Whats life all about really??
I don't know what to say really. Three minutes till the biggest battle of our professional lives. It all comes down to today. Now either we heal as a team, or we're gonna crumble. Inch by inch, play by play, till we're finished. We're in hell right now, gentlemen. Believe me. And we can stay here, get the shit kicked out of us, or we can fight our way back into the light. We can climb out of hell. One inch at a time.

Now I can't do it for you. I'm too old. I look around, I see these young faces, and I think... I mean I've made every wrong choice a middle-aged man can make. I pissed away all my money, believe it or not. I chased off anyone who's ever loved me, and lately, I can't even stand the face I see in the mirror. You know when you get old in life, things get taken from you. That's part of life. But you only learn that when you start losing stuff. You find out life's this game of inches. And so is football. Because in either game, life or football, the margin for error is so small. I mean... one half a step too late or too early and you don't quite make it. One half second too slow too fast, you don't quite catch it. The inches we need are everywhere around us. They are in every break of the game, every minute, every second. On this team, we fight for that inch. On this team, we tear ourselves and everyone else around us to pieces for that inch. We claw with our fingernails for that inch. Because we know when we add up all those inches, that's gonna make the fucking difference between winning and losing! Between living and dying! I'll tell you this - in any fight, its the guy whose willing to die who's gonna win that inch. And I know if I'm going to have any life anymore, it's because I'm still willing to fight and die for that inch. Because that's what living is! The 6 inches in front of your face...

Now I can't make you do it. You've got to look at the guy next to you, look into his eyes. Now I think you're gonna see a guy who will go that inch with you. You're gonna see a guy who will sacrifice himself for this team, because he knows when it comes down to it, you're gonna do the same for him.

That's a team, gentlemen. And either we heal, now, as a team, or we will die, as individuals. That's football, guys. That's all it is. Now, what are you going to do?

The tradesman
He's probably from Mullahoran or Crosserlough and he's almost certainly travelling in a pack of his fellow countrymen. He works in Dublin during the week but comes home every weekend (bringing his washing with him even though he's 29), spending Friday night in Kilcogy/Kilnaleck/Crosskeys and Saturday in Cavan. Their sisters are usually in the pack as well but they'll thump the living daylights of any man who dares to even look at them. They're all wearing check shirts. Even the women.

Mr 100 acres
Yeah, right. It's more like 10 acres of scrubland in the back end of Cootehill. He doesn't usually come into town but the lads insisted so they hired a minibus. Although 16 of them went to Cavan, only ten will return home the same night. Three will find some unsuspecting women with no sense whatsoever to take them in, two will fall asleep in the chipper and at least one of them will end up in the Garda Station.

The city slicker
He plays with the Gaels. Enough said.

The biker
He's from Redhills/Cootehill or maybe even Ballyconnell. He's a nice enough fella but his mate's bike broke down on the way here and he had to fix it so he stinks of motor oil. You talk to him for a while but you have to leave him because you're afraid of your life of what will happen to him if he goes down to the smoking area.

The dancer
If he can dance, he's definitely not Irish. He might be Brazilian. He probably can't speak much English and that'll throw you at first because you'll think he's from Glangevlin or somewhere like that. He'll teach you how to Samba. And you won't learn that in Glangevlin.

The wannabe
He works in an office or a bank around the town and he's always immaculately turned out. He plays football, probably for Killygarry. He curses his bad luck that he wasn't born a few miles in the road cos he'd love to play for the Gaels. Not that he'd ever admit it. He's a bit too good looking. You'd never get the mirror to yourself.

The by-pass boy
He's from Belturbet, Milltown or Drumlane. He only drinks vodka. And even then it's only Huzzar. He doesn't like Cavan but all the women in Belturbet/Ballyconnell know what he's like at this stage so his only hope of any lovin' is by going to Cavan. Eventually, he'll feck off back down the by-pass and you'll never see him again.

The king of the world
He's from Gowna. He doesn't know why he bothers with Cavan. The women don't have a clue and all the fellas want to talk about his football. He can't understand why anybody outside of Gowna would even think they have the right to talk about football. As far as he's concerned, the only real footballers from this county are from Gowna and it's only a matter of time before they return to their rightful place at the top of the world. Another problem with Cavan is that it's full of Gaels players. And the only ones he hates more than the Gaels is the Mullahorans. He really hates them

In nineteen hundred and eighty six
There's not much for a chippie but swinging a pick
And you can't live on love, on love alone
So you sail cross the ocean, away cross the foam

To where you're a Paddy, a Biddy or a Mick
Good for nothing but stacking a brick
Your best mate's a spade and he carries a hod
Two work horses heavily shod

Oh I'm missing you
I'd give all for the price of a flight
Oh I'm missing you
under Piccadilly's neon

Who did you murder, are you a spy?
I'm just fond of a drink helps me laugh, helps me cry
So I just drink red biddy for a permanent high
I laugh a lot less and I'll cry till I die

All ye young people now take my advice
Before crossing the ocean you'd better think twice
Cause you can't live without love, without love alone
The proof is round London in the nobody zone

Where the summer is fine, but the winter's a fridge
Wrapped up in old cardboard under Charing Cross Bridge
And I'll never go home now because of the shame
Of misfit's reflection in a shop window pane.