The Speech.

“Feck that Matty – we’re flying by on the seat of our pants. The lads are chugging along in second gear. It’s not good enough.”

“I know Tommo. What do we do? Get Frankie on?”

“Nah. It’s a bit early for him yet.”

“What are ya gonna say to them?”

“I’m not sure I know. I’m gonna have to think quickly though. We’re gonna struggle into that wind.”

“Are ya coming in so?”

“Gimme a minute. Go around and see whose carrying knocks from that first half. See what the mood is like – give me thumbs up or down when I come in.”

“Will do boss.”

Tom Moran stood outside against the flaking paint of the blue dressing room door, assessing his options. The flecks of dried paint stuck to his black and red trimmed Bainisteoir t-shirt. A flash of silver caught his eye and mind.

Taking in a deep breath, he cracked open the door. The mood was light and he heard laughter before he glanced upon a face in the room. He closed the door slowly and stood with his back to it. Leaning against it prevented anyone leaving until he was ready.

Tom rubbed his stubbly chin and looked down at the stark grey concrete of the dressing room. Clumps of grass and clay intermittently littered the entire floor. The smell of Deep Heat, Icy Hot, sweat and urine mixed up a cocktail of smells that only exists in dressing rooms.

Tom caught Matt’s eye. Matt shook his head, indicating that the attitude wasn’t right. Usually Tom took his place in the centre of the room, before giving guidance on how best to approach the second half.

This time was different. He was well pissed off.

A hush soon enveloped the crowded space. The players knew Tom wasn’t happy. He waited for complete silence. Then he walked very slowly to the bathroom and went for a piss. The room stayed quiet, awaiting his words.

“I’m glad I have your attention lads. Please take a good look around ye.”

Tom let that hang in the air as twenty five men looked around at each other, unsure of what was coming next.

“I’ve known most of ye for almost five years now. We started off in Division 2 at under-13 level. We were seen as a joke to some people, but I soon knew I had a special bunch of young men. We took a while to get to winning ways, but we got there eventually. Alan Fitz there came onboard as a trainer three years ago and got ye into great shape – all your fitness work over the past few years has been with thanks to him. Ye are easily the fittest team in the county.”

A few heads looked in Alan’s direction, thanking him with imperceptible glances and thankful eyes. Alan got embarrassed, blushing at the mere mention of his name. He had no idea Tom was going to thank him.

“And now I want ye to thank Davie Murph over there for getting many of ye through knocks, niggles and injuries over the past few years. Did any of ye know that Murph looks after ye for nothing?”

It was Dave’s turn to look down at the hard concrete in embarrassment.

“Matty there has been in this club longer than many of ye have been on this planet. He’s the guy who gets your gear right, makes sure we have the right equipment and does most of the organizing prior to games. Without him lads, not much would happen. Ye’d all be sitting at home on yer arses on a Sunday morning if it wasn’t for people like him.”

Tom let that one sink in, pacing around the room. He glanced in the eyes of all twenty two players. He said nothing.

The dressing room was eerily quiet apart from the odd scraping of boot or stud on concrete. A referee’s whistle blew. Three or four players got to their feet, expecting to be called back out to the pitch.

“Sit down te fuck! I’m not finished!”

The normally calm Tom Moran had lost his cool. His audience were captivated and a touch fearful.

“I’m sorry for shouting lads. Sorry.”

Tom seemed completely contrite and apologetic. He held his hand up.

“Okay here’s what I want you to do. Keep the ball in hand second half. Keep any ball into the forwards low. If I see any ball flying high into the sky, I’ll whip ye off the pitch so quick yer fucking head will spin! We are fecking well fitter than these boyos, so let’s get them chasing US lads! That’ll tire the fuck outta them and then we can pick them off. That wind has to be respected lads, so use it to our advantage.”

The referee’s whistle blew twice again, more impatient this time. The opposition took to the pitch. The noise of twenty odd pairs of stud on concrete outside their dressing room made quite a din.

“Everyone get up and stand shoulder to shoulder with the man next to ya. Ignore the noise out there! And now I want ya to glance around and take in every player in this room. I hate to be a killjoy lads, but this could be the last time ye all play together. Ye have to appreciate that next year many of ye will be in college around the country or emigrating to Australia or the USA. That’s life lads! It waits around for no man. Ye have gone to school with each other and played together for nearly five years. This could be your last hurrah.”

The whistle blew again.

“Fuck that ref; he’s just an impatient arsehole.”

Tom’s joke broke the tension.

“One last thing lads – I want to show you all something I was given almost twenty years ago in my minor county final. It’s a silver, losing medal. We were like ye, right now, two points up at half time and should have been out of sight. But we weren’t and we lost by one in the end.”

Tom threw the medal on the floor in between all players and coaches. It made a cheap clunky sound against the quiet of the room.

“I do not want any of ye to regret anything lads. Leave everything you have out on that pitch. Win every 50/50 tackle! Put in that extra effort for your team mate!”

Tom now pointed his yellow stained index finger at the group, in an emotional plea.

“And PLEASE, please don’t walk out of here later, with something like that lump of shite that’s on the floor! I don’t want that torment for ye all! I don’t want ye to regret this next thirty five minutes for the rest of yer lives! ‘Cos I know I have.”

A determined look started to appear on the crowd of faces. Steeled eyes and broad shoulders flexed.

“I want the best fer all ye lads. Ye deserve to be champions, so go leave all the hard work of the past years out on that sod of turf. That’s how ye can repay my unwavering faith in ye.”

Gum shields were placed back in the mouths. Deep inhales and exhales were flying in and out of many of the players chests. Necks were rolled and arms extended.

“So go out there and tear into them. Show them who the boss on the pitch is for the next half hour of your life. Play like you need the ball to survive and to breathe.”

Legs and knees were jostling up and down. The clamp of boots on the hard surface built the level of noise. Words of mumbled internal psyching were growing.

“And remember lads – we have NO finish line. We have NO obstacles in our way. We WILL win this game. Your determination and talent WILL shine through. You WILL be Champions!”

The players exited the dressing room with a cacophony of noise, roars, clapping and staunch support from their management team. The last two to leave the room were Matt and Tom.

“Where the fuck did that type of emotion come from Tommo? I’ve never seen you like that.”

“We all have our secrets Matt.”

“Who did you play for twenty years ago? Was it us?”

“Nope.”

“So was that a runners-up medal from a county final?”

“Nope Matty. But you saw how it jazzed them up. I’m fecking well glad none of them looked too intently at it.”

“What medal was it?”

“My daughter’s second place medal from last Saturday in an under eights’ egg and spoon race. I’d forgotten I was wearing these same pant bottoms then and put it away in here for safekeeping. She obviously forgot about it too. It was effective in there though!"

"Well bloody hell Tom! You're some fecker!"