Leinster Final Day Memories

This Sunday Dublin and Meath play for the Leinster title.  I recall the days when I lived at home, just up the road from Croke Park, and myself and a large group of friends would head to Croker and the Hill.  Decked out in the Arnotts shirts.  Stop at Meagher's in Fairview for a quick two (or three) before making our way down Clonliffe Road and to the Hill.  It always seemed to by sunny, at least that is what my memory tells me.  The anticipation would build as you got closer to the Hill, and crowd became denser.  Nearly all Navy and Sky Blue in that vicinity, though there would be a green and gold shirted soul or two around, probably lost their way to the Hogan Stand.  The adrenalin would start to flow and the stomach would being to knot as the anticipation built up.  Wed make our way to the usual spot on the Hill, everyone had their usual spots.  Ours was just at the curve in the terrace, about two thirds the way down.  This was back in the 1980s and 1990s when Dublin and Meath would battle for the title on an almost annual basis.  It was either going to be the best day of the summer, or the worst, there would be no in between.  There was no backdoor system; the loser was out. 

We had to beat Meath.  Inside Croker, once the crowd had filled up, the atmosphere was electric, there was no other way to describe it.  If Meath were in the minor final, and Dublin were not, the opponent always got the Hill's support.  Wexford, Offaly, Kildare, it didn't matter.  The enemy of my enemy is my friend.  The Hogan Stand was an oasis of culchiedom in the heart of Dublin City.  Like West Berlin for them, like an unwelcome guest forced upon us was our viewpoint.  Usually there was a decent amount of Dublin support in the Cusack, but the Hogan was a different matter.  Hardly a blue shirt, hat, or flag to be seen.  How could anyone shout for Meath we would think, even if you were from there.  The Hogan faced the Hill, always took a split second for the cheer following a score to reach the Hill, you always waited for it and you hated it.  It sounded like a jeer, it had an edge to it.  When the Dubs scored, I'm sure it was the same for them as sound waves traveled across the field towards the Hogan.  The ball goes over the bar, a second of silence, then the sound.  The score was the knife in the gut, the sound was the twist.

We had our heroes, the half back line had a nice ring to it, Carr, Barr, Heery.  I loved seeing Eamon Heery lining out at left half back.  He took no shit from them, and you could tell before the ball was thrown in that he was not going to.  We also had Deegan (with the socks pulled up), Curran, Guiden, Vinny, Jack Sheedy, and Charlie.  They were our guys.  The prime villain was Mick Lyons.  If Meath were playing away from the Hill to start the game, and Lyons was jogging to take his full back position, the chant went up instinctively.  "Mick Lyons, he's a wanker, he's a wanker, etc."  I'd say he relished it when I think back.  So often a high ball would drop into the box and amid a knot of hands and shirts, Lyons would come away to clear the ball.  Others we loved to hate were Robbie O'Malley, Colm Coyle (the absolute worst), David Beggy, Kevin Foley, Colm O'Rourke, and Tommy Dowd.  One name that generated more concern rather than anything else was Dr. Gerry McEntee.  In a tight game with 15 or 20 minutes to go, the switch would be made, McEntee was on, and it was never usually good, for us anyway.  Was it because he was a doctor and probably knew plenty about the human body that the rest of us were unaware of?  I don't know.  But when he came on, it was a huge concern, and Meath seemed to usually win.

The beauty of these games was that there was never a favourite.  The game could go either way.  Take 1991, which was actually a first round tie, it took 4 games to separate the teams.  Time has not eased the pain of the that Kevin Foley goal.  It never will. 

One other reason we gave ourselves to dislike Meath was the fact that they never stuck around after the game.  Should the Dubs have lost a game, there was a certain soothing element to knowing that you can head for a pint or two around Croker after the game, congratulate the opposing supporters and discuss the match objectively with them.  Meath never even gave us that.  Head off back to Meath straight after the game, gloating with their green and yellow flags, the woolen headband dangling from the rearview mirror, and leave us to wallow in our misery. 

The proximity and overlap was probably what made it such an intense occasion.  Some of the Dublin players actually lived in Meath.  Dr. Gerry McEntee managed Dublin minors.  I recall my own club playing a friendly against Summerhill, the club of Mick Lyons and his brothers.  I togged out at corner forward that day, and who was standing to my left, but the man himself.  For a young lad who had only ever abused him from the safety of Hill 16, it was quite the occasion.  I worked for many years in Boston with a brother of Paddy Hands O'Brien, full back on team of the century, and played with Paddy's son Tony at home.

After coming to Boston I played with St. Columbkilles.  We had a lad by the name of Mick O'Dowd join us for a couple of seasons, he did a great impression of Michael O'Muircheartaigh.  He was a fine footballer, and now manages the Meath team.  The last 10 years or so have been kinder to Dublin in the Leinster final stakes, though with Mick at the helm, Meath are catching up.  I'll be shouting for the boys in blue of course, but I wish Mick all the best in his managerial career.  Those Meath folk are not all that bad you know.

Elections, Weddings, Football, and Signs

Back from Ireland now. The weather was unreal (or unusually unreal). Bright, warm, and sunny. I felt bad for the students preparing for exams who could not fully enjoy the rare experience of sustained good weather in Ireland, since the leaving cert is only a week or two away. The roads from Dublin to the southeastern coastal resorts of Wicklow and Wexford would make Route 3 South on a Friday night in the summer look like child’s play. I witnessed the gridlock firsthand as I was heading in the other direction from my brother’s wedding, which was at the Woodenbridge Hotel in Wicklow, on Saturday last. The occupants of the vehicles must have felt trapped with no escape.

The hotel and the surrounding scenery were beautiful – and the good weather certainly accentuated the experience. Wicklow roads this time of year are also beautiful, with the overhanging trees giving the feeling of driving through natural tunnels. The downside to this is that these same roads are extremely narrow and winding and the posted speed limits of 80kmh makes one wonder whether the local council is trying to increase the accident rate, or assumes that all drivers will get the joke.















The 400-year old Woodenbridge Hotel


A few things struck me on the visit. Like the trees in full foliage, lampposts and telegraph poles have sprouted an abundance of election posters. For anybody who has not been in Ireland during an election season recently, there is a certain Darwinian quality to the posters. They are no longer heavy cardboard types with a picture and two or three colours from years ago. The posters have evolved into larger, more durable, and more noticeable creatures. Election posters have adapted to the weather. They have managed to form a plastic type coating so as to endure the usual damp weather conditions and, in adherence to the notion of the survival of the fittest, are trying to outdo each other in size. These things have expanded by at least 10 inches in width and 15 in height. I even saw one blowing across rows of cars stopped at the lights at the junction of the airport road and Collins Avenue, as if to announce itself to the motorists who may not have noticed it on it’s lamppost perch. Are they also coming to life?


















The Garden of Ireland - County Wicklow lives up the name.


The other noticeable thing, since we did a lot of driving on unfamiliar roads, was the dearth of traffic signs. Several times we relied on “following the signs” to get to our destination, a grave error. Many times we came to junctions where there were no signs in existence, so we followed our instincts. Sometimes our instincts served us well, other times they let us down. These were not minor roads either – they linked fairly large towns. On our return from Wicklow, we were heading back the way we came, up the N11 and over the Eastlink Bridge to our final destination in Marino – that was our intention. We then got to the stage where the road we were heading back on no longer resembled the one we went down on…we realized that we were on the M50. I inquired of my father what could have happened and he told me that you have to know where to get off to stay on the road you were originally on. That said, the highways around Massachusetts can be confusing, but at least there are several signs to warn you of the impending directional illogicality before you realize that by behaving logically in your choice of route you will end up on the wrong one.

On the GAA front the counties of both parents bowed out of their respective provincial championships. Roscommon put paid to the hopes of Leitrim, my father’s county. Leitrim scored two of the best goals that you will ever see, while Roscommon put away a penalty and got the good fortune of a rebound of the post to net their second. They all count however. Roscommon captain Gary Cox performed well by all accounts. Cox spent a summer here 10 years ago with St. Columbkilles – the year I was chairman of the club - (not one to remember). My mother’s county, Longford, were put to the sword by Wicklow – Wicklow featured Thomas Walsh in the middle of the field. Walsh is another veteran of Boston football. The former Carlow footballer, who now lines out in midfield for Wicklow, won an intermediate title with the Galway football club several years ago. Playing at center forward for Galway, Walsh saw the Brighton club over the line that year. I’m not sure if it is coincidental that the wedding we went to was in Wicklow or not. I was also home for a wedding in the Dolmen hotel in Carlow town a few years ago. I enjoyed both weddings tremendously. It seems Tommy prefers Wicklow to Carlow for the football, but I’m finding it hard to pick which is better for weddings.

Home Away from Home

So, things are looking grim in the Emerald Isle again. By the sounds of things there will be plenty of young Irish traversing the Globe looking for work. In the 1980s and early 1990’s hundreds of thousands young Irish people headed to London, the U.S. and elsewhere. I suppose I was at the tail end of that wave. I remember a work colleague remarking that every country has had its wave of Emigrants to the US. The Germans, Italians, Poles, Greeks etc. each had one large exodus from their repective countries. “But,” he said, “the Irish just keep on coming!”

Preparations are well underway around town of the 2009 GAA season. Home-based players are out training and next weekend we’ll have the first round of the Cup competitions. No doubt there are many who are just over from Ireland and have hooked up with clubs here, and wondering what to expect for the coming months.

In any case, when I was leaving Ireland almost 17 years ago and making a decision on where to go, my former U-21 manager from Scoil Ui Chonaill was in Boston playing football with a club in Brighton, and my mother had a cousin in the Boston area, so to Boston I came. I wanted to play football, and had heard that there was a GAA league here. What club would I join? My friend introduced me to one of the main men involved with St. Columbkilles and I signed. There were a lot of Dubs with the Killes and it was a respected club around town, so it was a good place to be.

That was 1993. Our first game was against Mayo in the cup – I think we lost it. I got booked, frustrated by the lack of space on the Dilboy field. Playing the role of underdogs that nobody wanted to meet, we made the semi-final of the championship that year only to lose to Kerry by 2 points. Kerry went on to win the championship. That was the closest I came to getting a senior football medal. Everybody on the team felt that had we beaten Kerry, and we were leading for all but the last 6 or 7 minutes, that we would have beaten Notre Dame in the final (as Kerry duly did).

There was great spirit in the team and there were some excellent players that year; Keith Doyle, Gerry Franey, Chris Sage, Robbie Lambe, Tony Dunne, (Dublin), Billy Shaw (Meath), Tom Nolan (Kildare), and Eunan O’Kane (Derry), formed the backbone of the side. The next day was a baking hot Monday in late August. Hung over and with the disappointment of the previous day’s loss still lingering, myself, Mick Hallissey, and Tom Lyon (Kerrymen both) went for a round of golf. I have not played golf since, nor do I have any plans to do so.

In any case, after that first GAA season in Boston homesickness disappeared. I was always a home bird by nature and did not want to leave Ireland in the first place. I came over in October 1992. I stayed out for that first Christmas. One memory I have was sitting in Mr. Dooleys with some Galway lads on Christmas Day. I hardly knew them, but they had the good grace to let me join them for the Christmas “festivities”. I wished desperately to be back home, I even told one of them that at that moment I would give anything to be back in Dublin. I missed home badly until things kicked in with the Killes the following March/April. I had found a home away from home. The following Christmas I did go home. I couldn’t wait to get back to Boston.