THE WARRIOR'S CODE - Norn Iron, Ballykelly Primary School and me...

“When yer man gets the ball, Northern Ireland has it all. Oh we’re off to Spain, In La Manga main, When yer man gets the ball!” Dana & 1982 Northern Ireland World Cup squad.

‘You’re wan rare boy, young Doherty!” I can recall the moment with a certain clarity, a howl of abuse from a 'crabbit oul timer'. My brother and I were making the short journey from our house to the hallowed Kings Lane football pitches in Ballykelly, respledid in brand new shiny green Northern Ireland tracksuits. It was 1986 and the North had just qualified for their second World Cup in a row and I was bursting with pride as I jogged down to the field to play our daily game of football with the great and the good of Ballykelly, the young and the old, the talented and those with two left feet, the school kids and, of course, the great ‘unemployable.’ To the outside world, this merry band of brothers looked like the cast of a Mad Max film, but we were united in our love of football. We played every day that summer, pretending we were Norman Whiteside or Gerry Armstrong. The more extrovert of us would do the Billy Hamilton goal celebration. But there was I that particular day, pleased as punch in my new rig to celebrate the beginning of Northern Ireland’s Mexico ’86 World Cup campaign. But not everyone shared my joy, apparently.

Glory days

It’s easy to look back at your childhood with rose-tinted glasses. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t do it anyway. What Ballykelly lacked in jobs, civil amenities and intellectualism, it more than made up for in other ways. We had a burnt out play park, an Orange Hall, 87 chip shops and an army camp. But best of all was Ballykelly Primary School – the greatest primary school in the world. Sport wasn’t our strong point, however. We only ever played one football match in my time and we were royally hammered. One lad had no shinguards and just slid two paperback novels down his socks. We once entered the Limavady District Swimming Gala and came last in every race, and that was with half the Ballykelly swimmers wearing armbands. I remember one girl in our class being fished out like drowned rat, having dived into the deep end without actually being able to swim. God loves a trier, and there were plenty of those in Ballykelly PS. Come to think of it, we struggled academically at our school too. I’ll never forget my classmates walking out after the 11+, collective blank faces and badly shook. It was like a scene from the Walking Dead, and many had perished. Ballykelly Primary School had one great attribute, one unique selling point, however, and I’ll be forever grateful for it. It was a ‘mixed’ school. Girls and boys, Protestants and Catholics, (blacks and whites), were all welcome, and that rich tapestry of colours and creeds provided the perfect education for an impressionable young Warrior’s Code. It was the antidote to all our ‘troubles’ amidst the maelstrom and chaos of the 1980s.

Espana ‘82

When Northern Ireland qualified for the 1982 World Cup, at 10 years old, I was a captive fan. It would be anathema for many Derry City folk to support Norn Iron, but for us country folk brought up three decades ago, the setting was altogether different. Back in the day, we had no RTE. Before Channel 4 came along in the mid-1980s there was only BBC1, BBC2 and ITV. And thus the only international football that would have been beamed into our living rooms was the ‘home nations’ – England, Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland. As youngsters we had simply never heard of the Republic of Ireland team, although back then there was little reason to hear about them. No, we were all big Northern Ireland fans, and it was the quintessential time to be one. 1982 was a perfect moment in time for ‘our wee country’. Every game in Espana ’82, and the heroics of Billy Bingham’s Northern Ireland was closely followed by everyone in our village. I’ll never forget the great Gerry Armstrong himself coming to our school, and as we queued up for autographs, the headmaster (not a sports fan) told us all to go back to class and that he’d get us all photocopied versions of Gerry Armstrong’s signature. What a nincompoop.

Mexico ‘86

By the time the 1986 World Cup had come around, I had somehow defied the odds and managed to get into Limavady Grammar School, and once again benefitted from that school also opening its door to all religions. I had a heady mix of friends that I still have to this day, Catholics and Protestants, and we all followed Norn Iron’s exploits in Mexico with great interest. I can vividly remember buying a wall poster from the Mace beside school at a knock down price of 15p, a week after the tournament began. That canny brain for business would later serve me well in the cut-throat world of tile retail. (Did I mention the great Tile Image sale is now on?) Northern Ireland once again made a decent account of themselves. Norman Whiteside looked a class act throughout, and the great Pat Jennings won a record-breaking 119th cap. There’s was much to be proud of. Put ‘Em Under Pressure

As the years went by, as I grew older and my brain began to develop fully. RTE finally arrived in Ballykelly and the Republic of Ireland under Jack Charlton began to qualify for national competitions. I found myself also backing the new boys in green. I hadn’t turned my back on Norn Iron, they just weren’t on my radar as much. Good schooling and better parenting kept me well away from any sectarian thoughts, on or off the sporting field. I didn’t support Celtic or Rangers, I followed Man Utd. And Ballykelly Utd. I still do. International football fails to raise my pulse these days, and I tend to groan when the Premiership takes a break for International weekends. Since United legend Roy Keane retired from international football, I don’t think I’ve watched a full game. The quality of football on offer is risible and I don’t have 90 minutes to spend on watching it between the three Ws – work, wife and wains. I’ve still managed to keep an eye on both national teams in recent years, however, mainly just to see how any Man Utd players were fairing.

Randolph, we’re back…

A strange thing happened recently, and I’m not talking about an unwelcome discovery of grey nostril hair. No, Northern Ireland’s recent exploits has once again caught my beady eye and had me rekindling my support for the North which had lain dormant for years. And if they make it as far as the World Cup I’m sure I’ll be firmly in their corner. I might even see if the credit union fancies financing a run to France ’16 with a few of my old school friends. I still have the old Northern Ireland World Cup single ‘Yer Man’ somewhere about the house. I’ll certainly dig out my old 7 inch from its dusty box (for under 25 readers that wasn’t a euphemism. Google it.) I no longer have Gerry Armstrong’s photo-copied autograph, strangely enough. And the same goes for the Republic, if Martin O’Neill’s team manage to qualify for the next World Cup. Maybe I’m just a magpie for success. Maybe I just love my sport. Probably both. Sure there is burdensome political baggage with which national team you follow in this part of the world. But I never let myself get bogged down too much in that. I’m sports fan first and foremost. I can just as happily cheer for David Healy as Paddy McCourt, For Liam Brady as Andy Townsend. That was Ballykelly Primary School’s greatest gift to me. Most people can’t support both Irish teams, and that’s very much their right. But as I’ve often been told before– ‘you’re wan rare boy, young Doherty!’

READ THE WARRIOR'S CODE in the DERRY NEWS EVERY MONDAY. If you could be bothered.