THERE was a time when I was an unreconstructed sports addict. When Dublin came from nowhere to win the 1974 All-Ireland Football Final, I was behind the canal goal. When they defeated Kerry in the unforgettable 1977 football semi-final, I had promoted myself to the Hogan Stand. And yes, when Munster overcame the All Blacks in 1978, I stood on the grimly purposeful terraces of the old Thomond Park – one of the 13,000 fans actually present and not one of the 94,000 or so who just claim to have been.
Then the intervention of the years, family responsibilities and a psychotic addiction to hillwalking meant I drifted away. But latterly when floodlighting was installed in Semple Stadium – the holiest of holies for hurling followers – I was fascinated. Of course, you can play rugby, soccer and football under lights, but surely not hurling with that tiny, rock-hard sliothar travelling unpredictably at incredible speed. Wouldn’t a player facing a penalty under lights from say “King Henry” (Sheflin) surely be entitled to an Irish version of the Victoria Cross – posthumously awarded if necessary?
Intrigued, I resolved to attend the first competitive match under lights at the venerable old Thurles Stadium. It turned out Tipperary’s opponents were Kilkenny but when I arrived the game had been abandoned due to a disobliging snowfall. For the re-fixture I didn’t even vacate the fireside, for that night the Tipperary landscape resembled a downhill run at St Moritz.
So my initiation to floodlit hurling was postponed, but it finally happened recently when Tipperary’s opponents were Waterford. These days Semple Stadium is as pristine and comfortable as any English Premiership stadium and I was surprised to see how the superb new floodlighting picked up the tiny sliothar with amazing effect – in fact I found it easier to follow the flight of the ball than I generally do at daylight games.
The players also seemed to experience few difficulties adjusting to artificial light, with Waterford displaying doughty determination and Tipperary the silky skills of champions. The match really wasn’t up to much, however, and rather fizzled out after two Waterford players went for an early shower. But I didn’t really care, for I had a plan.
Aware of the great embarrassment that had befallen Tipperary last September, when we became the first county in history not to capture the pitch on winning an all-Ireland, I resolved to put things right. So at the final whistle I brandished a Tipperary flag and leaped the perimeter fence. Easily breaking the line of stewards beyond, I then sold a superb dummy to two supporting gardaí before neatly sidestepped the last line of defence in the formidable form of GAA president, Pat Cooney to plant the blue and gold squarely on the halfway line to rapturous applause. A great wrong had been righted and Tipperary’s honour had been restored! Okay, okay! I jest.
What actually happened was a number of autograph-hunters ran onto the pitch at the end. Then I noticed the teams were not leaving but instead were commencing warm-down exercises and that adults were ambling out to observe. I felt an urge to join them but still I hesitated, for when attending a recent English Premiership game, I had seen warnings threatening something like a £1 million fine and about 20 years’ hard labour for anyone even thinking about a pitch invasion. But when I spied a family with a poodle ambling goalwards, my resolve stiffened. Things were obviously different this side of the Irish Sea – you’d certainly never get the family pooch into Old Trafford.
So with squared shoulders I boldly invaded the sacred turf through the gate that a steward obligingly opened for me.
Now comfortably ensconced among the Tipperary supporters who are standing around in a semicircle watching fascinatedly as their team warm down – while the Waterford followers do the same at the other end – I can’t help admiring the common sense and unique culture of Gaelic games, which allowed such natural and unrehearsed events. They were our team and we were their supporters – everyone knew their role and the situation worked perfectly without the need for stewards, gardaí, or any other form of regulation.
The GAA may recently have taken onboard many of the regulatory trappings of the English Premiership, red cards, yellow cards, 4th officials, additional time and an increasingly dim view of pitch invasions – particularly in Croke Park.
But deep within its rural heartlands the organisation remains refreshingly unchanged, populated by genuinely committed and tolerant supporters who are free from the divisive tribalism that still disfigures much of English soccer. And while the other two institutions most synonymous with shaping modern Ireland, the Catholic Church and Fianna Fáil have now, not so much shot themselves in the foot as delivered nuclear missiles in that direction, the GAA remains thankfully unscathed – a strongly unifying force providing identity and social cohesion to the communities that are the building blocks of our society.