time, instead of the hospital pitch being vacant and waiting for us, it was shared by three other teams. Colin pointed out that his old club, Linfield, was training on the far side, and he wandered off to chat up some of his old mates. As the boys and I walked toward an open patch of grass, I introduced myself to Kevin Fogg, Sheffield United’s Academy Coach. Kevin asked if I knew Tony Harrison, their representative in Canada. I told him I certainly did and that Tony was long time friend of mine who I had once hired as Technical Director of a local soccer club. It is such a small world.
We walked the boys through a few set plays and worked on defending against corner kicks which, on the previous day, had looked rather disorganized. After an hour, we piled back into Donall’s clunky bus and rattled and bounced back to the hotel for lunch.
Our second match was played at Brandywell, the home of Derry City FC, and their famous slopped surface. When you look across the pitch at field level, you would swear that if you left a ball alone at the centre spot it would roll on its own and bump against the far right corner flag. But we were not to play our on the Stadium pitch, but rather on “Brandywell Showgrounds”, a smaller although equally well-manicured pitch just adjacent to the stadium.
We were directed by the friendly Brandywell staff to the Visitor’s locker room, a small square room with a tiny entrance, and a shower room in the back that was obviously shared with occupants of the next locker room. A shared shower was an interesting concept. I wondered if any post-game skirmishes had flared up while the opposing players wrestled over bars of soap and bottles of shampoo. I can’t imagine referees or stadium staff being all that eager to rush in and break up a fight amongst a bunch of soapy naked men.
We warmed up in an area behind one of the goals while the preceding game was still going on. From the appearance of our opponents warming up to the side of the Showground pitch, you could tell that it was going to be difficult test for us. Donegal had a good reputation. Effectively an all-star school team, they included the best players from across Donegal County, the most northern, and the fourth largest, county in the Republic (or southern “Ireland”).
Minutes into the warm up, one of our midfielders, Justin Sweeney collapsed under a rolled ankle and from his immediate reaction, left little doubt that he was out for this game, if not others. I felt a lightning bolt of guilt hit me in the chest. For years, to add a little physicality to a warm-up, I would sometimes ask players to run in twos toward a designated pair of cones, and then as they approached the cones, to jump and shoulder-bump each other while high in the air. Until today, I could proudly say that in many years of these mid-air collisions, not a single player had been injured. That is, until today. Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Now, with Sweeney out, we were left with just fourteen players, three available substitutes, one was Savi, our backup keeper.
As the time of kickoff neared the referee officiously stepped out of the tiny doorway of the official’s room to take a majestic stroll around the pitch. I think I heard trumpet music in the background as he regally strode by. He immediately, and rather sardonically, told Stef Mariano that he could not wear his Under Armour liner-shorts because they were not the same colour as his game shorts. Strict FIFA rules, albeit seldom enforced. Not having an alternative colour, and preferring not to play – shall we say- loose, Mariano tucked up his miscoloured Under Armours so that they were no longer visible, while the referee, with his back turned away, crouched to re-enter his little room.
Both teams had good scoring chances shortly after the opening kick-off. Undoubtedly recognizing that we were playing a compressed flat-four in the back and a little challenged for speed in the wide positions, the Donegal coach instructed his boys to play into the corners. We tried to pressure them in the middle of the pitch to deny them this opportunity but they did not easily cough up the ball, and they were quick to send, well paced passes behind our fullbacks.
Growing frustrated by their speed on the flanks, our left fullback, Alex Pelchat, came in late on a challenge and took a small Donegal midfielder down with a crushing tackle. The fastidious referee leapt in and shakily waved yellow-card just inches from Pelchat’s nose. Fortunately his Under Amours matched his game shorts, so thankfully he escaped more serious punishment.
Just fifteen minutes into the first half, Dmytryk sent Raza clear through the middle with a well placed pass, but Raza took one-too-many touches and could not get a shot away. Less than a minute later, Donegal played a ball down the right flank. The speedy Donegal boy from deep in the corner and running at full speed sent a driven cross without breaking stride, through our six-yard box. Without the ball touching the ground, it was volleyed masterfully into our net by an approaching Donegal player, giving them an early 1-nil lead. I gulped out of fear of what we might be subjected to in the next 70 minutes. I looked at Colin and he looked at me, and we knew what each other was thinking, “uh oh”.
But, our bies showed our concern was unwarranted. They did not crumble under the pressure. In fact, I was proud to see them playing even with, and at times even better than, Donegal. Once again, our one-touch and two-touching passing, gave us some good spells of possession which in turn frustrated our opponents. We had another great chance to score when striker David Roy broke clear of the Donegal defenders and in alone against one of their heavy-footed keepers. But the ball would not sit right for him and it was all he could do to bounce it off his knee and into the keeper’s appreciative arms.
We were pushing and it looked inevitable that we would get an equalizing goal. But then, with just three minutes left in the first half, Donegal played a through-ball to one of their players standing at least two-yards offside. The assistant referee began to raise his flag but then inexplicably dropped it as if a devil on his right shoulder slapped his arm back down. Our keeper Giancarlo was left alone to face down a streaking Donegal attacker. He slid the ball past Giancarlo and Donegal took a 2-nil lead. As he paced in front of me, I tried to explain the offside rule to the assistant in ways he would understand. Fearing expulsion, and accepting futility, I settled myself down.
The second half was a different half of football. With a two-goal advantage, Donegal could afford to sit back. Whether because of Donegal’s defensive tactics or the solid play of our boys, we enjoyed much of the possession. We had a few good opportunities to score, breaking through Donegal’s tight defensive line, but chances could not be converted, and while the effort of our boys was magnanimous, the 2-nil loss was disappointing for them.
With one point from two games, our chances of winning the pool had disappeared. But, a strong tournament performance was still possible. In game one, we fought through jitters and a one-goal deficit to secure a point, and in game two, we played even with a strong, highly organized Donegal squad, and lost a match that could easily have gone our way.
On the short bus-trip back to our hotel, the driver gave us a drive-through tour of the Bogside. He pointed out the scenes of many historic street battles, including the intersection of Westland Road and Fahan Street, the scene of the infamous, Bloody Sunday. He pointed out the enormous murals painted on the sides of apartment buildings throughout the tiny neighbourhood.
Our driver explained the story of the big white sign erected on January 5, 1969, that still stands boldly on Fahan Street. The sign reading “You are Now Entering Free Derry” was placed there by community activists after an incursion by the RUC. Enthusiastic residents then barricaded the area and armed with clubs, prevented the RUC from entering the neighbourhood for six days. The bus grew instantly quiet as the sign past by on the right side of the bus. Of course I could never be sure what the boys were thinking, but I for one, was touched by the instability of life here, as in so many other troubled places in the world - an existence that many of us can experience only through stories, films and visits like this.
July 24
Ottawa Fury 2 Ards Youth (Northern Ireland) 0
Templemore Grounds
On our third morning in Derry, instead of training, the day started with a long walk, a dander along the Foyle River. It was early in the day and very peaceful as we strolled along the waterfront. I pointed out to the boys, the abandoned British Military base, unused but still standing on a hill across the river from our hotel. It was glaring down on City-side as if it had been abandoned just yesterday. In fact, it was just twelve months earlier, when the British army’s operation in Northern Ireland officially ended after fourty years that the base was finally decommissioned.
It was originally built in 1941, funded by both the British and American governments as part of the negotiated Lend-Lease deal that finally brought the USA into World War 2. The first American Naval Base in the United Kingdom, it was established to provide repair and fueling facilities for destroyers and submarines, as well as ammunition storage, hospitals, and barracks for shore-based personnel.
During our bus-tour the previous evening, the driver, as he passed the point where we were standing, told us that in 1945, ten German u-boats had sailed into this harbor to surrender to allied forces. I would later learn that the u-boats actually surrendered at the Port of Lisahally, a deep port four miles closer to the sea from Londonderry, but also on the Foyle River.
When the British troops were called in to quell the Bogside rioting between the Republicans and the RUC in August 1969, the base across the river that today stands like a ghost-town became their base of operation, keeping a supreme watchful eye on the people of Derry.
We continued our hike along the riverside until we had passed well beyond the centre of the city. Rather than reverse our steps we decided to loop back through the town. Block after block row-houses lined sloping, winding cobble-stone streets. Above each house, a chimneys stand tall and proud as the master of heat for the household.
Walking along Bishop Street, a high brick wall on the other side of the road displayed the indelibly spray-painted phrase: “IRELAND UNFREE SHALL NEVER BE AT PEACE”. These were the closing words of a eulogy given by political activist Patrick Pearse at the 1915 funeral of O’Donnovan Rossa, a founding father of the Fenians. The Fenians were a fraternal organization dedicated to an independent Irish nation.
Pearse’s provocative words showed great courage for 1915, a time when such public statements could easily result in imprisonment. His oration incited Irish Republican feelings and eight months later, carried Pearse along as the leader of the 1916 Easter Rising, the most militant attempt to gain independence from Britain in over a hundred years. Six years after the Easter Rising, in 1922, two-and-a-half years after the War of Independence, after enormous blood spillage, and after years of Irish politicians successfully maneuvering their way into the English parliament, England gave Ireland the right to separate. They took advantage immediately and created the Republic of Ireland. However, the six northern counties, with a longstanding British economic base, seceded the very next day back to Britain. This established a nation called “Northern Ireland”, separate from the Republic and a part of the United Kingdom. Historically, these seven words, on the wall across the road, played a huge part in the eventual creation of a free Irish state, a state that remains divided from its northern brothers.
We walked past small houses with large bay windows and tiny front yards, some not much larger than a kitchen table. Various small stores, hair salons, dress-maker shops, and the odd chippy (fish and chip take-out) were intermingled, almost indistinguishably, amongst the homes. We soon approached the Bishop’s Gate entrance to the walled city, and the boys decided they wanted to continue their walk along the wall. I was very surprised by the wall’s enormous width. In places, it was at least fourty-feet across.
From high up on the northwest corner of the city wall, we had a magnificent sight of Bogside below and an excellent view of the huge murals that commemorated the communities troubled past. It was along these walls that the Apprentice Boys had marched in 1968 as anger grew amongst the Bogsiders below, eventually spilling over into the riotous violence of the Battle of the Bogside.
We came upon the remains of a monument situated on the edge of the wall nearest to the Bogside, A small group of us stopped to read the commemorative plaque. Within seconds, we heard from behind, in a heavy Derry brogue, “Ya bies naw wat she’s all abow?” We turned sharply to see two boys, about the same age as our guys, each holding an open bottle of wine. Without waiting for an answer, one of them immediately begins to tell the story of the monument to George Walker. For over 140 years, the monument had towered eighty feet above the wall, looking down menacingly on the Catholic community below. It was destroyed by an Irish Republican Army (IRA) bomb in 1973.
George Walker, a soldier and Anglican priest, was revered by Protestants for his role as Defender of Derry during the Siege of Derry in 1689. At the time, Walker was joint-governor of Derry, together with Robert Lundy. Lundy was regarded as a traitor by favouring surrender to troops loyal to Catholic King James II, who was attempting to lay siege to the city. James had recently been ousted from power in England by his Protestant daughter Mary and her husband, known as William of Orange. The Apprentice Boys locked the gates to the city, while Lundy cowardly slipped away, and Walker took charge. Walker’s soldiers, loyal to Mary and William, held off the King James forces for 105 days, although over 4,000 people had perished. Every July 12th, Lundy is burned in effigy as a traitor to the Loyalists,
The boys explained that the pieces of the destroyed Walker monument had been gathered and many years later, reassembled and erected behind the Apprentice Boys Hall, as if there it would be safe from any further destruction. A few days later, while walking on my own in the walled city, I found the restored monument, as they had described.
Early into their story, one of the boys asked Chaboud if he wanted a drink from his bottle. After nodding yes and reaching for the bottle, he laughed, withdrew his hand, and said “just kidding”. They asked our guys where they were from and seemed genuinely excited when they were told “Canada”. As far away as Northern Ireland is from Canada, I suppose Canada is all the more distant from Londonderry.
I listened for a while and I was awed by the story-telling ability of the boys that seemed to come so effortlessly to them. I was supremely impressed by their mastery of the details in their yarn, but also by the attentiveness of our boys, hanging on their every word. I left them alone to enjoy this experience on their own.
But as I walked away and looked back, I thought about the IRA. The IRA started as a revolutionary paramilitary organization in 1913 and waged guerilla war against British rule in the War of Independence from 1916 to 1921. Years after successfully fighting for an Irish state, the IRA took on a new challenge in the Troubles of the 1960s, 70s and 80s. Determined to establish a single Irish homeland, the IRA was determined to force the British military from Northern Ireland. Whether or not, you support their cause, it is hard not to see their tactics as brutal, violence beyond justifiable cause. The indiscriminate use of explosives during the Troubles, both at home and in England, left devastating destruction and stole many innocent lives, and left many young children fatherless.
With the signing of the Good Friday Agreement in 1998, also called the Belfast Agreement, the IRA agreed to surrender their weapons and end their violent ways. Unfortunately, a new paramilitary group calling itself the Real Irish Republican Army (or RIRA) stepped in to fill the void. Like a new rodent occupying a hovel a previous rodent had abandoned, the RIRA is attempting to perpetuate the IRA’s violent past. RIRA bombings since the Good Friday Agreement are frightening reminders that, although the vast majority of the people of this great land desperately want a sustainable peace, there are some who want a return to the terrorist tactics of the past. Three deaths as recently as 2006 are officially listed as “conflict-related”.
The enduring fragility of a fresh peace is always present in the Bogside. On one walk from the hotel to Brandywell Stadium, I walked by walls on Fahan Street and Stanley Walks that each exhibited the spray-painted slogan, “Free the Derry 4 Now”, a plea for the freedom of four RIRA members, currently detained in the Republic. The acronym “R.I.R.A” is sprayed on the city-wall just outside the Butcher Gate. It is a reminder to those who walked through the gates that, despite the good work of so many, there are some who feel that no compromise is acceptable. They care not what harm they do to their land and its people, in the name of their cause. Such elements exist in every society, and my wish is that in Northern Ireland they reflect its past more than its future.
[i] BBC interviews with anonymous Londonderry residents. BBC Recent History – Northern Ireland: The Troubles http://www.bbc.co.uk/history/recent/troubles/legacy.shtml
[ii] U2 Song “Sunday Bloody Sunday” (Bono and The Edge, 1982)
Copyright 2008 Stephen Spence
“I mean, it was just that they hated us and I couldn’t understand why these people felt the way they did towards us. I mean, they’d come into our houses, and they would wreck them, and shot the people I went to school with - school friends who were as young as thirteen, twelve, they were shot dead. I was very frightened at that time because I didn’t understand. Was it going to be me next? Was it going to be my best friend next? It scars me when I look back because it was fear, fear of what was going to happen to you.” [i]
I can’t believe the news today
Oh, I can’t close my eyes and make it go away
How long...
How long must we sing this song?
How long? how long...
cause tonight...we can be as one[ii]
Placing my backpack under the seat in front of me, I look down the aisle at the fifteen young soccer players about to fly from Ottawa to Northern Ireland to take part in the annual Foyle Cup, one of the most prestigious youth soccer tournaments in Europe.
They are already wrestling, wrestling over seats assigned by the airline. This group of sixteen year-old boys, for some reason, seemed to enjoy grappling with each other more than anything. They are like lions in the wild, biting and clawing each other for entertainment. During our most recent bus-trip back from a league game in Boston, one of our players, Alex Chaboud, suffered a minor break in his cheek bone when his face was slammed against an arm-rest while he was tussling with a teammate.
I pulled a book out of my backpack and settled in, prepared for a long peaceful flight, with confidence that, should the fighting become a serious problem, the onboard air-marshals, wherever they might be, would take care of the problem for me. But before reading a single word, a suffocating wave of queasiness rolled over me. I am instantly struck with the thought that I might return to Ottawa with fewer players than the number that had been handed over to me by their parents. I have to assume that by trusting me with their precious offspring, I am expected to return the same number I took. The boys had experienced plenty of weekend road-trips together but this trip was going to be eight days long. Eight days of punching, scratching, kicking, clawing, and kneeing. Bringing one or two back in body-bags because of their obsessive need to pound on each other would definitely not be good for my coaching career.
Arriving at the Ottawa airport earlier that afternoon, I fought my way through a mass of Spagnolos. Graziano (Graz) Spagnolo was one of our midfielders and his brother Saverino (Savi), a keeper. The Spagnolo frattellos were accompanied in the airport ticket area by thirty or fourty of their closest friends and family. Not only did parents, aunts, uncles, cousins, neighbours, priests, and two or three dozen second cousins. insist on witnessing the Spagnolo boys safe departure, I would later learn that they had imposed on the two brothers, a strict obligation to call home three times each day from Londonderry. Three times a day! Sending my wife three or four text messages seemed a little cold-hearted and unfeeling in comparison. I wondered if the Spagnolo clan knew that we were going to the Londonderry in Northern Ireland, and not the one in Vermont.
I was never really all that confident this trip would ever materialize. At no point prior to stepping onto the aircraft, was the trip ever a certainty. A few players had left the team; others had struggled with the financial obligation, and some even threatened to pull out for various other reasons at the last minute. All of this kept me a little doubtful for months on end. But now that we are on the plane, I could finally begin to take it seriously.
Or, could I? It wouldn’t be the first time that passengers had been removed from an aircraft just prior to departure. Was there a distrustful angry mob of family members out there this very minute, leaping past the Air Canada ticket collector, and storming down the gangway toward the plane, the leader yelling “Follow me, he’s this way”? But, when the closing of the airplane door was not followed by knocking on its outside, I knew we were on our way. We were going to Northern Ireland.
About nine months earlier, we made a decision to fulfill our promise of returning with another under-16 team to the Foyle Cup. Our club, The Ottawa Fury, had sent a team last year who stunned many observers by finishing with the bronze medal. Thanks to the great performance of last year’s team, expectations for this squad were high. Thank you. Thank you very much.
Arriving at the Derry City Hotel at around noon, most of the boys, too excited to sleep on the plane, were grumpy and tired having stayed up all night. I refused to let them go to bed until at least 9:00 pm because by keeping them awake into the evening, they would sleep through the night and their biological clocks would adjust automatically. To see my evil plan succeed, I decided to take them out for some late afternoon training. Not surprisingly, declaration of the plan was not met with the overwhelming support of the boys. In fact, I heard word of an assassination attempt being plotted by a couple of the team’s more shady characters.
We made arrangements for “Donall”, a big, burly man with a clunker of a Mercedes passenger-bus with tiny seats and a rattling diesel engine, to take us to a nearby mental hospital to train on a pitch on the hospital grounds. I think Donall loved his football more than his bus, and I believe that driving players around was a way for him to stay involved and share his knowledge of the local soccer scene. He seemed to know everyone in, and everything about, the game in Derry. I would later learn that Donall’s friendliness and love for youth football was common amongst the old-timers in Derry.
By the time we returned to the hotel, changed and headed out to dinner, I knew I that the earliest they could possibly return from dinner, would be near on 10:00 pm, a welcomed time to hit the sack. It was a small, yet not an insignificant, victory.
In the morning, we had a light training session back at the hospital and then returned to the hotel in time to get ready for the opening day’s events. A very special tradition is held on the first morning of Foyle Cup competition. Those teams taking part join in a parade that winds its way through the streets of Derry from the University of Ulster to the venerable Guild Hall (City Hall).
Let me take a moment to explain the significance of the two city names, Londonderry and Derry. The official and historic, and very British, name of the city is Londonderry. But considering that the city consists of 85% Irish Republicans (Catholics), who are somewhat less than supportive of the British (Protestants) mother-ship, the city is more commonly referred to as “Derry”. Adhering to the convention of dropping the “London” prefix is important for your survival while you are on the “City-side” of the Foyle River. (The opposite side of the Foyle, for some reason referred to as the “Water-side”, is the more Loyalist or Protestant area.)
Do not, as I would ineptly do a few days later, refer to “Londonderry” while you are in a Catholic pub in City-side. A fellow sitting at the bar quickly turned to see who had used the forbidden name, and I immediately turned away to disguise my guilt, and looked around myself as if I too was outraged and intent on seeking out the impertinent Protestant bastard who would dare utter such a vile word in this house.
We arrived at the University of Ulster for the start of the parade, carrying Frisbees adorned with bright red Canadian maple leaves. We were immediately accosted by an excited mob of nine and ten year old Irish footballers. As the horde of the red-headed hobbits milled about, I yelled over their heads to our boys: “Stand strong lads”. I wanted them to have Frisbees available for throwing during the parade. However, some of them succumbed to the abundant Irish charm and soon, Maple Leaf Frisbees were being waved about by proud wee wanes in assorted tracksuits.
It was more a march than it was a parade. Two thousand soccer players adorned in their club colours, marched along the narrow streets of Derry, behind a marching band whose sound soon droned off over the ridge ahead and out of ear-shot. International teams carried their national flags just as we did. Some teams sang their club songs, loudly and with the pride of their supporters back home. As we walked from the University of Ulster toward Guild Hall, workers, families, business men and women, came out of their homes and offices and shops to share a smile and give the boys a friendly wave.
The Frisbees started to fly. You had to be alert to the spinning missiles, hissing through the air, able without warning to decapitate those who were not attentive enough to track its flight-path and agile enough to jump out of its way. The red and white flying saucers were very popular with both the young marching players as well as the waving onlookers. The tradition of throwing Frisbees began with Canadian Olympic swimmers at the 2000 Sydney Olympics who, upon entering the pool area, would toss Frisbees into the crowd. It was a Canadian thing.
As we walked along, I looked curiously into the eyes of bystanders, particularly at the mothers with babies. I tried to visualize how life for young families would have been in these neighborhoods thirty years ago when the throngs on the street were violent and angry and not so happy and celebratory as they are this day. I vividly recall clips on the evening news delivering The Troubles of Northern Ireland into our family room. A mother with a young child in tow scrambles across a Derry street, ducking as the sound of gun-fire rings out, and a Molotov cocktail explodes nearby. A young child with eyes bloodshot from tear-gas cries while a parent or neighbor drips water on her face. I can’t help but wonder with each smiling mother I look at, if I am looking into the eyes of the child of one of the mothers I saw on my black and white television so many years ago.
Thirty-six years ago, another group of young people marched through these streets. But on that memorable day, they were not marching to celebrate sport but to draw attention to the plight of Derry residents, whose social and political mistreatment they believed needed world attention. But unlike today’s march that would end in a game of soccer, that day in 1972 would end in bloodshed and the death of fourteen protesters. Seven of the dead were teenagers, near in age to our boys. The events of January 30th 1972 would forever to be referred to as Bloody Sunday. Maybe for some of those bystanders who were old enough to remember, in some way a march like today’s is a march to celebrate that this day was not that day. When I was young, I had learned of Bloody Sunday in a far-off land through television. Now I was on the scene and Derry’s tumultuous history was beginning to tug at my heart.
On August 12th 1969, more than two years prior to Bloody Sunday, another march had also turned deadly. On that day, a Loyalist club called the Apprentice Boys marched, as they did every year, to observe a Protestant victory in the Siege of Derry in 1689. It is a provocative event for the many Catholics in Derry. And, on that particular day, the march passed close to nearby Bogside, the Catholic enclave just outside the walled city, and within yards of where today’s young footballers innocently trudged along. Violent rioting and fighting ensued and after three days of ferocious skirmishes between Bogsiders and the Protestant militia known as the Royal Ulster Constabulary (RUC), more than 1,000 people had been injured. This, the “Battle of the Bogside”, resulted in the arrival of British troops, a military presence in Londonderry that lasted until 2007. Although British troops were initially greeted by the residents of Bogside as a more welcomed option to the notorious RUC, the years that followed brought intense conflict and mutual brutality.
Marching has a longstanding tradition in this area, but not necessarily a glorious one. However today, the smiles and laughter leave no indication of uneasiness, anger, or fear. The spirit of Northern Irelanders seems to display little of the suffering of decades of anguish. However, memories can be ineradicable. Wounds must be fresh enough to carry the recollection of pain; violence so recent that the peace these mothers watching us today enjoy must be revered as precious. So precious and yet so recent, it cannot possibly be taken for granted. Some of these people - those who are my age - have lived through terrible times and I wonder how strongly, and how frequently, they fear its return.
But the little guys in the parade, young footballers scrambling for Canadian Frisbees to take home as souvenirs, know little of The Troubles of their parents generation - thankfully.
July 22, 2008
Ottawa Fury 1 Newmills (Northern Ireland) 1
St. Columbs Park
Our first match of the tournament was played on one of the two immaculate pitches at St. Columbs Park, the local training centre for the Irish Football Association (IFA).
There was a high sense of excitement in the small portable building serving as a make-shift locker room, as the boys dressed for the match. It reflected their readiness to compete, but it also concerned me a little. It concerned me that they might be over-excited and come out too nervous. In the past few months, this team had not been overflowing with self-confidence in their ability to score and their ability to win close matches. They would need to overcome this to have a successful Foyle Cup.
With the Canadian flag hung temporarily on the wall, my boss, Colin McCurdy, our club’s Technical Director, addressed the boys. He pointed to the flag and asked the boys to play for their country. Every eye in the room was focused on Colin. He described how last year’s team had performed well and that he saw no reason why this squad could not do equally as well. “Stay organized”, he said.” They will try to intimidate you”. “Over here,” he said “they hate to lose”. “Do not be intimidated. Give back what they give you, but do not be stupid.”
Although Colin had lived in Canada for eight years, he was originally from Belfast. He grew up during The Troubles and he was tough and street smart, and clever enough not to get sucked in by the wrong people. “All I wanted to do was play football,” he had told me. Colin was known wherever we went. On the first day of our arrival, we walked out of the hotel and entered a nearby convenience store. With seconds, the shop-keeper recognized 53-year old Colin, and said: “You played for Linfield, did yu na?” Colin had in fact played four seasons for Linfield FC. He also had a brief stint with Fulham in England and scored a goal for the Northern Ireland national team in 1980 against Australia. He even played for one season with the Philadelphia Fury of the old North American Soccer League (NASL).
Although it must make him proud to be recognized in public in such a way, Linfield was a Protestant club from Belfast and I suspect being recognized by Catholic Derry City supporters, after all these years, would still make him just a little uneasy. There were many hard-fought battles between the two clubs and although I never saw Colin play, I understand that he was a rough and tough striker who would just as soon bloody your nose with his elbow as score a goal on you. But wherever we went over these eight days, from what I could see, he was shown nothing but respect and admiration.
Colin left the room and it was my turn to speak, I reminded the boys of our plan – to press them deep in their end and run them hard. Anticipating that our fitness level might be superior since we were in mid-season and our opponents had not yet started theirs, I wanted to see if we might be able to tire them out. I advised the boys to stay calm at all times, to deal with whatever adversity came their way without panic or frustration. Every player was going to have to do his part. I told them that there was enough skill in the room to succeed, but only if each one of them played as a proud hard-working Canadian. Fight with all your might to gain possession of the ball, I told them. And, when we have it, be patient; keep the ball on the ground. Wear them out by making them chase our ball. Don’t get sucked into the long-ball game. I shook each player’s hand, as did my assistant coach Lorne, and we left the room to give them some time alone together.
When the boys took to the pristine St. Columb pitch to start their warm up there was no sign of our opponents. Keepers Giancarlo Colasanti and Savi Spagnolo took a few balls and a handful of cones and headed off toward the goal. The rest of the boys ran widths of the pitch to loosen up.
After a short stretch, we played some small-sided games to get some touches on the ball.
Our opposition, Newmills Youth, soon stepped onto the pitch but unlike our series of organized warm-up drills, the Newmills team, exactly as Colin had warned, stood around in small groups juggling and joking with each other. As the Newmills players readied themselves in their own special way, their coach prepared himself with a smoke on the touchline. He periodically and half-heartedly pleaded with his players with phlegm-filled outburst like: “c’mon lads, git reedy” and “knoke it round a little fullas”.
I found it a little odd that just before kick-off, Newmills retrieved their kit and, moved as a team, to the opposite side of the pitch from where we stood. It no longer seemed so odd when, just seconds into the match, the smoking coach strode up and down the entire length of the pitch, yelling at the boys and flicking cigarette ashes toward an undaunted referee.
Right from the start, the noise level of our opponents was much different than our boys had experienced. The Newmills players were instantly loud and angry – exactly as I had been telling our players for months.
I wondered if the Newmill’s coach, huffing and puffing on his Benson and Hedges, while sprinting the length of the touchline and back again, would survive the match. He might very well have been saved from a lung-collapse, when just ten minutes into the game, the referee told him to keep to his side of the centre line.
We had an early chance when midfielder Stefan Mariano, cut in from the right flank, but unfortunately his cross floated easily to the keeper. And then later in that half, centre-midfielder Christian Dmytryk had a similar opportunity down the left side, with striker Stephane Razafemahefa (Raza) standing alone in front of the Newmill’s goal, Christian’s promising pass was cut down before it could reach Raza.
It was an even, albeit unsymmetrical, match. We passed the ball for as long as we could, and the second we lost possession, the ball was sent by our opponents high into orbit toward our backs. Newmills played long-ball over and over and over and over again. Both teams had good chances. We certainly had more than our fair share of opportunities to open the scoring, but just as our league season had gone so far, so seemed to go our Foyle Cup adventure, with goals nigh impossible to come by.
Newmills defenders were unable to keep up with Raza’s speed, and he was able to slip in behind them consistently. He was certainly on his game and growing in confidence with each touch of the ball. He broke clear a couple of times but with each occasion he was unable to get off a shot.
Our inability to score made me uneasy. As is so often the case when goals seem too difficult to get, disaster then struck. With just three minutes left in the first half, a Newmills shot from the outside banged off Alex Chaboud’s elbow as he raised it to protect his face. The referee ruled that his arm was in an unnatural position and awarded a penalty kick. It was an excellently taken spot-kick and Newmills went up 1-0 at halftime, in our opinion, against the flow of play, and on a questionable call.
At half-time, I gave the boys a chance to speak. They were not discouraged by the late goal. In fact, they seemed confident in their own quality compared to Newmills, and I sensed they were in a good frame of mind to pull it out.
To start the second half, I moved our big strong centre-back Alex Catsburg into a midfield position in an attempt to grab more control out of the middle of the park. I replaced midfielder Mariano with speedy striker David Roy, and moved Dino Furano back from a striker position into his more usual wide midfield role.
The combined speed of Roy and Raza caused their backs even more problems. About twenty-two minutes into the second half, Furano recovered a ball deep in the Newmills’ left corner. He played it back to midfielder Dmytryk who played a nice square ball to Catsburg. Catsburg then sent a pretty through-ball to Raza running through the channel. Raza knocked it forward with his first-touch and fired a low shot off the inside of the post and into the net. The boys were ecstatic. Not only was the match all square, it was as if a weight had been lifted from their shoulders, and they now believe they could score. It was just one goal but it was such a great goal – such a badly needed goal - just maybe they could repeat it.
The remaining minutes were tense. The midfield seemed to disappear from the game entirely as each team sent long balls from their own end, up to the strikers who wrestled vigorously with opposing defenders for small pieces of valuable real estate. Both teams held a firm defensive back-line and refused to allow their opponents to break through.
The final whistle signaled the end of a duel. It had been a good test for our team, and the boys performed well. They battled and although giving up a questionable penalty kick, they scratched their way back into the match, earning a draw and, what might prove to be, a valuable point.
As the game ended, the Newmills coach argued fiercely with the referee. Blue smoke spewed from his gaping mouth as he strenuously argued his case. But to the referees delight, the dispute came to abrupt end as the coach needed another cigarette and he had left his fags back on the touch-line.
That evening Colin, Lorne, our team manager Lynn, and I attended a tournament reception at Guild Hall hosted by the city’s new mayor, Gerard Diver and his French-Canadian wife, Alice. Colin was asked to say a few words, and I wondered if it was possible for Colin to ever say, just a “few words”. He did a magnificent job, speaking without notes. He had the place roaring with laughter, which is usually the case when Colin is in any room. Beyond the jokes, he also talked about his memories of playing against Derry City as a Linfield striker. He said how great it was for him to be there, speaking in this room, to this group – referring of course to the historic sectarian divide between the two clubs. It was something he said that might not have happened, even just five or six years ago. After the speeches were over, Lynn presented the Mayor with a bottle of fine Canadian maple syrup, and I presented tournament organizer, Michael Hutton, with an assortment of shirts and hats from our club.
The best part of the evening, was sitting around the council chambers, after the formalities had concluded, drinking beer and listening to old-time stories from three or four local referees who attended the reception. Plenty of memories of Colin as a player were shared with colourful stories of his playing exploits in the day. Colin joined in of course with tales and jokes of his own.
“He was a refrees dreeum dat un” an older referee with a particularly high-pitched, voice told me loudly, while pointing at Colin. He leaned across the table with his elbows out wide. “His elbus ad bee all over du plice, knockin’ inta goys. Me cards wa flyin’ outta me pocket on der own.” I roared laughing and he laughed louder.
Stories of other players from ages past flew by fast and furiously. I struggled to understand, wanting so badly to hear every word of every story. But, the Derry accent is deep and when excited, they speak too quickly for this simple Canadian to understand. If I did not pay close enough attention I would miss entire sentences – and I think beer makes them speak faster - and louder. But, I was having a terrific time. There was no religion in that room, no hostility, and no sectarianism. Just love of football. So much love of football, I am sure they would have gone on all night telling stories and laughing uproariously. I kept thinking: You don’t get this sort of thing back home - maybe for hockey, but not for soccer. I was prepared to stay for the duration but eventually they kicked us out as it was time to close up the Guild Hall.
For whatever reason, we attracted the attention that evening of a kind local man, named Ewen (pronounced “Yoo-en”). He kept us supplied with a continual flow of beer from the moment we stepped into the Guild Hall until we went our separate ways, later than evening. He had obviously been imbibing himself for quite some time. He seemed happy to be around us, giving us his assessment of our team, and telling many football stories. My only problem was that I understood very little of what he was saying, just a couple words here and there. What I did understand though, was that he promised to take us to Paddy O’Donnell’s pub where he would buy us drinks, and where we could listen to some genuine live Irish music. Thinking back, I am not sure if I understood him telling us this or I relied on someone else’s translation.
Ewen kept repeating that he would “pick us up” and take us to O’Donnell’s. I did not want to appear ungracious but I was more than a little reluctant to get in a car with a driver that blootered. As we left Guild Hall and a staff member locked up the gates, we followed Ewen, walking on the cobble stones along the outside of the city walls. Presumably we were heading to his car and I was nervous. After going about 75 yards, we turned a corner and walked another 20 yards up a sloped road, and entered Paddy O’Donnell’s. We looked at each other, perplexed over what had just happened. But soon we were quickly swept up by the atmosphere and the live music. We had a grand time singing and drinking and talking to locals. We even talked to the referee who had worked our game earlier that evening. Oddly enough, he said he was not sure that the penalty he awarded against us was indeed the correct call. A little late for that decision, don’t you think?
July 23, 2008
Ottawa Fury 0 Donegal Schools (Republic of Ireland) 2
Brandywell Showgrounds
The next morning, big Donall drove us once again to the hospital for a light training session. This time, instead of the hospital pitch being vacant and waiting for us, it was shared by three other teams. Colin pointed out that his old club, Linfield, was training on the far side, and he wandered off to chat up some of his old mates. As the boys and I walked toward an open patch of grass, I introduced myself to Kevin Fogg, Sheffield United’s Academy Coach. Kevin asked if I knew Tony Harrison, their representative in Canada. I told him I certainly did and that Tony was long time friend of mine who I had once hired as Technical Director of a local soccer club. It is such a small world.
We walked the boys through a few set plays and worked on defending against corner kicks which, on the previous day, had looked rather disorganized. After an hour, we piled back into Donall’s clunky bus and rattled and bounced back to the hotel for lunch.
Our second match was played at Brandywell, the home of Derry City FC, and their famous slopped surface. When you look across the pitch at field level, you would swear that if you left a ball alone at the centre spot it would roll on its own and bump against the far right corner flag. But we were not to play our on the Stadium pitch, but rather on “Brandywell Showgrounds”, a smaller although equally well-manicured pitch just adjacent to the stadium.
We were directed by the friendly Brandywell staff to the Visitor’s locker room, a small square room with a tiny entrance, and a shower room in the back that was obviously shared with occupants of the next locker room. A shared shower was an interesting concept. I wondered if any post-game skirmishes had flared up while the opposing players wrestled over bars of soap and bottles of shampoo. I can’t imagine referees or stadium staff being all that eager to rush in and break up a fight amongst a bunch of soapy naked men.
We warmed up in an area behind one of the goals while the preceding game was still going on. From the appearance of our opponents warming up to the side of the Showground pitch, you could tell that it was going to be difficult test for us. Donegal had a good reputation. Effectively an all-star school team, they included the best players from across Donegal County, the most northern, and the fourth largest, county in the Republic (or southern “Ireland”).
Minutes into the warm up, one of our midfielders, Justin Sweeney collapsed under a rolled ankle and from his immediate reaction, left little doubt that he was out for this game, if not others. I felt a lightning bolt of guilt hit me in the chest. For years, to add a little physicality to a warm-up, I would sometimes ask players to run in twos toward a designated pair of cones, and then as they approached the cones, to jump and shoulder-bump each other while high in the air. Until today, I could proudly say that in many years of these mid-air collisions, not a single player had been injured. That is, until today. Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Now, with Sweeney out, we were left with just fourteen players, three available substitutes, one was Savi, our backup keeper.
As the time of kickoff neared the referee officiously stepped out of the tiny doorway of the official’s room to take a majestic stroll around the pitch. I think I heard trumpet music in the background as he regally strode by. He immediately, and rather sardonically, told Stef Mariano that he could not wear his Under Armour liner-shorts because they were not the same colour as his game shorts. Strict FIFA rules, albeit seldom enforced. Not having an alternative colour, and preferring not to play – shall we say- loose, Mariano tucked up his miscoloured Under Armours so that they were no longer visible, while the referee, with his back turned away, crouched to re-enter his little room.
Both teams had good scoring chances shortly after the opening kick-off. Undoubtedly recognizing that we were playing a compressed flat-four in the back and a little challenged for speed in the wide positions, the Donegal coach instructed his boys to play into the corners. We tried to pressure them in the middle of the pitch to deny them this opportunity but they did not easily cough up the ball, and they were quick to send, well paced passes behind our fullbacks.
Growing frustrated by their speed on the flanks, our left fullback, Alex Pelchat, came in late on a challenge and took a small Donegal midfielder down with a crushing tackle. The fastidious referee leapt in and shakily waved yellow-card just inches from Pelchat’s nose. Fortunately his Under Amours matched his game shorts, so thankfully he escaped more serious punishment.
Just fifteen minutes into the first half, Dmytryk sent Raza clear through the middle with a well placed pass, but Raza took one-too-many touches and could not get a shot away. Less than a minute later, Donegal played a ball down the right flank. The speedy Donegal boy from deep in the corner and running at full speed sent a driven cross without breaking stride, through our six-yard box. Without the ball touching the ground, it was volleyed masterfully into our net by an approaching Donegal player, giving them an early 1-nil lead. I gulped out of fear of what we might be subjected to in the next 70 minutes. I looked at Colin and he looked at me, and we knew what each other was thinking, “uh oh”.
But, our bies showed our concern was unwarranted. They did not crumble under the pressure. In fact, I was proud to see them playing even with, and at times even better than, Donegal. Once again, our one-touch and two-touching passing, gave us some good spells of possession which in turn frustrated our opponents. We had another great chance to score when striker David Roy broke clear of the Donegal defenders and in alone against one of their heavy-footed keepers. But the ball would not sit right for him and it was all he could do to bounce it off his knee and into the keeper’s appreciative arms.
We were pushing and it looked inevitable that we would get an equalizing goal. But then, with just three minutes left in the first half, Donegal played a through-ball to one of their players standing at least two-yards offside. The assistant referee began to raise his flag but then inexplicably dropped it as if a devil on his right shoulder slapped his arm back down. Our keeper Giancarlo was left alone to face down a streaking Donegal attacker. He slid the ball past Giancarlo and Donegal took a 2-nil lead. As he paced in front of me, I tried to explain the offside rule to the assistant in ways he would understand. Fearing expulsion, and accepting futility, I settled myself down.
The second half was a different half of football. With a two-goal advantage, Donegal could afford to sit back. Whether because of Donegal’s defensive tactics or the solid play of our boys, we enjoyed much of the possession. We had a few good opportunities to score, breaking through Donegal’s tight defensive line, but chances could not be converted, and while the effort of our boys was magnanimous, the 2-nil loss was disappointing for them.
With one point from two games, our chances of winning the pool had disappeared. But, a strong tournament performance was still possible. In game one, we fought through jitters and a one-goal deficit to secure a point, and in game two, we played even with a strong, highly organized Donegal squad, and lost a match that could easily have gone our way.
On the short bus-trip back to our hotel, the driver gave us a drive-through tour of the Bogside. He pointed out the scenes of many historic street battles, including the intersection of Westland Road and Fahan Street, the scene of the infamous, Bloody Sunday. He pointed out the enormous murals painted on the sides of apartment buildings throughout the tiny neighbourhood.
Our driver explained the story of the big white sign erected on January 5, 1969, that still stands boldly on Fahan Street. The sign reading “You are Now Entering Free Derry” was placed there by community activists after an incursion by the RUC. Enthusiastic residents then barricaded the area and armed with clubs, prevented the RUC from entering the neighbourhood for six days. The bus grew instantly quiet as the sign past by on the right side of the bus. Of course I could never be sure what the boys were thinking, but I for one, was touched by the instability of life here, as in so many other troubled places in the world - an existence that many of us can experience only through stories, films and visits like this.
July 24
Ottawa Fury 2 Ards Youth (Northern Ireland) 0
Templemore Grounds
On our third morning in Derry, instead of training, the day started with a long walk, a dander along the Foyle River. It was early in the day and very peaceful as we strolled along the waterfront. I pointed out to the boys, the abandoned British Military base, unused but still standing on a hill across the river from our hotel. It was glaring down on City-side as if it had been abandoned just yesterday. In fact, it was just twelve months earlier, when the British army’s operation in Northern Ireland officially ended after fourty years that the base was finally decommissioned.
It was originally built in 1941, funded by both the British and American governments as part of the negotiated Lend-Lease deal that finally brought the USA into World War 2. The first American Naval Base in the United Kingdom, it was established to provide repair and fueling facilities for destroyers and submarines, as well as ammunition storage, hospitals, and barracks for shore-based personnel.
During our bus-tour the previous evening, the driver, as he passed the point where we were standing, told us that in 1945, ten German u-boats had sailed into this harbor to surrender to allied forces. I would later learn that the u-boats actually surrendered at the Port of Lisahally, a deep port four miles closer to the sea from Londonderry, but also on the Foyle River.
When the British troops were called in to quell the Bogside rioting between the Republicans and the RUC in August 1969, the base across the river that today stands like a ghost-town became their base of operation, keeping a supreme watchful eye on the people of Derry.
We continued our hike along the riverside until we had passed well beyond the centre of the city. Rather than reverse our steps we decided to loop back through the town. Block after block row-houses lined sloping, winding cobble-stone streets. Above each house, a chimneys stand tall and proud as the master of heat for the household.
Walking along Bishop Street, a high brick wall on the other side of the road displayed the indelibly spray-painted phrase: “IRELAND UNFREE SHALL NEVER BE AT PEACE”. These were the closing words of a eulogy given by political activist Patrick Pearse at the 1915 funeral of O’Donnovan Rossa, a founding father of the Fenians. The Fenians were a fraternal organization dedicated to an independent Irish nation.
Pearse’s provocative words showed great courage for 1915, a time when such public statements could easily result in imprisonment. His oration incited Irish Republican feelings and eight months later, carried Pearse along as the leader of the 1916 Easter Rising, the most militant attempt to gain independence from Britain in over a hundred years. Six years after the Easter Rising, in 1922, two-and-a-half years after the War of Independence, after enormous blood spillage, and after years of Irish politicians successfully maneuvering their way into the English parliament, England gave Ireland the right to separate. They took advantage immediately and created the Republic of Ireland. However, the six northern counties, with a longstanding British economic base, seceded the very next day back to Britain. This established a nation called “Northern Ireland”, separate from the Republic and a part of the United Kingdom. Historically, these seven words, on the wall across the road, played a huge part in the eventual creation of a free Irish state, a state that remains divided from its northern brothers.
We walked past small houses with large bay windows and tiny front yards, some not much larger than a kitchen table. Various small stores, hair salons, dress-maker shops, and the odd chippy (fish and chip take-out) were intermingled, almost indistinguishably, amongst the homes. We soon approached the Bishop’s Gate entrance to the walled city, and the boys decided they wanted to continue their walk along the wall. I was very surprised by the wall’s enormous width. In places, it was at least fourty-feet across.
From high up on the northwest corner of the city wall, we had a magnificent sight of Bogside below and an excellent view of the huge murals that commemorated the communities troubled past. It was along these walls that the Apprentice Boys had marched in 1968 as anger grew amongst the Bogsiders below, eventually spilling over into the riotous violence of the Battle of the Bogside.
We came upon the remains of a monument situated on the edge of the wall nearest to the Bogside, A small group of us stopped to read the commemorative plaque. Within seconds, we heard from behind, in a heavy Derry brogue, “Ya bies naw wat she’s all abow?” We turned sharply to see two boys, about the same age as our guys, each holding an open bottle of wine. Without waiting for an answer, one of them immediately begins to tell the story of the monument to George Walker. For over 140 years, the monument had towered eighty feet above the wall, looking down menacingly on the Catholic community below. It was destroyed by an Irish Republican Army (IRA) bomb in 1973.
George Walker, a soldier and Anglican priest, was revered by Protestants for his role as Defender of Derry during the Siege of Derry in 1689. At the time, Walker was joint-governor of Derry, together with Robert Lundy. Lundy was regarded as a traitor by favouring surrender to troops loyal to Catholic King James II, who was attempting to lay siege to the city. James had recently been ousted from power in England by his Protestant daughter Mary and her husband, known as William of Orange. The Apprentice Boys locked the gates to the city, while Lundy cowardly slipped away, and Walker took charge. Walker’s soldiers, loyal to Mary and William, held off the King James forces for 105 days, although over 4,000 people had perished. Every July 12th, Lundy is burned in effigy as a traitor to the Loyalists,
The boys explained that the pieces of the destroyed Walker monument had been gathered and many years later, reassembled and erected behind the Apprentice Boys Hall, as if there it would be safe from any further destruction. A few days later, while walking on my own in the walled city, I found the restored monument, as they had described.
Early into their story, one of the boys asked Chaboud if he wanted a drink from his bottle. After nodding yes and reaching for the bottle, he laughed, withdrew his hand, and said “just kidding”. They asked our guys where they were from and seemed genuinely excited when they were told “Canada”. As far away as Northern Ireland is from Canada, I suppose Canada is all the more distant from Londonderry.
I listened for a while and I was awed by the story-telling ability of the boys that seemed to come so effortlessly to them. I was supremely impressed by their mastery of the details in their yarn, but also by the attentiveness of our boys, hanging on their every word. I left them alone to enjoy this experience on their own.
But as I walked away and looked back, I thought about the IRA. The IRA started as a revolutionary paramilitary organization in 1913 and waged guerilla war against British rule in the War of Independence from 1916 to 1921. Years after successfully fighting for an Irish state, the IRA took on a new challenge in the Troubles of the 1960s, 70s and 80s. Determined to establish a single Irish homeland, the IRA was determined to force the British military from Northern Ireland. Whether or not, you support their cause, it is hard not to see their tactics as brutal, violence beyond justifiable cause. The indiscriminate use of explosives during the Troubles, both at home and in England, left devastating destruction and stole many innocent lives, and left many young children fatherless.
With the signing of the Good Friday Agreement in 1998, also called the Belfast Agreement, the IRA agreed to surrender their weapons and end their violent ways. Unfortunately, a new paramilitary group calling itself the Real Irish Republican Army (or RIRA) stepped in to fill the void. Like a new rodent occupying a hovel a previous rodent had abandoned, the RIRA is attempting to perpetuate the IRA’s violent past. RIRA bombings since the Good Friday Agreement are frightening reminders that, although the vast majority of the people of this great land desperately want a sustainable peace, there are some who want a return to the terrorist tactics of the past. Three deaths as recently as 2006 are officially listed as “conflict-related”.
The enduring fragility of a fresh peace is always present in the Bogside. On one walk from the hotel to Brandywell Stadium, I walked by walls on Fahan Street and Stanley Walks that each exhibited the spray-painted slogan, “Free the Derry 4 Now”, a plea for the freedom of four RIRA members, currently detained in the Republic. The acronym “R.I.R.A” is sprayed on the city-wall just outside the Butcher Gate. It is a reminder to those who walked through the gates that, despite the good work of so many, there are some who feel that no compromise is acceptable. They care not what harm they do to their land and its people, in the name of their cause. Such elements exist in every society, and my wish is that in Northern Ireland they reflect its past more than its future.
“I lost out on a lot of education, but I’m trying to pick up for it now. Because of things that was happening in our areas, it got you stressed up to a level where you couldn’t concentrate on going in to school to do work. You didn’t go in and learn because you had lost too much, and too much things had happened the day before or during the night, or whatever. And, you didn’t never see a future for yourself, because I mean you had witnessed your own friends, at a very young age, being shot dead. You didn’t think – well I’m going to grow up and I’m going to be this when I get older - I’d like to be
this. I didn’t think that opportunity was open to me. I just felt that if I got through the day, then that was great - I lived today. Oh God, it wasn’t normal. It wasn’t right.”i
Broken bottles under children’s feet
Bodies strewn across the dead end street
But I won’t heed the battle call
It puts my back up
Puts my back up against the wallii
Bodies strewn across the dead end street
But I won’t heed the battle call
It puts my back up
Puts my back up against the wallii
With a victory over us, Ards had a chance to finish on top of the pool and advance to the championship round. They were a pumped up team before and at the beginning of the match.
We taped Justin Sweeney’s strained ankle. He did not start the match but insisted that he had not come this far to sit on the touchline. He could barely walk but he was resolute that he was good to play. I decided to start a couple of players who had little playing time in the first two matches, but not Sweeney.
Once again, it was a loud raucous start to the game. From my perspective, it was typical of the many youth games I had the opportunity to see in England. The tone of the match was set early when each team seemed determined to intimidate the other with hard tackles. The referee was immediately called upon to broker a reluctant peace. Ards sought an advantage through intimidation tactics that included verbal abuse and threats. But, maturing by the day, our boys had expected it and refused to be drawn in.
The first dozen or so minutes of the game were a wild see-saw battle. The wet turf combined with a strong wind blowing in their faces, gave our defenders fits. On two or three occasions, early on in the match, attempts to chest the ball resulted in balls skimming quicker than expected off the grass and bouncing off a player’s arm. The referee seemed to be somewhat lenient on us and chose not to punish these minor indiscretions.
A referee who understands the game? I might have to change my views about these guys.
Then, out of almost nothing, and somewhat inexplicably, the ball dropped as if from heaven to the feet of Mina Rezk in the 18-yard box, Mina, one of the players who did not get into yesterday’s match, cleverly turned to goal with his first-touch and fired home an unstoppable low shot inside the near post. After fourteen minutes we had a one-goal lead, exactly what the boys needed to withstand the soreness and fatigue from the two previous matches.
The first half was combative. Angry yells and taunts from Ards players filled the moist air. Taunting was not limited to the players on the pitch. After Mina had scored his goal, an angry parent on the touchline threatened to break his legs. The look on Mina’s face when he stood at centre after scoring was delight mixed with fear. I guess they have hockey parents over here too.
As the first half ended, we took comfort in a 1-nil lead. But by the broad acknowledgement of the players at half-time, the second half battle would be even tougher then the first. I sent on Stef Mariano to start the second half at a right midfield position. Three minutes into the second half, I was pleased that we seemed to be able to sustain the intensity and confidence of our first half of play. Ards attempted to clear the ball out of the back with a ball up the middle. Centre-back Alex Catsburg, anticipating well, pushed up and won a fifty-fifty ball that he knocked into the path of Mariano. With room to run, Mariano took a deft touch toward the goal, and then from twenty-five yards out, fired a low shot past the sprawling keeper inside the far post.
Down by two goals early in the second half, Ards rapidly became frantic. Their composure that had been slowly slipping away in the first-half of play now seemed to disappear entirely. Attempting to draw us into trouble, Ards players increased the intensity of their taunts and tackles. It was both a challenge and a great learning experience for our boys to endure such mental strain, and the accomplishment of doing so would shared proudly with each other after the match.
Ten minutes or so after the goal, I took a deep breath and told Sweeney to sub in. What was I doing? Just minutes later, I second-guessed myself as Sweeney collapsed from a tackle. He struggled back to this feet with his injured ankle dangling, unable to use it to prop himself up. I started breathing again when a few seconds later, he was running. When a few minutes later, he chased down a ball played into the corner with great speed, I knew he would be all right.
Striker Stephane Razafemahefa, who was having a terrific tournament, came very close to losing his self-control. He found it difficult to ignore the personal abuse he was being subjected to from opposing defenders. At one point, his emotion got the better of him, and he knocked the ball away after the official had blown the whistle and awarded a free kick to Ards. Then, in a total loss of discipline, he did it again, just seconds later, even before the referee could show him the yellow-card from the first occurrence. He was extremely fortunate not to be sent off. The patience of the referee was admirable and by me at least, much appreciated.
In the end, it was an ugly win. But I had told the boys earlier in the year that ugly wins were necessary for us to achieve success this season. Winning Ugly became a mantra for us, and this was ugly. I had told them that in my opinion, ugly wins somehow feel just a little better than the pretty ones. Today, I think they experienced it firsthand.
We finished with a 2–nil victory. As we walked off the pitch, we learned that Newmills had pulled off a shocking 2-1 victory over pool winners Donegal. Although we finished with the same four points as Newmills, they were awarded second-place by bettering our goal-difference by one goal. With the championship knock-out round out of our reach, we moved on to compete in a consolation round against the three other top-three pool finishers in a playoff group called the “Rose Bowl”.
Our first opponent in the play-off round would be St. Patrick’s Athletic, a top-tier club from Dublin. I had become acquainted with the Monaghan United coaching staff that also stayed at our hotel. Youth Director Kieran McMahon and I had many conversations in the lobby about our clubs. When we returned to the hotel, I ran into Kieran and I told him that we would be up against St. Pats. He told me to expect them to try to intimidate us. He also suggested that we should play down their flanks where they were weak and lacking in speed.
July 25, 2008
Ottawa Fury 2 St. Patrick's (Republic of Ireland) 0
Ingseveld Park
Ingseveld Park
We took to the field to warm up and once again our opponents were nowhere to be seen. Lorne tried his best to help our keepers prepare themselves in the goal area, but a couple of St. Pats’ supporters with both beer and cigarettes in hand, gathered about busying themselves in our 18-yard box. They retrieved balls that didn’t need retrieving and otherwise created a nuisance.
When the St. Patrick’s team finally walked together onto the pitch twenty minutes later, they looked like a band of neo-Nazis in green and white stripes. Each with a shaved head, they marched menacingly toward us. Their warm-up consisted of running and grunting and loud yelling. They sounded like a band of tribal warriors. It was all a part of an intimidation scheme, but we would have nothing to do with it.
As expected, it was another angry match right from the start. Loud yelling, shirt-pulling, and hard tackles from behind, were all part of a master plan to scare the naive Canadians. An early tackle by big centre back Alex Catsburg was met with an angry St. Patrick player who jumped off the ground to challenge his oppressor. But, the second he saw the steely-eyed Catsburg standing fists clenched above him, he withdrew his objection and cowered away muttering “FaakAaf”. The message was clear – the Canadians could not be intimidated.
We were doing an adequate job of playing through our midfield and then down the flanks, while our opponents were more interested in trying to quickly get the ball up to their two strikers. As the first half progressed, we took more control of the middle-third of the pitch, and as a result, more control of the game. But, it was not our best start. The boys were sluggish, the speed and sharpness of our play was not up to the level of our earlier games.
Like our players, the referee was also not easily intimidated and kept a tight lid on what could have become an explosive affair. In spite of his best efforts however, the anger continued to grow. Every time a St. Patrick player was hit or lost the ball, he screamed in agony and grabbed at his ankles, even if he was bumped in the shoulder. At one point, the referee had to order a couple of beer-swigging St. Pat’s supporters away from the end of the pitch, behind our goal.
We started the second-half much more energetically. The boys moved the ball at a faster pace and the triangular passing that so nicely characterized the last two games, returned. Just ten minutes into the second-half, speedy David Roy picked up a pass from midfielder Dmytryk and broke clear of the St. Pats defenders. He successfully slid the ball past the sprawling keeper to give us a one-goal advantage.
We came close a number of times to increasing the lead but we could not. The determination and the anger level of the Belfast squad grew with each failed attempt we had on their goal. It was end-to-end action. The loud inebriated band of the St. Pat’s supporters buoyed the spirits of the St. Patrick’s bunch, but each run at goal was stymied by our stubborn back-four. Needless to say, counter-attacking opportunities began to open up for us.
The clock ticked down, ever so slowly, second by second. Finally, we reached injury time, and the end was in site. But the determination of the ball-headed beasts from Dublin became uncorked. In the second minute of added time, a corner kick was awarded to our opponents. In keeping with the tone of the match, a big ginger-haired fellow from St. Patrick’s grabbed our keeper Giancarlo and tossed him into the netting, where he became awkwardly entangled. As the corner kick was delivered, a scramble ensued and the resulting shot headed toward the open left corner. But just then, Giancarlo untangled himself from his twine incarceration and, while fully extended, slapped the ball away. It was a spectacular save and one worthy of the praise was bestowed on him for days.
The ball was immediately cleared out of our six-yard box into the middle of the pitch to centre-back Catsburg, who once again we had asked to push up into a midfield role. St. Pats, having moved everyone up for the corner kick, thinking that it was their big chance to score, were caught with all ten players ahead of centre. Striker Mina Rezk stood motionless on the centre-line, safe from any possibility of being off-side. Catsburg could easily have dribbled past Rezk and had a clear run at goal. But instead, he saw Christian Dmytryk sprinting from ten yards back. Catsburg fed a nice pass into his stride as he passed the line and Dmytryk sent into the open. The St. Pats keeper shot out as if from a cannon, but as he cross into the 18-yard box, Dmytryk saw him at the last moment, slid the ball underneath him, and jumped to narrowly avoid a collision. The ball rolled toward the open goal and Dmytryk drove it hard into the net. Following the ball, he then lunged head-first into the net in celebration. The win was ours and so was a place in the Rose Bowl Final. Seconds after the restart, the final whistle blew. It was another tough angry clash, but we triumphed once again.
Many of the St. Patrick players did not want to shake hands after the game, but their coach lectured them about “respect” and “sportsmanship” and they grudgingly came over to face our boys. A few unkind words were exchanged as the boys shook hands, and shared a couple of angry chest-bumps, but nothing serious materialized. Boys will be boys, wherever they might be.
A team that had come to Northern Ireland, waning in self-confidence in their ability to win matches, was learning that hard work and patience can get you through adversity. They were clearly and rightfully, pleased with themselves.
July 26, 2008
July 26, 2008
Ottawa Fury 1 Coleraine FC (Northern Ireland) 1
St. Columbs
St. Columbs
Unlike the previous four games of the tournament that were officiated brilliantly, I suspected something was awry when the referee lined the players up for the pre-game ceremony and assistant referees were nowhere to be seen. I was unaware that he had already expressed to Colin, his frustration that assistants had not shown and was extremely agitated that they could not be reached. So, when I openly, and somewhat judgmentally, expressed my surprise at the unprofessionalism of having no assistants, he was annoyed with me, and immediately threatened to eject me before the match had even begun.
There was so much I wanted to say to him:
Go ahead and eject me - I can run the lines for you.
You’re not even responsible for your own officials – do you have the authority to toss me?
Good idea – if you kick me out, I’ll take a wee look and see if I can’t find you an AR or two.
But, good sense prevailed, and I bit my tongue so I could remain on the bench and help keep the boys calm. Early into the match, we had numerous goal-scoring chances while Coleraine seldom neared our goal. I started our back-up keeper, Savi in a striker role since he had only played half of a match out of the first four. In just the seventh minute, he fed a nice left-foot pass into the stride of an overlapping Christian Dmytryk. After making a single touch, he drove a low shot into the left corner of the net for his second goal of the tournament.
We held the lead comfortably for most of the rest of the game. With each loss of possession, Coleraine sent long high rockets deep into our end. Our boys in the back had little difficulty with them.
The clock moves ever so slowly when you are holding a slim lead, especially when you are watching from the touchline. Finally, we reached the end of regulation time. For some inexplicable reason however, the referee found four minutes of added-time. Where he found four minutes when there were no injuries, I’ll never know.
As the time was just about to run out, our small defender Patty Norton executed a perfectly timed slide-tackle to knock the ball away from a big boy from St. Pats. The St. Patrick player landed on him and managed to fall with all his weight on Patty’s head. The referee once again demonstrating an ability to find things that the rest of us missed awarded a free kick to Coleraine. Aye ryt.
Norton came off the pitch with his face covered in blood. Before we could send him back in, the free-kick was lofted into the box. The ball eluded
our keeper and all our defenders, and was headed into the top of our net to tie up the match.
We had given up the lead on the last kick of the match. Coleraine ended up winning the penalty shootout, 5-4. It was a heart-breaking way to end the tournament and the boys were devastated. It was difficult for them to stand by as Coleraine accepted a cup that our boys had come within seconds of winning. But soon, their high spirits began to return with the satisfaction that they had competed on par or better in each of the five matches, and had finished the tournament with a record of two wins, one loss and two ties.
With our tournament completed, we had a single day to dedicate to sight-seeing. The previous day we had arranged for one of the drivers to take us on a tour of some of the nearby sites. Our driver Sean picked us up about 9:00 am and off we went. On the way out of Londonderry, he drove us to a couple of landmarks and in true Irish fashion, spoke passionately and light-heartedly about their history. We visited the Londonderry Workhouse, built in 1839. Like other government workhouses throughout Ireland, this facility housed, and put to work, famine victims and their families. Many claim that Jimmy McCurry, the blind fiddler who wrote the famous tune, Danny Boy, stayed here shortly before his death in 1910. I made a mental note to tell my Dad since this was one of his favourite songs and a piece I had heard him sing repeatedly while growing up.
Just fourteen miles from Londonderry, Sean pulled over to the side of the road, just as we entered a small village called “Greysteel”. He explained that this village of 1,200 people had escaped much of the sectarian violence that most other villages had not. That is, until 1993. On October 30th of that year, three masked members of the Ulster Freedom Fighters (UFF), a loyalist paramilitary organization whose purpose was to prevent the creation of a united Ireland, walked into a Halloween party in a crowded pub called “The Rising Sun Bar”, just down the road from where our bus sat. As one of the masked men yelled “trick or treat”, they opened fire on the crowd. Eight people were killed – six Catholics and two Protestants – as they partied together.
Sean returned to his seat, quietly pulled the bus onto the road and slowly drove past the pub. Not a word was spoken as we drove past. A plaque in front of the Rising Sun read: “May Their Sacrifice be our Path to Peace”. The three gunmen had been arrested and jailed for life, but because they were released under the terms of the Good Friday Agreement, they are amongst many murderers on both sides of this bloody conflict, who walk free in Ireland.
Our trip continued on along the beautiful Antrim coast. We visited a high lookout that required careful navigation and adept maneuvering to ascend the steep slope and narrow dirt road. But, once Sean had the bus at the top, the scene was spectacular. Our panoramic 360 degree view of the gentle slopes and flat lands of Northern Ireland seemed to go on for hundreds of miles. We could see the Lough Foyle inlet off in the distance and where it emptied into the Atlantic Ocean. Looking across the Lough, we could see County Donegal in the Republic. It is said that sitting on a boat in the Lough Foyle is the only spot in the world where North is South and South is North. County Donegal, although part of the Republic (the south), is actually situated further to the north than most of Northern Ireland.
We then visited the famous Giant’s Causeway, one of the most naturally beautiful sites you would ever wish to see. The Giant’s Causeway is listed as the fourth greatest natural wonder of the United Kingdom. The area gets its splendor from 40,000 natural columns that protrude out of the ground, the result of an ancient volcanic eruption. Most of the columns are hexagonal in shape, the tops forming stepping stones for visitors to move about the spectacular area. Some columns are as high as 40 feet.
The legend surrounding the Causeway is a wondrous as the scenery. Irish giant Finn McCool supposedly built the causeway so that he could travel across the water to Scotland to fight his nemesis, a giant named “Benandonner”. When Finn McCool fell asleep on his trip, his wife covered him with a gigantic blanket to pretend that he was her son. When Benandonner saw the size of his son under the blanket, he was so frightened by the prospect of McCool’s size, he fled home in terror ripping up the Causeway as he ran.
On this memorable relaxing warm day, we also visited the famous rope bridge at Carrickarede although it was too late to walk across the bridge by the time we arrived. It was in the parking lot on the cliff above the rope bridge where Sean gathered us around him and told us of the legend of the Screaming Banshee of Ireland. As Sean described, the Banshee is not a myth. “She is as real as you and me”, he said. The Banshee is a half-woman half-cat who sits in a tree combing her hair with a silver comb. If you hear her piercing wails it means that someone in your family is about to die. He then explained that belief in the Banshee is a must for if you do not, she will hunt you down and take you or someone in your family. Once you have visited Ireland, Sean continued menacingly, she can follow you anywhere.
As Sean spoke slowly and softly, he looked into each boy’s eyes. They were mesmerized completely by his story. Some smiled nervously, while a few of our younger players were clearly rattled by what they were hearing and glanced nervously about the group. Nothing though that a few hundred hours, and a few thousand dollars, of therapy can’t fix up nicely.
On the way back to Londonderry, we saw a couple of magnificent castles, Dunluce Castle and Dunseverick Castle. And, at one point on the trip, Sean stopped the bus to point out that far off in the distant ocean, you could see the coastline of the Mull of Kintyre, in Scotland. This was of particular interest to me because the Paul McCartney version of the Mull of Kintyre was one of my favourite songs when I was quite young. McCartney was a one-time resident of the island.
We returned to Derry much later than we had planned. I was exhausted but since we had to rise so early in the morning the boys, including big Lorne, had plans to stay up all night. Not me.
In Derry, the boys saw another side of life. They were witness to no sectarian violence but they saw the enduring presence of it - lingering in the words spoken to them, in the murals on the walls, in the expressions of the two young wine-drinkers, in the graffiti on the walls, and in the look in the eyes of the old-timers. The innocence of a safe life in Canada where mortality is always assumed and where death is a distant thought, drifted into a new perspective, maybe lost altogether. Memories of the wonderful people of Northern Ireland are now with them forever – people who have suffered, but not so much that they will not say hello to a stranger passing on the street; people who have known incredible physical and emotional pain but have not lost their zeal for spinning a proud Irish tale to anyone willing to listen.
In Derry, the boys saw another side of life. They were witness to no sectarian violence but they saw the enduring presence of it - lingering in the words spoken to them, in the murals on the walls, in the expressions of the two young wine-drinkers, in the graffiti on the walls, and in the look in the eyes of the old-timers. The innocence of a safe life in Canada where mortality is always assumed and where death is a distant thought, drifted into a new perspective, maybe lost altogether. Memories of the wonderful people of Northern Ireland are now with them forever – people who have suffered, but not so much that they will not say hello to a stranger passing on the street; people who have known incredible physical and emotional pain but have not lost their zeal for spinning a proud Irish tale to anyone willing to listen.
My hope is that what they have experienced will be treasured forever. In the eight days in this magical land, fifteen young athletes competed as they never have before and discovered a spirited side to themselves that they might not have realized existed. They saw breathtakingly beautiful scenery as well as the aftermath of a horrible war. I can only hope that, at some point during these wonderful eight days, they saw in the proud people of Derry, as I did, the unmistakable passion for peace.
We now sleepily board the early morning flight from Belfast destined for Heathrow, en route to Ottawa. I count fifteen heads. Considering that all fifteen had no sleep that night, I can rest a little easy with the expectation that they will be too weary to fight, and I can mercifully return them all, each and every one of them, to their loving parents waiting on their arrival at the airport.
After retrieving my luggage in the Ottawa airport and saying my good-byes to the boys, I walk out into the terminal, where I am met with throngs of Spagnolos. Spagnolos kissing faces. Spagnolos tweaking cheeks. Spagnolos patting heads while kissing faces and tweaking cheeks. Beyond the Spagnolos, I see my wife’s beautiful smiling face and I feel the tepid comfort of home. As I embraced her and feel her happiness flow into me, I am overjoyed to be home yet while we hug I am already planning a return trip to Northern Ireland.
And the battles just begun
There’s many lost, but tell me who has won
The trench is dug within our hearts
And mothers, children, brothers, sisters torn apart ii
There’s many lost, but tell me who has won
The trench is dug within our hearts
And mothers, children, brothers, sisters torn apart ii
“As I grew up, more and more I started to realize that these labels were actually no good – that the labels that we give each other are the things that divide us. So, I try now to live these days without any labels. I try to live without any sort of token identity in my life. Nicola, my sister and I have stepped out and said that we don’t want to be part of this anymore. By stepping out, by making a difference, we can change things on a microscopic level. We can start to affect people one-on-one. If we were all to affect just one other person, and then they were to go on to affect just one other person, well then maybe we could change Northern Ireland. Maybe we could break out of the mindset where we have to beat people on the other side. Maybe, we could actually work at getting proper peace, a peace which breaks free of national identity, a peace that allows us to be friends.”i
[i] BBC interviews with anonymous Londonderry residents. BBC Recent History – Northern Ireland: The Troubles http://www.bbc.co.uk/history/recent/troubles/legacy.shtml
[ii] U2 Song “Sunday Bloody Sunday” (Bono and The Edge, 1982)
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