I remember the day well. My Dad answered a knock on the front door and there was a scout standing there. He wasn't a 'Dib Dibber' with short trousers, whistle and John Wayne neckchief.
No, this individual was a football scout. He was small man I remember, and while he could very well have had short trousers on under his long overcoat he ensured we never actually knew for sure because, despite my Dad's hospitable request, he declined to divest himself of the swanky sartorial overgarment.
We sat in our front room, or 'The Lounge' as Mrs Brannigan from a couple of doors down tended to call it. It was a lovely high-ceilinged room, spacious, with two and three-seater setees placed along three walls and a rather splendid fireplace that added a genteel style of authority to the room itself. The family piano stood loquaciously against the back wall. There were other attractive aspects of the room but, as I am beginning to sound like an auctioneer, I'll just move along.
Those were the days when front rooms were essentially for unique occasions or special visitors. Most of the neighbourhood, like neighbourhoods everywhere, kept the front room in pristine condition hoping to induce, visitors into the belief that the rest of the house was similarly impressive, and in-laws into jealousy.
As a family we rarely used the front room, but it was more because we lived in a three-storey house and the front room, being neither upstairs nor downstairs, possessed a bizarre capacity to be almost invisible.
It did possess a sense of timeless solitude. But as solitude, timeless or not, could never even begin to compare with chasing a football on the street during the day, and Colette Brannigan at night, I was an infrequent visitor to the aforementioned area.
There was also the not inconsequential fact that my Dad liked to coax a few tunes out of the family piano. I used the word 'coax' while accepting that bash would be a more honestly descriptive word and the indigenous renditions that emanated from that normally elegant source of entertainment was another reason that the front room was an area of general isolation.
Now I am not intending to be in any way disparaging about my Dad's musical ability. He did his best, and, more to the point, he somehow seemed to enjoy himself, but that first inkling of a tinkling on the old Joanna was enough to scatter us kids to the furthest extremities of Lombard Street West.
Thinking back now, any occasion that saw the complete set of seven children in my family out playing on the street at the same time generated the very natural assumption from the neighbours that the 'Old Man' was hammering the proverbial you-know-what out of the ivories.
Perhaps it was the style of music he played or just the type of children he fathered, but not one of the seven embraced a pianistic inclination in any way whatsoever. My Dad also had an accordion, but, even you're not ready for that one. Anyway, I sincerely hope you will pardon my recollective ramblings, but it was the mention of the front room that brought the memories flooding back.
However, there in the front room sat a football scout and he was talking to my Dad about the possibility of me going across to England for a trial. Now, even in those days English clubs were a huge attraction to any young Irish boy who possessed a noted footballing ability. But even if it was Matt Busby or Bill Shankly who sat facing me and my Dad extolling the virtues of their club, there was absolutely no chance of me getting the boat to England.
You must remember that back in those days very few young players went across the channel. So to have this man knock on our door completely out of the blue and offer this proposal was quite an event. But that was as far as it ever went.
I was the eldest of the children and my parents wanted each and every one of us to complete our education to enable us to stay away from the demanding physical labour that my father and his brother engaged in to make their living. They were builders, and, times being hard, during the school holidays I assisted on the house extensions that were the mainstay of the small company.
In the summer months my Dad utilised every bit of light available, so we would start early in the morning and on most occasions finish late in the evening. So when he insisted, as he always did, that none of us were going to follow in his footsteps, he got absolutely no argument from me. And when he further insisted that my education was more important than the opportunity of a trial in England, I had to admit I understood his commitment to that principle and, whilst I did wonder, I never wavered.
The above thoughts are fashionable - if that's the right word - at the moment because it is at this time of the year that the football clubs in England will be making decisions on the dozens of Irish teenagers that have for the past couple of years been plying their trade at underage level. These young men with very good talents have been living the dream of becoming a successful professional footballer in one of the best leagues in the world. But the odds are stacked against them, and particularly so at the moment. The competition cross channel is now intense and the demands therefore can be extremely artificial and virtually impossible.
The majority will not be offered further contracts and the next option is to seek opportunities elsewhere. Some will return home and the lucky ones, the better ones, will get opportunities in the much more receptive eircom League. I say more receptive because the full-time environment here now offers a wonderful chance for further re-development of an individual’s career.
Sunderland's Roy O'Donovan is the perfect example of a young man who did not succeed in England but in his time at Cork City proved that it is not a lack of ability but more a lack of opportunity that prevents more Irish boys from making the big break through across the water.
The system in England is far from perfect. Indeed it is far from fair. But as I have always stated, there is no fairness in football, or in life itself for that matter. Whether one is playing a piano or a game of football it is not just about ability. Opportunity must be present for belief to flourish.
