Picture the scene; large flakes of snow float through the night air, a crowd of friends gather at a street corner, a new orange ball is produced from its green cardboard box and the game commences. What game is this, I hear you ask? Why, 'Hitting the lamp post' of course. Nobody claims to have invented it nor is it described in any book or manual.

I don't think the game was restricted to Creggan but I've never heard of it being played anywhere else in Derry. The rules – well, there can be as many or as few players as can be mustered. Someone kicks the ball high into the night air and battle is joined. The rules you say! Well, the rules are simple. You'll need a lamp post of course, preferably with a functioning light bulb but accidents do happen! To score a goal you have to kick, knee or head the ball against any part of that lamp post. Old lamp posts were made of concrete.

In an 'every man for himself' contest it was essential you 'beat' a man after every kick-off before scoring. To 'beat' did not mean that you physically assaulted or thumped your opponent. No, you could waltz the ball around him, nutmeg him (if you were foolhardy enough), or go through him using such chivalrous tactics as giving him a fair shoulder. There being no referee, 'lifting' or 'wiping' a player resulted in slight differences of opinion. These were usually settled amicably without the assistance of FIFA rules. Creggan rows were settled fast in traditional style and quickly forgotten about, until the return match of course.

There were no throw-ins, the offside rule was a taboo subject and there was no limit as to where the pitch began and where it was out of bounds. I once ended up three streets away in Malin Gardens, dribbling around cars and passers-by pursued by a horde of opponents, not wanting to part with the ball as I didn't know who my team-mates were. Well, it was dark! On return to Melmore Gardens I was exhausted and struck the ball high and hard at the lamp post and thought I'd scored. But in my exuberance I had forgotten one unwritten rule, a golden rule... no blarging, slarging or booting the ball was allowed. Such rules were invented on the spur of the moment and were sent to try me and in my humble opinion they were only trotted out to thwart me personally!

Sometimes a guy would end up alone in front of the lamp post and after scoring a goal he would run away celebrating only to see someone else retrieve the ball and score six times before the other players could get to him. The game is non-stop you see; no breathers; no half-time; no free kicks; penalties; throw-ins or corner-kicks. You could score as many goals as you liked.

My favourite goal was always the headed one. A team-mate or even an opponent would cross the ball from God knows where (blunder on his part) and although I wore glasses I could always judge it as it plummeted from the night sky. When I connected with it I loved the noise it made as it smacked against the concrete post.

I was always known as a 'moucher', a tag that didn't annoy me in the slightest. It was my badge of honour to be called that. I suppose you might call me an opportunist or striker nowadays. Gulpin or hacker - I got the job done. A guy could sprint 30 yards to the target and miss the lamp post. There I'd be on the other side to control the ball and tap it home!

Now and again an RUC man would pass by on patrol. As it was illegal to play football in the street in those days we were always getting our names 'took' or taken. One time I had retrieved the ball from a nearby field and was returning in the dark. I kept my head down as I controlled the spinning ball in front of me. Seeing feet and lower legs I proceeded to nutmeg my opponent, ran around him and continue. Well, he did ask for it! It wasn't until I had scored that I happened to notice that there was no one around.

“Run, ya clown ye!” shouted a voice from behind Cusack's hedge.

“Stop! What's your name, boy?” shouted a pursuing cop. He wore a long black trench coat and had black boots and a peaked cap. He had a notepad in his hand and sounded serious. As he strode towards me I scooped the ball up and scampered away. He had no chance of catching me as I didn't stop until I could no longer see him. No doubt we'd meet again in the future!

I once received a tube n' cover leather ball from my Grand-dad for Christmas. I didn't play with it for a long time as these types of balls were easily damaged. One night, however, my pals persuaded me to go into our house and get it. A milk lorry had run over their ball earlier that day and flattened it. It was raining heavily when I sneaked out of my house but rain never stopped us playing. The new ball was much heavier than we were used to and soaked up mud and rain. Because we played on concrete roads and footpaths it wasn't long before my precious leather ball was severely scuffed and tattered. During the match the lace had come loose. I headed it and cut my right ear. Plastic is best for such occasions I learned.

In my day there were no floodlight pitches and no artificial grass type pitches. If you didn't like the rain or the snow or gale force winds you were considered to be a dry-weather player, a tag you never wanted to earn. You'd then have sympathy of others who would think you had an inherited ailment or sickness that prevented you from enjoying your life.

I would have played football until the cows came home. It didn't matter to me if it was raining, thunder and lightning was a bonus and thick snow was easier to fall on. Keeping your balance on ice was another skill you had to master. Then again, maybe that's why I have bad knees, chronic pain in my hips and legs and bronchitis. What do you think?   

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