The Whole Hogge With Jacqueline Hogge

I HAVE often wondered what life is like for a pure blooded member of the GAA fraternity. Having grown up with no brothers, and the inconvenience of being taught by nuns who decided it safer not to let us play camogie in our schooldays, I've had very little exposure to the world of our national game, bar jumping on the bandwagon when the Stars or the county teams get within spitting distance of silverware. I have never endured the hardship of weekly training sessions in the driving rain, nor the pride of attending various league and championship matches to cheer on a sibling. Heck, I didn't even have the glamour of being associated with a star player during the purple patch of Galway football in the late 1990s, but then being out of the country for both Corofin's All-Ireland success at club level and the subsequent run up to September with the county flying high, may have played a small part in that.[private] So when I made the decision to move back to Galway some years back, with a view to having a family, I secretly hoped that one day I would assume the legitimate role of GAA mammy. I've always harboured ambitions of stomping up and down a wet and soggy sideline, bellowing unsolicited advice at my offspring as to positioning and appropriate tackles, whilst also finding time to offload a volley of abuse towards the match officials. To exemplify my softer side and avoid punishment at half time, I would provide crates of hang sandwiches from the car boot, complete with endless flasks of tea, and at a push could possibly be relied on to ensure a clean team kit made it to every match. So having the joy of nailing the mammy gig to both a daughter and a son, I'm ashamed to admit that I had the sexist notion that my life of Sundays would only dawn when the latter was old enough to don a pair of football boots. But lo and behold my time has come earlier than expected through my warrior lass, who is shaping up to be pretty nifty with a hurley. Yes, we sampled our first competitive game of camogie this week, and when decked out in a helmet and jersey my lady looks pretty fierce brandishing the ash. She's one of the newer members of Tuam Camogie Club but has taken to the sport like a duck to water. To say she's not yet six (that milestone is reached this week as it happens) her tender years belie her resilience and determination when she sets her sights on the sliotar. But lest I get carried away with my protégée, back to the more important business of GAA mammy etiquette. I thought it might be a bit much to go catering for the masses on my debut, given it was an Under-8s blitz tournament out in Abbey, but I still reckoned my full forward would need hydration and some potassium to keep her going on the astro-turf. Who knew it would be half a pitch? So the oranges and bananas were deemed necessary, as were several bottles of water, which incidentally are still on the back seat of the car. But the fundamental and rookie error I made was not in the food I brought but in the lack of clothing I wore. Saturday may have seen the sun break through the clouds on what was a glorious Spring day, but standing around for a couple of hours on an exposed football pitch, with three quarter length joggers on is asking for trouble. I ensured the star player was bedecked in at least four layers, which were complemented by a team jersey and youthful central heating, which allows children to bask in constant warmth, they never feel the cold. But even though I was wearing several layers on my upper half, I couldn't get warm and the fear of hypothermia is an annoying distraction when cheering on your flesh and blood in the thick of sporting action. I did heat up ever so slightly from the mortification of my lady deciding to remove her runner just as the game began. She is not one to suffer even the slightest discomfort so a suspected stone in her shoe was enough to halt her involvement in the opening minutes of the game. You appreciate the anonymity of helmets at a time like that, I assure you. But the pride of seeing her at least make an attempt to connect with the ball was enough to guarantee this may have been our first foray into the competitive element of the sport but it will most certainly not be our last. Undoubtedly I have a lot to learn about the role of the GAA mammy, with the learning curve ahead pretty steep I fear, but the first aim is to redeem myself among my peers by at least having suitable attire for such matches. I will also need to work on my endurance levels as I decided there was no time to hang around for the post-match team talk. The fact I'd lost feeling in my toes meant I convinced my budding All-Star to head back to the car for some warmth and that all important banana. As we drove back into town the realisation dawned that this was the start of the weekend activities that people have long been warning me make life so much busier as children get older. Up until now I've been able to brush off requests for cheerleading and Irish dancing, given that such classes are midweek and clash with my working hours. But the fact that camogie training and matches fall at the weekend mean I don't have anywhere to hide. Not that I want to. I'm enjoying the transformation of shy little girl into fierce athlete that I've seen unfold in the past month or so, since we attended our first training session. Also because her attempts at our national dance are more akin to Bambi than Jean Butler, I'm feeling less guilty that I'm denying her a shot at fame and fortune just yet.[/private]