It’s in the blood

My hands are clenched so tight I can feel the nails digging into my sweaty palms. My shoulders are tight and hunched with tension despite the hairs standing on the back of my neck, and my t shirt is stuck to my back.  My throat is dry and sore and my forehead is taut but my heart is pounding with adrenaline. There is a loud crack as the hurl whacks the ball up the field and thousands of heads whip round in unison, following the action to the Galway end of the pitch.

‘Go on Tipp’, yell the crowd.

‘Block, block’, scream the Galwegians.

‘Go for it.’

‘Whack it in.’

‘Great puck!’

‘For fecks sake, block it!’

Another crack of wood resounds through the stadium and the ball hurtles towards the goal, high and strong. It flies past the posts and from this angle we can’t  tell if it’s in or not. There is a pause as the stadium holds it’s breath. The lines man crosses and waves his arm and the Galway crowd go mad -WIDE!

The spectators try to keep up with the pace of action as the puck is belted down the field, the goalie’s strength taking it almost to the far end of the pitch. The players are fast and furious, never flinching from a hurl in their face and unstoppable in their focus on the game.  It’s breath-taking.

The referee whistles the end of the first half, and as the players exit the pitch, much of the crowd leaves the stand, heading for the coffee and hot dog stands or possibly to find a smoking area on the outskirts of the grounds.  We however, hold our place.  We are traditionalists.  We are old hands.  We do this the way Croke Park or any provincial match should be done. So we take out the flask of tea and the ham sandwiches, and munch away, warming our hands on the flask.

It is my first time at an inter-county hurling match.  I have been to Croke Park before for Gaelic matches, and (I am proud to say) on a few occasions to see my children play in the primary school league.  I have stood on the side-lines of dozens of local children’s matches, shouting and encouraging with the best of them, but never have I witnessed anything like this.  Hurling in Croke Park is the only European event to make it into the Rough Guides’ top ten list of sporting occasions. I now know why. The puck moves with such speed, the players are so skilful, balancing the hard ball on their hurl as they run and duck; so strong as they whack it hundreds of yards down the field, irrespective of the inevitable wind and rain; so oblivious to the potential dangers of the hurl as it is raised to block their game, and so incredibly determined as they dodge and poke, shimmy and sprint.

Tipperary are the obvious favourites so I choose to support Galway.  Yvonne and Donagh have Tipp connections and we meet half of Yvonne’s family on the way into the stadium, so there is no question of their allegiance.  County loyalty is a uniquely Irish phenomena and one which is hard to understand for the outsider.  You wear your colours with pride and every child in the country can recount the colours for every one of the 32 counties.  Unlike soccer, you don’t switch GAA clubs, even when its’ record is poor, its’ players are weak or the finances in the red. You stick with it because  its family; its in your blood; it’s where you belong. My Dad, steeped in the London GAA, taught us this, and as second generation Irish, or plastic paddys (which feels altogether more appropriate), we knew from a young age that the engagement with and tradition surrounding these uniquely Irish sports was as important as going to mass on Sunday or brushing our teeth every morning.  Childhood Sunday afternoons were spent at the New Eltham GAA grounds in London, where the sky was perpetually grey and the sausage rolls served from the wooden hut were heavy with grease and all the more welcome for it.

People start taking their seats again , this time hands full of steaming coffee and mustard dripping hot dogs.  Our flask and tubberware is neatly packed away as the players return for another 35 minutes of fast paced action.  The scores have remained pretty even throughout, one team creeping up a few points only to be quickly caught up on with some excellent play and quick foot and hand work. With each point scored, each goal achieved, the crowd go crazy, shouting, roaring, telling the ref his job or directing the players in their next moves. Every generation is here in these seats – there are three, maybe even four generations of families here together, creating their own memories and traditions, irrespective of whether it includes the ham sandwiches.

The game comes to a startling end.  It’s so quick, it can’t possibly be over. I don’t want it to end yet; the exhilaration is too fantastic; the adrenalin too addictive.  But the ref blows his whistle, and the Tipp fans stare slowly at each other in disbelief.  The Galway contingent are almost as disbelieving of managing to draw with this legendary team.  Yes, it’s a draw.  We’ll be back for the replay next week, although my companions are clear, I won’t be with them next time.  I can get my own tubberware.