Kindlestown’s World Cup Blast Means Burgers, Gardai, Casper

By Ted Crowley

At Kindlestown’s fantastic World Cup football extravaganza for youngsters, one could not help overhearing thankful mothers sighing with relief, "They’ll be back to school next week, without getting into trouble over the summer." Keeping kids safe from the sinister-dark-spooky-drink-and-druggie-shades, nowadays poised to pounce on vulnerable kids everywhere, is what Kindlestown’s World Cup is all about.

Over a full week of football matches, even in tiny teams of little tots under ten, the girls and boys played their little hearts out and they were all just simply marvelous. They played for and against Ireland, Spain, Germany, England and anywhere else you may choose to support, bringing great credit to themselves, to their parents and to their community at large. I noticed a young chap, a player himself only last year, dishing-out thousands of beefburgers, millions of sausages, barrels of chocolates, wagons of crisps, tons of sweets and tankers of soft drinks; to the popular accompaniment of Carolann Kelly’s lively music.

The massive support, dedication, sheer hard work and the organizational skills of Greystones Garda Siochana made this worthy event possible. In jeans and jumpers, including a probable Jesuit undercover agent who’d blow his cover by displaying SJ across his chest, were: Sgt. Gerry Walsh, Sgt. Noel Kinsella, Garda Eamonn Furlong and the man who’s always there, Community Garda Mat Darby. Attempting to run an event on the scale of the World Cup would be to court disaster and bitter disappointment without Mat Darby; that world-class Pele of the beefburger barbecue.

But even the Gardai could have bitten off more beefburger than even they could have chewed without the untiring support of the community. Great credit is due to Catherine Kinsella, Thomas Messitt, Mick Elliott, Mick Kelly, Mick McDonald, Richie Doyle and the new man behind the burger stand, Luke O’Brien. I know that Peter Horse Keddy and many another civic-minded resident actively supported the festival over the week. 

Extraordinary things, difficult to credit, happen at the World Cup at Kindlestown. Two young fellows confided in me, "The girls are really great players," but having said so, probably to restore their manly pride in themselves and, in the manner of all boys, to cut the girls down to size, they promptly added, "they play with Eire Og Greystones and that’s the only reason why they’re so good, otherwise they’d be..."

Just girls, I suppose.

We’d all have gone home hungry without the generous support of our sponsors: Doyles Butchers, for their really delicious burgers and sausages; SuperValu Greystones for their crispy buns; Tesco for an unending supply of crisps and mineral drinks; Derek Wilkinson; Derek Archer of Archer’s Glass; Toolan’s Bookies; Mick Kelly and Peter Horse Keddy, Kindlestown’s local taxi service providers; Wayne O’Connor; Smart Choice Gutters and Sean Brady of Brady’s hardware store.

During the final match, seated uncomfortably on a red fish box, while grabbing a few action shots through the net, I asked the goalie if he played for Spain or Germany.

"Germany!" said he, only to be contradicted by the opposing forward with, "Spain! you’re playing for Spain!" Seconds earlier, an own-goal had been allowed. To clear matters up, the forward asked the back and soon a ripple of, "Spain?" "Germany?" "Spain?" "Germany?" rippled the length of the pitch, until it rebounded off the far goalie. Then, confusing responses poured back towards me, "Germany!" "Spain!" "Germany!" "Spain!" Since it was obvious that they weren’t that bothered about which country they represented, I screwed my scant score-notes into a tight little ball of crumbled paper and tossed it to the goalie. So, if you’re after lists of scores, he’s your man.

And as if the girls hadn’t already had a brilliant outing, their day was made, beyond the bounds of all earthly joys, when Tony McGuirk and Chris O’Connor of Bray Wanderers turned-up to present the prizes. Such was the clamor and the glamour around Chris and his Australian twang, that each time he drew breath or merely blinked an eyelid, the girls shrieked and shrieked. While Chris presented the trophies and the bags of medals, girls’ big soft eyes rolled coyly beneath their long, twittering eyelashes, their chests heaving between shrieks and shrieks of sheer delight. 

It doesn’t get much better than Chris O’Connor, does it girls?