THE U9-and-a-half footballer wasn’t sure what the world was coming to.
As he stirred from his cabin bed like Captain Jake at school o’clock on a muggy high summer Saturday morning, there was no time for endless puddles of Coco Pops or a smooth zipline into a weekend Switch sesh with his square-eyed crew.
“We’re heading for Atticall, son,” I boomed with that chief-asshole level of parental tizz you’d maybe recognise yourself, letting some squally grey clouds scowl through his yanked-open curtains for effect.
In launching our mission 51.2 Googled miles at best from the south Down club’s annual ‘Black Heather Tournament’, the word ‘blitz’ was used often to focus a groggy pirate’s mind 150 minutes before the big 10am parade.
That word – ‘blitz’ – had always sounded so exotic and winsome once upon a time... unless you were high-tailing through Belfast circa 1941, with the greatest of respect.
Trying hard not to frame Atticall as some place of peril and suspicion wedged between, say, deepest Westeros and the gravel quidditch pitches of Hogsmeade, as opposed to the welcoming townland nestled in the Mournes it is, was no mean task, mind you.
A pedigree ‘Frankie’ born and reared in westest Belfast prior to a marriage-induced teleportation beyond Castle Street’s sea border can only try to do better.
All said, up the U9-and-a-half leapt like a playful sockeye salmon and into those neatly-ironed gold and blue fatigues of his own north Down club he jostled.
Show me the man who has ever seen Bob McCartney or Stephen Farry stepping out in wrinkled clobber and I’ll show you a liar.
“This top doesn’t really fit me no more,” he squawked, all falsetto Springsteen on it, plucking his adult size eight mouldies like Samson-cum-Goliath from a now fairly daft-looking Super Mario-decaled shoe basket.
“Do ye rightly,” went the terse reply – a ringing echo of many moons ago when a single club shirt was worn until it got ripped clean off your slabbering head by the standard ringer who could have lit a damp Swan Vesta on his shadowed jaw.
Changed times and all that, but two sharp licks of the same facecloth later and ‘there but for the grace of God’...
We had four sausage [brioche] baps. Two [chocolate] Belvitas. One [strawberry] Chupa Chup lolly. The napsack was plenished and we were on the road. Butch and Sundance... Roy and Micah... Max and Paddy.
We’d enough water for the week too and a fleeced Ninjago blanket in the boot in case we dropped off grid. In betting parlance, that verged on the jolly side of odds-on. Fail to prepare, prepare to fail, kid.
We’d forgotten the gumshield. They said DON’T forget the gumshield.
“Tell him to keep his mouth shut,” came the pragmatist’s quick fix via the WhatsApp.
We thanked the angels for a mother’s love and 4G signal with a sharp right onto Sentry Box Road now looming large.
With no fancy in-car sat-nav on our jalopy, the U9-and-a-half held the phone still in his right hand like a human selfie-stick while mauling another sausage bap from his left paw. Versatility beyond his mere eight trips around the sun.
Then we took a rare turn that only a Google Maps robot can explain.
In a re-centring flash we were in a supernatural tumult. A four-wheeled snail inching through the Mournes for virtual aeons, not a sinner in sight with fog and mist starting to act the absolute dual bollox.
“Are we nearly there yet?” wasn’t what was required at this juncture in our time on God’s earth.
This was where The Road meets The Revenant, where The Blair Witch Project looks more like an Easter egg hunt around lower Tollymore.
A big reddish hay lorry appeared in the yonder. Then it just vanished.
A mirage, on reflection.
‘What time is the first match?” wasn’t what was required at this juncture in our time on God’s earth.
I bit down hard on a partial Belvita and wondered what Bear Grylls (below) or Ryder from Paw Patrol would do to make this parade in time. Or even to relink with society at large. And then it appeared.
Spelga Dam in all its vast, life-giving glory. An earthly gift from the boul’ Neptune himself, no doubt.
Atticall GAC wasn’t a kick in the arse from here. Two hearts soared. We opened the Chupa Chup, wishing we had more, and laughed while toasting life and survival.
In a flash the U9-and-a-half was parading with his people like he’d been born to strut through a field of dreams on granite ranges. Three matches and three plucky skelps later and we were into the Plate.
A lunchtime clutch of celestial burgers at two notes a pop sorted some carbs and protein and stuff.
A duel between two teams from their own planet was watched from behind the burgers. As viewers of Squid Games might agree, Sam Maguires aren’t just won on the day.
The Plate dream soon died in a confusing loss. The 2-0 to 1-2 ‘win’ became a one-point killer, the rules rewarding an ‘over’ with two points. Conor Laverty, take heed.
A few tears rolled and it was time for home. Much bigger tears rolled. The key difference now, though, would be safety in the collective.
The consensus was ice cream at Graham’s in Rathfriland. Ice cream, from deep experience, helps with all trauma. No sooner than the cones were inhaled and we were through Sprucefield towards familiar plains.
All roads this very morning now point to Loughinisland.
29.2 miles via A49 according to the U9-and-a-half’s compass.
The build-a-den and the gumshield are in the boot. The sausage baps are in the pipeline. We maybe just need to go a bit bigger on the Chupa Chups this time round, kid.
But trust me, I’ve been to this territory before. And this one’s definitely reachable.
