The last time I walked onto this pitch, I was only 19 0r 20 and was togged out in the colours of The Moy.

Reserves.

The senior team had 4 county men –  to be honest I was delighted that they thought me good enough to play reserves.

I had a deadly first half – seriously.

I played half forward, and I can remember defending as well as I was attacking – even took a shot of the left foot from about 30/35m, which although it dropped short, was hitting the black spot.

At half time, one of the county men approached me from the sideline and complimented me about the great game I was having – I was buzzing.

I wasn’t a footballer by any stretch of my memory, but this day I was buzzing.

5 minutes after the re-start, the buzz left me as I was cleaned out by their replacement half back – a wirey, malevolent old fucker, who not only burst me, but threatened to do more of the same anytime I touched the ball again.

Which I never did.

The picture was taken today from roughly the same spot where I kicked that ball almost 30 years ago.

Our lads trudged off the same pitch today after a whitewash – a game to be forgotten yet at the same time a game never to be forgotten.

Wounds and battle scars can last a lifetime, if you let them.