WHEN we swooped past the quarry on the Glenshane Pass we knew we were nearly there.
We’d reach the town of Dungiven and pull into Dirty Dan’s café halfway down the main street on the left. Dirty Dan’s was a term of endearment.
Looking back, I don’t even know if it was even called Dan’s, but that’s what we called it when we stopped for sausage rolls.
As a kid, car journeys to Buncrana always seemed to take an eternity.
I don’t remember it ever raining in Buncrana on those summer Sundays.
Maginn Park was easily found. Halfway up the main street, take a left, the narrow road descends, you pass the bus depot on your left and swing round to your right and you're there.
Maginn Park was a magical place. The grass was like sponge under your feet and I always remember the square, wooden goalposts.
Kick-off was 3.30pm every Sunday and the place was always packed.
The Buncrana Knock-Out Cup was born on Sunday June 11 1944. Trojans and Nelsons, two Derry teams, were the first to play in the cup competition that grew in popularity as the years ticked by.
It was in 1957 Maginn Park was opened and became the exciting new hub of football in the Inishowen area.
Back in the early 1980s summer football was arguably more prestigious than domestic leagues because the standard of competition was so high.
The Buncrana Cup was the one everyone wanted to win.
Against their clubs’ wishes, the best of the Irish League descended on Maginn Park every summer and mixed with the best junior players that Belfast, Derry and Donegal had to offer.
Brilliant footballers littered Brandywell Harps, Fanad United, Strabane Celtic, Shelbourne, Oxford United and Derry Harps.
On any given Sunday you could catch Felix Healy, Kevin Mahon, Barry and Roy McCreadie – and I always remember the floppy-haired striker Jonathan Speak popping up with important goals which ended many Buncrana summers for hopeful contenders.
In the 1980's, my father, Gerry Crossan, entered a team called Oldpark Celtic – continuing the tradition of Belfast teams making the journey to the north west.
Oldpark Celtic was mostly made up of the Ashton Gate and Cromac Albion teams, both managed by my father.
And there were always a few guest appearances from the Irish League or ‘B’ Division thrown in.
Former Portadown goalkeeper Mickey Keenan always kept goal for Oldpark Celtic while Eamonn Hawkins, formerly of Newry Town, also guested.
In football terms, Hawkins was pure gold.
You could play him right back, sweeper, midfield or striker and he would be the best player on the pitch.
Bill Logan was another guest, an unhurried, elegant midfielder, and Sid Burrows - who was cutting a dash for Crusaders at the time - lined out the year Oldpark Celtic finally won the cup in 1986.
Sean O’Kane, who went on to star for Cliftonville, was a classy striker, reminiscent of Mark Hughes.
Of course, the soul of the team was made up of Ashton Gate and Cromac Albion regulars. The late Pat Maguire was perpetual motion in midfield. John McAuley provided the cutting edge down the wings.
Tommy Brady was like Everest at centre back. And young Pat Brannigan had a left foot to die for.
There was Frank O’Kane, ‘Red’ Donnelly, Frankie Campbell (when he wasn’t lining out for Pearse’s GAC) and Noel Ferran.
Noel was a gifted footballer. He could kill a ball at any angle or speed. He was a great finisher and the best header of a ball I can recall.
He was always two or three moves ahead of everyone else. He played in the future.
For years, Oldpark Celtic never imagined they’d actually win Buncrana.
My father would complain bitterly to amiable cup organiser Willie O’Donnell about “another home decision” that cost his team. But they’d still drown their sorrows in The Silver Dollar before reaching Belfast in the small hours.
Everything, though, would fall into place in 1986 as they edged out Strabane Celtic 2-1 in the final.
By the end of the 1980s, the appeal of summer football was eroded by more and more ‘live’ football on TV and the Buncrana Cup was wrapped up in the early 90s.
Locally, Ashton Gate amalgamated with Cromac Albion and my father’s team went on to win back-to-back Amateur League Division 1A titles (before the Premier Section was formed) in 1986 and '87.
Nowadays, kids have the likes of Ronaldo and Messi on a pedestal.
When I was growing up, my heroes were those who wore the blood-red jersey of Ashton Gate and the battle-green of Cromac Albion.
And I was proud my father was the manager, a no-nonsense figure – both as a coach and as a parent.
Looking back, I don’t know if he was the best manager around but, to me, he was. Through a child’s eyes, every decision he made was right.
He was knowledgeable about the game and he would often explode on the sidelines at referees and his own players.
Through everything, though, the players loved playing for him. It’s that intangible quality in a manager where it has nothing to do with tactics or knowledge.
They simply craved his praise. I suppose they loved him. It was probably that simple looking back.
Going to football matches with your father was the best kind of childhood you could have.
Every Saturday afternoon was an adventure, whether it was on park pitches across Belfast or over in Strangford Park, where Cromac used to play their games, or later at their borrowed pitch at Cross & Passion school on the Glen Road.
I miss those days. Putting up the posts on the Glen Road on Saturday morning with old Dessie Armstrong and other committee men and getting the chance to wear the jersey before Cromac Albion finished up in the early 90s.
All those days were special.
Swinging by the quarry on the Glenshane Pass with hope in our hearts. And just being in Maginn Park was enough.
My father left local football behind and for the next 20 years he found another passion in Point-to-Point horseracing.
He’d be up bright as a lark every Saturday or Sunday and head off to any corner of Ireland with his horsey mates.
Next Wednesday will mark his 10th anniversary. Ten years. You wonder where the time goes.
He's still sorely missed by his family and all those who wore the Ashton Gate, Cromac Albion and Oldpark Celtic jerseys.
In the mind’s eye, he’s standing on the sidelines, undaunted. Never more alive. And never taking a backward step.
