It’s the first January step through the clubhouse door.
It’s the new club coats and hats keeping the chill off.
It’s promises of old in seasons now. ‘There’s a championship there boys, if we stick together’.
It’s gathering up the first Tuesday night.
It’s sitting inside stuck to the heater as the hail beats off the windows.
It’s the cold air that goes straight to the lungs on the first long run.
It’s the nagging feeling that last year would have done you.
It’s Fartlek training exercises.
It’s the internal smile when you finish that last run, and you know that the first night is always the hardest.
It’s being the spring lamb who still thinks he can kick points off the outside of the boot without a stretch.
It’s the Ulster League.
It’s welcome to Tyrone.
It’s them coming to us and making them tea and sandwiches that no neighbouring club has had in your history. ‘They can make their own’.
It’s the nervous weight in the pit of your stomach as the new manager calls out his first starting team. The relief or the disappointment.
It’s a wet field with grass halfway up your shins, your hamstrings being splashed with every step you take.
It’s hitting the sweet spot on that first pass.
It’s missing the ball-catcher with that first shot.
It’s doing ok and taking home the positives.
It’s stopping for the post-match Magners and talking whatever soccer is on.
It’s shuttle runs.
It’s numbers dropping as the early-season enthusiasts drift away.
It’s the ground drying out.
It’s the netting being put back on and the goalmouth cordon being removed.
It’s the floodlights going on two minutes later every night, until the sun does their job for them.
It’s the first time the one-hap pass doesn’t skid away or die in the turf.
It’s the search for a pump and a permanent marker when the new balls arrive.
It’s the fixtures being released.
It’s girlfriends smiling as holidays are planned.
It’s numbers rising as the old boys come back out for ‘one more year’.
It’s the lad just out minor disappearing in a sulk when he’s dropped for the oul lad on Sunday.
It’s being halfway through the warm-up and hearing the cars start to snake in at your back.
It’s the first game of the league, where intentions are laid out.
It’s the realisation an hour later of how far away promotion seems.
It’s another post-match Magners. The young lads go on to Magherafelt, the older lads go home to wives and children.
It’s the hug at the front door.
It’s the guest coach, in with his four drills and off with his evening’s pay.
It’s the local derby.
It’s thinking of when these teams used to kill each other.
It’s knowing the price of that now. Not the black eye, but the red card.
It's wee lads behind the goal learning bad manners early.
It’s the late winner that was a yard wide on your umpire’s side.
It’s forgetting the price of it.
It’s the sweetest, loudest of post-match Magners and chat of Ulster and beyond.
It's allowing yourself to dream good dreams.
It’s the first warm evening and the slagging on the steps before training.
It’s the hamstring niggling.
It’s standing watching a training session, the most pointless and frustrating pursuit known to man.
It’s minding it in the runs for a fortnight, but being able to go full-tilt when the footballs come out.
It’s the championship draw.
It’s the championship fade.
It’s girlfriends crying as holidays are cancelled.
It’s thinking you would love straight knockout until you get pulled with the favourites.
It’s the pace of the truck and trailer ratcheting up.
It’s no drops, boys. Great stuff, boys. We’re flying, boys.
It’s shooting drills, and playing the one-two before blazing the ball for all you’re worth from seven yards out.
It’s wondering how you spent half an hour shooting on Friday night and kicked 18 wides on Sunday.
It’s picking your team on the phone with the brother.
It’s filling the car journey with anything to distract.
It’s the physio’s annual appearance.
It’s coming up and out the tunnel in Drumsurn, around the ballcatchers in Magilligan, out through the home crowd in Glack.
It’s the lone gulder in the silence, and then the bubbles of laughter.
It’s the tannoy. 'There will be at least four minutes of injury time at the end of the half'. Did he say four minutes?
It’s the crowd rising as the ball leaves the boot, only to drop back to their seats as the ball falls into the ‘keeper’s hands.
It’s the time running out.
It’s the sickening depths of despair.
It’s the silence and the discarding of white tape.
It’s nothing to fill the car journey.
It's boyfriends crying as girlfriends cancel holidays because they're still in the camogie.
It’s wondering why you put yourself through it.
It’s remembering why you put yourself through it.
It’s resolving to do it again next year.
It’s what we do.
It’s what we are.
It’s what we miss.
It’s the GAA.
