By Catheter McCarnal
Special to YNOT

DUNGANNON, N. Ireland – For many young lads, growing up to be a footballer is the stuff of dreams. While kicking a ball around with friends on their school grounds, or all by themselves down a trash-strewn alley, they imagine themselves wearing the kit of Manchester United, or Barcelona, or maybe one of several unpronounceable teams from the German Bundesligaheimersteinerfrau.

One thing these starry-eyed lads never picture, though, is being the other sort of footballer — the Gaelic sort, the kind of footballer I almost surrendered to being before I was saved by performing in hardcore pornography and gleefully squandering my earnings on a wide variety of entertaining and engaging casino games.

To be honest, for a time I really enjoyed playing Gaelic football. I was pretty good at it, a couple times earning an All-Star nomination for my on-field excellence. But off the field, life felt hollow. I couldn’t shake the feeling there was more to being alive than trying to punch and kick a ball into or over an opponent’s goal, or the feeling that outside of a handful of Northern Ireland counties, nobody in their right mind refers to this abominable game I’d been playing as “football.”

Just when I’d lost all hope, just when I was about to resign myself to a life of playing “the other football” for small crowds of piss-drunk Ulster unionists who threatened me with wrenches and lead pipes when I didn’t play well, I discovered two new passions: getting paid to have my dick sucked by day and spending my nights in casinos spinning roulette wheels, pulling slot machine levers and tossing dice.

Now, I realize the combination of performing in porn and gambling to excess may not be right for all Gaelic footballers, but for me, this pairing was nothing short of life-saving magic. God sent a panacea of vice to save me from running around in the grass with what should be a soccer ball betwixt my hands. I no longer need worry about looking like an absolute tosser.

To help other young men who are at risk of playing Gaelic football, I’ve decided to write a book in the hope my story might inspire them to reach for the stars, as well. At the very least, perhaps they’ll reach for a free rum and coke whilst sitting at a $25-minimum blackjack table.

My new autobiography, Hit Me While I Hit It, recounts my life story, from my misspent youth in Strabane to the early days of my career with Tyrone, to the time I got beat up by Native American security guards at the Mohawk Bingo Palace in Hogansburg, N.Y.

Just like me when I was flailing wildly at the tribal security guards, Hit Me While I Hit It pulls no punches, dishing dirt about my debauchery. More importantly, the book lays bare the entire seedy underbelly of the high-rolling life of semiprofessional Gaelic footballers.

From a certain team manager who used to make us all shave our scrotums before each match, claiming we were “doing it for squad-solidarity” when really he was secretly filming the whole thing and later uploading it to PòrnografachdHub, to the famous lack of tolerance for alcohol exhibited by my former teammate and All-Star right half forward “Tipsy” Tommy Purcell, my new book reveals it all in stunning, vivid, humiliating detail.

I’m sure a lot of fans of Gaelic football will be unhappy with my book, feeling it goes too far, pulls back the curtain just a bit too much. Parents of aspiring young footballers, however, will benefit greatly from the knowledge that despite all its glitz and glamour, the life of a footballer can be a dark and lonely place.

They’ll learn the life of a Gaelic footballer is filled with unsavory characters and not-so-harmless “pranks” played by sociopathic teammates, like the time J.J. Heffernan put several shards of shattered glass in my boots right before a match with Nemo Rangers, because he thought it would be “a bit of a lark” to slice open the bottom of my feet. (Yes, J.J., it was all right-fucking hilarious — especially the part where I had to get a series of painful booster shots in my bum to avoid possibly getting lockjaw, you stupid, stupid sod.)

At the same time, readers of my book will be amazed to learn many of the stereotypes they harbor about performing in pornography and gambling heavily are way off the mark.

For example, many people are under the impression that performing in gay porn necessarily means the performer himself is gay. I can tell you, in no uncertain terms, sometimes performing in gay porn simply indicates the actor in question is in serious, immediate, possibly desperate need of around £1,500.

Regardless whether my book proves a commercial success, the life it relates is already a story of triumph. Once I’ve finished the publicity tour promoting my autobiography, I’ll be working on a project that unifies my two newfound passions into a single, synergistic whole: Pounders, an ambitious film about the high-stakes world of pornographic poker as experienced by a Gaelic footballer. The star loses his shirt in a game against a Russian gangster but wins the heart of a cocktail waitress named Hope Ó Ceallaigh, a lovely lass from Kilkeel whose father might own the casino but will never own his daughter’s heart.

Either that, or I’m just going to get pissed, put what little remains of my literary advance on black and hope for the best.

You know what they say: “Cha chinn feur air an rathad mhòr!”

Catheter McCarnal is a former Gaelic footballer who recently discovered the joys of gambling, fellatio and writing books about himself.