Like most sports, this hugely prestigious youth football tournament had been mothballed since 2019 because of Covid and I think the record crowds that attended this year’s competition were testimony to the sheer relief of everyone that an occasion with the global appeal of the SuperCupNI was at last back on our sporting calendar.

Hot on the heels of another sporting masterclass — the North West 200 motorcycle road races in May — the SuperCupNI can only be seen as yet another outstanding success story and that, yes, with the proper type of people steering the ship, we in Northern Ireland are more than capable of hosting and staging this type of high-profile event.

So please take a bow Victor Leonard and your tremendous team of volunteers, you have delivered the perfect youth football tournament once again and all of your tireless and countless hours of dedicated hard work have paid off.

Personally, and I choose my words carefully here, I was particularly impressed by the freedom with which many of the kids played the beautiful game.

I love to see football played as I believe it was meant to be — in an attacking, more direct style than some of the possession-obsessed tippy-tappy sideways stuff we have to endure at senior and professional level, especially in the English Premier League.

The kids that I saw in action at the SuperCupNI played with a carefree and at times almost innocent fashion — and I found their total disregard and ignorance towards enforced systems and patterns of play so refreshing.

It was obvious most of the youngsters hadn’t had their ears bent by endless incessant coaching, telling them how it should be played by people who, if the truth be told, couldn’t actually play the game themselves despite their vast array of badges and qualifications.

So many young players nowadays are brainwashed by overzealous clipboard coaches and their coaching manual methods. They are completely deprived of properly expressing their natural talent and I find that sad.

Thankfully, this week’s SuperCupNI restored much of my somewhat faltering faith in the direction so many of our up-and-coming young players of tomorrow are headed, so all is not lost as I was beginning to fear.

This particular tournament gives kids a proper focus and a purpose in life — a self-belief and, equally importantly, a general feel-good factor to make the most of.

In fact, the contribution this competition makes to so many is absolutely priceless.

I was also mightily impressed by the pitches and overall facilities on offer this year so, again, tremendous credit must be directed to all of the local councils involved.

In closing, my message to Victor and his loyal team is a simple one — just keep doing what you have been doing now for countless years, because sport in Northern Ireland just wouldn’t be the same without the globally-renowned SuperCupNI.

And to all the managers and coaches out there — just give the kids a structured platform, a ball and then just let them play.

Just like Linfield, I was on the end of a Euro drubbing. . .I can certainly feel their pain

Very mixed results for both of our European representatives this week.

Though Crusaders claimed a very creditable 1-1 draw at home to Basel, sadly Linfield took a bit of a pasting away to Bodø/Glimt and I must admit I feel their pain.

Going down to 10 men so early on into what was an already mammoth task against a cracking good side with an excellent pedigree leaves the mountain even steeper to climb.

Suddenly, all best-laid pre-match tactics disappear out the window and it immediately reduces the contest to something of a damage limitation exercise. Anyone who’s been there knows only too well that this is much easier said than done.

The Blues’ scoreline immediately sent my mind back to a personal nightmare from a similar experience.

It was back in the 70s when I was playing for Crusaders in the Champions League — or the European Cup as it was then — and we were away to Dinamo Bucharest.

They were a fabulous team packed with players from the Romanian national team which would draw 1-1 with England at Wembley a couple of weeks later, so we knew beforehand that we faced a David v Goliath contest for sure.

Although we were part-timers up against such formidable opposition, we were pretty much cock-a-hoop having just won the Irish League for the first time in Crusaders history, so I suppose we could be excused for having a high opinion of ourselves.

The entire trip was a real struggle for me.

For a start, I am a very plain eater. I don’t particularly like foreign food — anyone who knows me even remotely well would tell you I’d gladly swap a so-called designer dish for a filled soda anytime — and I thought the meals in Romania were awful.

Most of the grub I got served up in Bucharest, I either pushed to one side or heaped it onto a more daring or unsuspecting team-mate’s plate. Matter of fact, I think I survived mostly on the bread rolls we got served at breakfast time.

I remember being presented with a steak the night before the game and it was like a remnant from a remould rubber tyre. It was so bad I threw it to the hotel cat and he threw it right back!

When the game came around, we entered the packed stadium and they paraded us along the running track beside the pitch to the huge applause of the home fans. When I asked why we were getting the fantastic reception, I was told it was because we were from a war-torn country and, in hindsight, the Troubles here in Northern Ireland were at their absolute worst at the time and the Romanian people obviously felt sorry for us.

However, their pity was short-lived and ended there and then because when the action started for real, we got absolutely slaughtered.

Their players were quite simply on a different planet to us. In fact, towards the end of the game, I vividly remember a giant electronic scoreboard at one end of the stadium and I could clearly see a massive 9-0 on it.

My team-mate John McPolin just happened to be ambling past me at the time and, God help him, just like the rest of us, his tongue was bouncing off his kneecaps with sheer fatigue. I somehow summoned the energy to point at the electronic board and ask him: “Is that the score or the time up there?” and he collapsed in laughter.

Mind you, our manager — the brilliant Billy Johnston — wasn’t best pleased that two of his players found something funny in the midst of an absolute thrashing (especially considering I scored an own goal to complete an 11-0 loss later on!) so, believe me, these results can happen and I can most definitely feel Linfield’s anguish at this time.