I've always fancied myself as a bit of a frustrated place-kicker. Back in my teenage rugby-playing days, the fact that I was adult-sized from about the age of 12, coupled with my Paul O'Connell-like pace meant that I spent my game time being moved around pretty much every position in the pack.
One year, around under-14s, I got lucky - my ability to mimic things like kicking actions and golf swings (but more likely because I'd spent an inordinate amount of money on an adjustable Gilbert kicking tee) tricked the coaches into entrusting me with the boot duties for about six matches. I hit a few, all from pretty much dead straight in front, and had a drop goal attempt rather shamefully blocked down before sense was restored.
A sense of self-preservation, as well as the fact that the 'adult' I'd grown into aged 12 is still about the same size as Juan bloody Mata, have conspired to keep me well away from rugby action these days. Still, it remains my sporting ambition to score a drop goal in a competitive match. Don't judge me, it could happen if they allow kicking in over 40s games.
These days, my foot has to be satisfied with the demands of division 10 GAA goalkeeping. I don't even like Gaelic all that much. Usually I only agree to selection after a gallon of stout, but our team is struggling so my role mostly consists of taking about 40 kick-outs per game and begging (Beggan?) to hit the odd 45, so it's a happy marriage of convenience.
Naturally then, when we were presented with the opportunity to take part in a "Science of the Boot" kicking session as part of the launch of the new Predator Incurza, there was no more eager volunteer from the Balls office. In addition, the workshop could not have been run by a more more revered figure within the world of place-kicking than Dave Alred, most famous for his work with Jonny Wilkinson at the height of his powers.
I'd always regarded Alred as something of an oracle - a low-profile spirit guide to perhaps the most accurate boot in dead-ball history. Fans of Maurice Fitz, Neil Jenkins and a fair few others may rush to dispute that claim, but in his pomp there was nobody like Wilkinson to make you feel like the points were on the board before the tee had been carried onto the field.
Wilko was always keen to credit Alred's influence on his skill, but he never seemed to go into much detail as to what thoughts were shared between them. What was the secret behind such metronomic accuracy? What wise words were carried on Alred's steamed breath during those lonely Christmas mornings, where all they had for company was a bag of balls and the on-rushing reality of another Six Nations? Surely it's just a case of "kick the bloody thing", as we're so often moved to shout at our pub screens, but what is it exactly? I badly wanted to know, not just for my own mess of a sporting life, but so I could get a better understanding of what goes through the minds and the bodies of the kicking gods. This was exactly the kind of thing I'd signed up to do.
The session was preceded by group interviews with Paddy Jackson and Jonathan Sexton, who were there alongside GAA stars and fellow Predator wearers Eoin Cadogan of Cork and Dublin's Paul Flynn.
I'd like to say I played an active part in proceedings, quizzing Paddy on his injury latest, and pressing Sexto on whether he'll be returning to Leinster (that, mercifully, seems all sorted now). But no, that would be too straightforward. Instead, my poxy phone alarm decided to go off about halfway through the chat with Jackson. No big deal, you'd be forgiven for thinking. Just switch it off, apologize and carry on. In an ideal world, perhaps. This alarm, however, could be use to shoo a passed-out wino from a shop doorway, or from my bed as is more often the case. In other words, it's fucking loud. Not only that, it requires you to complete quick-fire button sequences or maths problems to deactivate the bastard. I sorry-sorry-sorried and ran outside, pulling the battery out to end the misery.
"Eh, do you want to explain that?" says Jonny from the back of the room, rightly revelling in seeing a media person get bettered by technology. I could only mumble something about "puzzles and shit". At least he enjoyed it. Bastard.
Still reeling from making a gigantic tit of myself, we trudged onto the pitch where Dave put us through our paces on the simple principles he feels are central to all types of good kicking. A solid standing foot, a feeling of moving 'through' the kick and keeping the opposite shoulder to your kicking foot 'forward' are just as effective for Cristiano Ronaldo, he said, as a top-class out-half.
Surprisingly, his coaching ethos is centred more on achieving repeatable mechanics than things like 'visualisation' or other psychological tricks. A solid technique, buttressed by hundreds of hours of practice, should give the player that steely confidence to pull off the pressure kicks. In addition, he mentioned how the best kickers approch the ball with a 'J'-shaped run-up and strike, as opposed to the weaker and less accurate 'C-shape' most amateurs apply without realising.
We warmed up for the ominous-sounding 'media competition' with the help of the four lads. I was comforted somewhat by the fact that Cadogan was no more accurate with the oval ball than I, though he could send it a bloody mile. I was barely touching forty metres out of the sweet spot.
We then moved to main event. Just two goes each, from about twelve yards out: a drop goal attempt followed by a shot off the tee. Piece of piss, says I. Easier-to-score-than-miss range. Been doing this shit all my life - in the garden.
The teed-up effort was fine, but the drop-kick was as crooked as Charlie Haughey. I let out an involuntary yelp which only served to put Jonny on my case even further. "Hard luck Jacko" says he, grinning, noting my passing resemblance to his Northern rival.
To show how Alred's principles can be applied to all forms of football, we did the same with the reassuringly wind-proof deadweight of the O'Neill's All Ireland. This was my chance to redeem myself. All kicks were off the tee, getting further back as more contestants were knocked out. I was just as wayward this time.
It's one thing belting a lusty kick-out into open country, but just like when you play pitch and putt with your mate for a fiver, that extra bit of pressure and the potential for public humiliation can do odd things to a man. I wasn't even the worst.
To compound the monumental fuck-uppetry of it all, the shootout was won by the representative of a rival site, who claimed his title with a calm, dignified humility that would make Henry Shefflin look like Shane Warne.
If one thing was taken away from the day - aside from the fact that I am constantly a technological faux-pas waiting to happen - it's that all of us present will never again rush to criticize a top player for missing a supposedly 'easy' kick. If anything, Alred's logical tips and the obvious passion he brings to his coaching - even for us cloggers - would be enough to make you want to return to footballing action whatever the code, even if I made a mule of myself with the sticks at my mercy.
