Читать книгу The Boys of '93. Derry’s All-Ireland Kings онлайн

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‘Wee men can’t drink big pints,’ he roared once at a team meeting, after Johnny McGurk, all 5’ 6” of him, had said there was no harm in a few pints. ‘I could drink big McGilligan under the table,’ said Johnny. ‘Could you fuck,’ said McGilligan. Eamonn burst out laughing with the rest of us, and the temperance lecture broke up in confusion.

For a man who wasn’t academic or well read, he was a superb orator with terrific emotional intelligence. In 1991, we beat Tyrone in a bad-tempered National League final. Seven days later, we met them in the first round of the Ulster championship in Celtic Park. The terraces were bulging. Coleman stood in the middle of the changing room, eyes blazing. Some players he left alone altogether. Others sometimes needed a perk up. ‘Tony Scullion,’ he said, shaking his head in disgust, ‘wait to you hear what Mattie McGleenan said about you in the paper today.’ He opened a newspaper and began to read what the young Tyrone forward had said about Tony. That he was surprised how lacking in pace Scullion was when he marked him in the league final. That he was over-rated. That he was done and that he would make sure he finished him off today. ‘That’s the respect he has for you Scullion, one of the greatest defenders ever to play the game. That’s the respect he has for you,’ he roared, shoving the paper into Scullion’s face. Tony, normally mild-mannered, was enraged. He stood up, roared, and punched the door hard. We rumbled out onto the pitch like marines landing on the beach. Tony was superb in a total shut-out, never giving Mattie a kick.