DIARY OF A HOCKEY REPORTER: Grange Road has its very own microclimate, which results in the temperature of 36 degrees below.

IT'S SOMETHING of a tradition now, popping into the shop on the way home to buy "ASPIRIN, THROAT LOZENGES, LEMSIP AND 18 BOXES OF MANSIZE TISSUES, PLEASE". "Why are you shouting?" asks the lady behind the counter, so you apologise profusely, explain you've just been at the semi-finals of the Leinster Schoolgirls' Cup and (a) your eardrums are busted and (b) you have quadruple pneumonia.

She's always quite sympathetic, which is nice, especially when you tell her if the day was to be turned into a movie it would probably be The Belles of St Trinian's meets Apocalypse Now, that kind of thing. When you get home you spend an hour defrosting your fingers before settling down at your keyboard to write your report. Sometimes your fingers aren't fully defrosted by the time you start, but the sports desk can be quite sniffy when you ring to request that they 'hold the back page', as your report will be in around midnight-ish.

So, you have to plough ahead and hope a vigilant sub-editor will tidy up your opening line: "lAreta buFert bEat sT anDRws and aLIXanDrA coLige bEAt mUnt aNVaL aT gRAnG rOd YEsarDaY iN teH siMi-fINILs oF tHe lENstEr seNOr cUPPPPPPPPP".

Time permitting, he might ring to double-check your intro is accurate (finicky, eh?), so you sigh and tell him, yes, lAreta buFert will be playing aLIXanDrA coLige in the final this Friday. "Just one more thing," he says, "when you say "someone" scored the third goal could you be more specific?"

Well, that's easily asked, especially when all your match notes say about the scorer is: "???"

Last week, for example, a leviathan of a Mount Anville teddy bear, dressed in a hockey skirt and jersey, was thrust into the air just as Alexandra scored their third, obscuring not just the identity of the scorer but the view of the entire pitch, surrounding car parks and sky. A total eclipse.

What you do in a situation like this is, at the end of the game, battle through the celebrating supporters on the pitch, shoulder-charging 12-year-olds out of the way, making a beeline for a player (any player), ripping her from the grip of her tearful parents to ask: "WHO SCORED YOUR THIRD?"

At this point she and her 10 team-mates, even the goalkeeper, will shout "ME!" "Look," you say, "can we narrow it down a bit?" But a kind of code of silence kicks in, a Mafia-like Omerta.

Finally, after you threaten to do to them what Laurence Olivier did to Dustin Hoffman's teeth in Marathon Man, they relent, admitting that it was "Cassandra The Sub".

"Her surname?" "Dunno," all 11 of them shrug, and they're off on their lap of honour, Cassandra The Sub nowhere to be seen.

"Cassandra The Sub," you tell the sub-editor, "she got the third."

Silence. "Who was nearest to her, someone with a surname preferably?" "The Mount Anville teddy bear," you say, and the line goes dead. At this point you sense your professionalism is being somewhat questioned, which would hurt if you weren't so numb you couldn't feel any pain.

The numbness, of course, is caused by the fact that Three Rock Rovers' hockey ground at Grange Road has its very own microclimate, which results in the temperatures at pitchside averaging 36 degrees below what the immediate surrounding areas are experiencing at the very same time. There are days when you ski out of the hockey ground and through your goggles you spot topless sunbathers strolling up Grange Road.

Mind you, it takes you a while to ski out of the place because the car park is like the giant slalom at Lillehammer, fathers everywhere loading more film equipment into their boots than Joel and Ethan Coen used to make No Country For Old Men. "ACTION!," they cry as the umpires whistle for the game to begin.

You live in fear of them hollering "CUT!" when their tape runs out, especially if a 14-year-old gripped by fear is about to take a potentially match- winning penalty stroke in the final minute.

If she scores she'll most probably dissolve into tears, as she will if she misses. But therein lies the charm and beauty of schools sport, winning or losing their hearts beat the same. Enough to warm the crabbiest of fRoSTbiTAn oBSsERvaRs.