Many
people dislike Ryan Air, for their crass commercialism and an approach to
customer comfort akin to a winged lorry heading to an abattoir, but I’ll not
have a bad word said against them, especially when they fly me to Erin’s Green
Isle for £36.50 return. I’d booked my flights for the annual state visit months
ago, deciding to really push the boat out and stay for 11 days, including two
weekends, rather than the usual week because of the giveaway price I got the
travel for. The closer it came to departure date, the more I longed to get away.
Post referendum Britain was a horrible, hateful place for a while, and it will
no doubt get like that again, so I just wanted to leave all the bigotry,
intolerance, constitutional crises and political backstabbing behind to cleanse
my spirit among the finest people and in the finest country on earth.
As
usual I had an outline itinerary containing definites and possibilities. Cabinteely
versus Waterford United was a must see; another tick off the list, as I inch my
way to the League of Ireland set. Unfortunately, plans to accompany the Shels
lads, with whom we’d enjoyed such a fine time in Waterford last year, down to
Limerick were destroyed by the rescheduling of the game from Saturday to Friday
at the last minute, meaning the Tolka travellers were left without a bus. All
this because Limerick had a League Cup semi on Monday away to Derry. Instead,
the last piece of low-hanging fruit from Louth, in the shape of Drogheda United
against Cabinteely had to be plucked. This leaves me needing Cobh, Cork and
Stab City to complete the set; consequently the 2017 fixtures are already
anxiously awaited, by me at least.
In
addition, I knew there would be my usual ration of GAA, though I hadn’t a firm
plan in place until the last minute, as things were dependent on the outcome of
the Connacht Final between Galway and Roscommon. Typically, the first game at
Salthill was drawn on July 10th, so a replay on July 17th was required, at
which point Galway blitzed Roscommon in Castlebar, securing their place in the quarter
finals. For Roscommon, there was the relative ignominy of a “back door”
reprieve, with a qualifier against Clare on a neutral ground; Pearse Park,
Salthill, Galway. It was almost as if the GAA were taking delight in rubbing
Roscommon’s noses in it, but at least I now knew that’s where I’d be heading
with John on Saturday July 23rd. Other GAA events were up in the air at that
stage, but clearly wouldn’t include a trip to Thurles for the hurling quarter
finals as Cork had exited in the second round.
So,
I kissed Laura and the cats (Paw Paw and Tromszo, not the Kilkenny hurlers)
farewell and arrived at Newcastle Airport for the 22.30 flight on Thursday July
21st. Usually I find myself knee deep in package tour proles,
predominantly mackems in stained replica shirts, whenever I fly, but not this
time. We were the last flight out, with the previous ones heading for Exeter
and Bristol, meaning the airport was near deserted, with Boots and WH Smith the
only things open. At least the plane flew out on time. Dublin Airport, in
contrast, was leaping; it took 30 minutes to make it through arrivals, where I
wistfully realised that if Brexit ever happens, things will get far worse for
UK passport holders. Thank goodness for Ireland’s Register of Foreign Births
eh?
Unfortunately
this delay meant I missed the midnight bus to Dalkey, so had an hour to kill.
Aimlessly ambling around with a late night coffee, I noticed the next flight
out was to Minsk; no doubt taking the players from FC Dinamo home after their
narrow victory over a gallant St. Pat’s at a packed Richmond Park. As the club
match report said, let’s hope a few of the 2,800 who were present show their
faces in Inchicore again in the future. Anyway, I caught a deserted bus to
Killiney Castle, where Declan met me around 2.00 and we walked down to his. A
still, warm, comforting evening back where I love to be.
Friday
morning, I woke late and spent a bit of time with Declan’s amazing father in
law Jack, who gave me a little tour of Dalkey to Dun Laoghaire, totally by
accident as he got lost going to pick up Declan and Mel’s sons Jack Christopher
and Charlie Alan Shearer (I kid you not) from summer sports camp. Then, back
home with Mel in from work, I dropped the usual bombshell that has almost
everyone I meet in Ireland shaking their heads whenever I say those cursed
words; I’m off to a League of Ireland
game. Despite the fact that Ireland’s followers at Euro 2016 were named by UEFA as the
tournament’s best, the sad reality is that the 20,000 plus who travelled to
France are more than likely uninterested in or even antagonistic towards their
domestic game. Depressingly, the week before the Euros kicked off, the League of
Ireland announced the lowest set of weekly crowd figures so far, for the 2016
season. Not only do crowds for the GAA dwarf the attendances at League of
Ireland games, the domestic game remains a poor relation to English and
Scottish (specifically Celtic) soccer. The departure lounges of Dublin Airport
are thronged each Friday with weekending Premier League fans, while the sheer
volume of Barstoolers watching Sky games in pubs means that Irish football
struggles to find a niche. While Bohs sold out Dalier, with 5,400 there for Newcastle,
the week before I arrived, typically enough, Big Club’s next game saw 1,175
present for the visit of Derry City that very Friday. It was live on Eir TV,
but still…
One
explanation for the crisis in the domestic game is that the FAI are one of the
most useless, complacent and indolent sporting organisations in the world,
which takes some doing I’ll concede. Despite a recent announcement of a modest
donation of €100k to League of Ireland clubs, their crass incompetence is
perfectly illustrated by their obsession with keeping a 2 division structure in
place, when a 16 team single division is by far the most sensible route for the
future. Following the disappearances of Kilkenny City, Kildare County, Mervue
United, Monaghan United, Salthill Devon, Sporting Fingal and latterly Shamrock
Rovers B, finding a team of useful idiots to make up the full complement is a
perennially tough ask, mainly because there’s no money and no publicity below
the top flight, meaning the 8 team First Division is a sporting elephants’
graveyard. Limerick City may be top by 20 points, but they’re funded personally
by JP McManus. Athlone Town are
Ireland’s oldest club; they’re bottom of the table, skint and ready to go bust.
Waterford United used to be one of the country’s foremost clubs, but they’re on
the bones of their arse. UCD survive on zero crowds and the benevolence of
their institution. Cobh Ramblers were
Roy Keane’s first team, but they’re definitely Cork’s minor club. Drogheda United won the title a decade ago,
then suffered relegation and financial problems. Shelbourne used to be successful,
but they’re skint and Tolka Park is in a desperate state. This situation is
made all the worse by Bohemian selling Dalymount Park to Dublin Corporation,
with a full refurbishment promised in return. Sadly Shels are faced with a
choice of share, merge or die with their Phibsborough neighbours, or so it
seems.
Understandably,
there weren’t many applications for the vacant spot in 2014 when Shamrock
Rovers B called it a day, so the FAI turned in desperation to Cabinteely, from
the affluent south Dublin suburbs to make up the numbers. The main problem was
they played at Kilbogget Park, a public amenity shared with Seapoint RFC, where
the only seats are the ones in the bar. A deal was struck with Blackrock RFC
for a groundshare at Stradbrook, as the differing seasons for the two codes
barely overlap, so Cabo joined the senior ranks in 2015. They promptly finished
in last place, but unlike many other clubs who’ve been scarred by life in
Ireland’s football basement, Cabinteely may just be here to stay. I had
expected to find a kind of Irish MK Dons up in Stradbrook, but the reality was
pleasantly different.
Friday
evening saw me take a scenic ramble from Dalkey to Blackrock, for Cabinteely’s
home game against Waterford United. The crowds at L of I Premier Division games
are announced, but not in Division 1, possibly out of politeness. A rough guesstimate
suggested to me that around 400 punters, paying €10 a head, were gathered in
the 3 sided ground. There was no cover; on the top side railway sleepers
provided seating; presumably standing when it’s wet. The bottom side, fringed
by trees that screened rugby training pitches, saw the 50 or so travelling
supporters congregating by the dugout. Waterford Manager Roddy Collins was
attired immaculately as ever, in an open-necked white silk shirt, mustard
Chinos and lustrously polished oxblood loafers. Prosaically, the far goal
immediately beyond him gave way to untilled soil, while the near goal boasted a
changing room and bar complex, with tarmacked standing in front. Neat enough,
but only up to Northern Alliance standards over here, even with the
floodlights.
I
watched with interest the pre-match rituals of the two sides; Cabinteely,
managed by L of I legend Eddie Gormley were organised, business-like and
enthusiastic in their drills and warm-ups. Waterford came out without the
manager and had a game of five-a-side, amid much merriment. One team seemed
professional and the other a pub team. The game was the first I’d ever seen
officiated by a female referee in Ireland. Basically, she had little or nothing
to do as the game followed a pattern I’ve become familiar with at Irish First
Division games; much lovely control, quick feet and incisive passing, offset by
endless offsides and abject shooting.
Pretty play with no end product; pleasing, but a slightly dull opening
period.
During
the second half, I took a wander round the place, noticing as I did a complete
gear change from Cabo, who won the game 2-0; the first an impressive free kick
from distance and the second a powerful header from a pinpoint cross, to polite
applause. What occurred to me from drinking in the atmosphere of the place is
that basically, Cabinteely are a very well run youth club team; almost like the
Wallsend Boys Club of south Dublin, with dozens of teams at all ages, everyone paying
subs and volunteering to keep the project on track. Stewards, bar staff, club
shop and catering operatives are all the relatives of players in all
probability. On the pitch the team are disciplined, respectful and organised,
with a clear pattern of play I’m sure is replicated in their underage teams.
Waterford United had no answer to such organisation; some players capitulated,
while others tried to win it by shooting from impossible angles. Collins raged
on the touchline. Their support had hit the clubhouse by 80 minutes, muttering
darkly about the death agonies of their club. Cabo’s fans applauded politely at
the final whistle; after all, it’s only a game.
I
didn’t hang around, preferring to take a wander down to Monkstown DART, meaning I found myself in The Magpie in Dalkey, supping Spire Pale Ale with the quality, for
an eyewatering €5.90 a pint within half an hour. Just then Declan arrived in
from a work do at a comedy café and the evening got a little messy. Suffice to say;
when I arose early on Saturday, I was a little woozy. However, I made the train
and DART connections to meet John in Maynooth. Unlike the recent claims by The
Most Reverend Diarmuid Martin, Bishop of Dublin, I detected no “sleazy gay
subculture” by the banks of the Royal Canal that morning; instead the radio was,
perhaps prophetically, playing The Johnsons’ version of The Curragh of Kildare when we met.
John’s
a great driver and EU money means Ireland’s roads are grand, by-passing all
those places like Kinnegad where you’d be stuck for an hour getting through
them in the old days. In 2016, it is a different story, so by lunch time I was
staring out on the Atlantic Ocean through a car windscreen. Actually the
traffic, once we hit Galway, was so bad getting into Salthill that I saw the
same view for about an hour until we parked up. Still, it was nice to take a
bracing walk along the promenade of County Galway’s number one seaside resort,
before taking our seats for the main event.
To
be fair to the GAA, Galway borders Clare to the south and Roscommon to the
north, so the choice of venue was almost equidistant for both counties. Despite
the 35,000 capacity, the attendance was never likely to reach that figure in
the functional, concrete ground that reminded me of the kind of municipal
sporting stadia you see in every town in Eastern Europe. Clare is a hurling
county, predominantly, and they had a quarter final on the Sunday against
Galway down in Thurles, Co Tipperary to think of, while Roscommon fans were
noticeably gloomy after the beating they’d endured the week before. Perhaps
they were correct to be so circumspect, as in the end, the majority Clare
support in the 5,301 crowd went home happy, as their team ran out 2-12 (18
points) to 1-09 (12 points) winners over a desperately disappointing Roscommon.
In
the first half, Roscommon’s short, hand-passing game did not allow them to use
the wind advantage properly, while Clare’s aggressive, long game saw them surge
ahead. They could have goaled after 20 seconds, so slow out the blocks were the
Rossies. Roscommon battled back to level 1-03 to 0-06 on the half hour, but
then fell away badly. The second half was all Clare and they could have won by
a far greater margin, as Roscommon lost their discipline and had 2 players sent
off. Clare had one dismissed; their number 9 who was forced to sit
disconsolately in the stand near us. The lad looked on the verge of tears at
his fate. Happily, his card was subsequently reduced to a yellow and he was
cleared to play in the quarter finals at Croke Park the week after.
At
full time, we headed disconsolately north east to Tuam in Galway for a bite to
eat. We stopped when tired and anguished by our inability to find any radio
commentary on the next qualifier, where Tipperary defeated Derry to set up a
quarter final with Galway, also the week after. Our appetite assuaged,
including a remarkably reasonably priced pint of Hooegaarden, our next stop was Boyle in Roscommon, John’s home
town, to drink black porter until almost 5 in the morning in Kate Lavin’s Bar. I
had one of those superb nights that will live long in the memory; the
camaraderie, the friendship, the astonishing popularity of G&T in Roscommon
and the quality of the drink, all of which will make me return to a fabulous
little bar. Thanks to you all for the worst hangover of the whole holiday!!
It
was with sore heads and bleary eyes, after a cautious drive east along the
road, we saw RTE’s coverage on the excellent Sunday Game of the double-header from Thurles, when Waterford eased
past Wexford and Galway trounced Clare, to advance to the hurling semi-finals
against Kilkenny and Tipperary respectively. Seriously, the quality of RTE
punditry, the whining Ger Loughnane apart, puts the BBC to shame. Mind, their
quality coverage isn’t restricted to GAA only. While Eir TV, the inheritors of
Setanta’s debt, show a live top flight game every Friday night, RTE cover cup
games and have a weekly highlights programme on a Monday, Soccer Republic, that brings in good viewing figures and boasts the
intelligent commentary of former national boss Brian Kerr, which begs the
question why the FAI haven’t found a role for him in their structure.
Despite
a dry Sunday, I was still feeling rough on Monday, so I took a bracing coastal
walk up to Dun Laoghaire, with the idea of buying a reasonably priced, second
hand bike, for a bit of touring about. Sadly the three places I tried had
nothing suitable, so I took a long walk out on the east pier, to watch the
baffling sight of the Men’s World Laser Yachting Championships, which appears
to consist of lots of little boats crisscrossing each other, while the pilot
almost falls out, trying to manoeuvre the sails. It’s not a spectator sport to
be fair. When it started to train, I headed into the Library for a coffee, like
a real pensioner on holiday and idly flicked through a guide to what was on in
Dublin, to commemorate the 1916 Rising.
Ordinarily
of late, I’ve spent little or no time in Dublin as, basically, I know it so
well and there’s nothing for me to see. This time was different; I decided I really
ought to visit 3 exhibitions on 1916, at Collins Barracks National Museum, in
the GPO and at The Ambassador Theatre at the top of O’Connell Street. Consequently
on the Tuesday, I took the DART from Dalkey to Tara Street, walked along the
south quays as far as Heuston Station, then crossed over the Liffey and
followed the LUAS tracks back two stops to the Museum. It was free entry, but I
donated €10, because the exhibition was beyond brilliant. Detailed,
interactive, respectful and structured; it provided information on The Rising
that would be accessible to both zealous patriot and curious on-looker alike.
While
in Britain there has been much brouhaha and intemperate flag waving over the
100th anniversary of the Somme, which has unsurprisingly left me
utterly cold for every reason imaginable, I was moved to tears by the stories
of the gallant Irish volunteers who stood up to British Imperialism, serving
neither King nor Kaiser but Ireland, in the almost certain knowledge that their
bravery would result in death. Seeing up close the actual flags that flew over
the GPO and Liberty Hall at Easter 1916 and the week after, left me humbled.
Leaving
the museum after more than 2 hours, I walked the scruffy streets of north inner
Dublin. Through Smithfield, up Capel Street, along Dorset Street, to the North
Circular Road, in the shadow of Croke Park, along multi-ethnic, multi-cultural
streets, where every nationality, creed and belief lived in peaceful
co-existence, back down Amiens Street, along Talbot Street (where Ashley has a Sports Direct outlet planned) and onto
O’Connell Street for the GPO, where their exhibition was dull beyond words,
though it did not quench my ardent political passion, as here, for one glorious
week, those brave men and women of 1916 showed the British what freedom and
liberty was about. While the idiocy of the English and Welsh embraced Brexit,
the Scottish will have no part in such a charade. Indeed, the place of the
North is coming under intense scrutiny; frankly, it is time for the 6 counties
to come home in a New Ireland, with a line drawn under the past and parity of
esteem and parity of aspiration.
Sure,
now as then, the grinding poverty of the failed Irish neo-liberal capitalist
experiment was evident at every corner I passed in Dublin 1, but this is
Ireland. And Ireland is the whole world. Not for Ireland an ugly undercurrent
of conflict on the streets or Islamophobia in the media that signifies the ugly
intolerance of England’s essence. In the only country where the citizens have
voted for equal marriage rights, regardless of sexual orientation, the post
Christian, post Nationalist, post Republican social attitudes show that the
only solution for those in the North who voted to remain, is to join in a
reconfigured 32 County federation under the auspices of the EU. To do that, De
Valera’s grotesque Clericofascist constitution must be ripped up, with the 8th
Amendment prohibiting abortion repealed instantly. Ignore the Diehards. Ignore
the bonfire boys and Mad Arlene. A new tolerant, socially inclusive
constitution needs to be written, in consultation with every citizen on the
island of Ireland.
After
all that philosophising, I strolled to the Liffey and met Declan on O’Connell
Bridge, catching a bus to Seapoint Rugby Club where he coaches, took a couple
of pints watching Dundalk put up a good show away to BATE Borisov, only losing
1-0, before grabbing a Joer, whose driver took the piss out of me about Brexit,
up to The Druid’s Chair and a few fine craft ales, at about a quid a pint less
than Dalkey prices.
Thursday,
I took in the Sinn Fein organised 1916 commemoration at The Ambassador Theatre.
It was dramatic I’ll grant you that, but lacking the curator’s eye of the
Collins Barracks display. It was ideological rather than analytical; hysterical
rather than historical. Also, it seemed a little bizarre to see a whole section
in a 1916 memorial dedicated to the 1981 hunger strikers. As I heard a tour
guide say to a couple of departing punters when I arrived, I wouldn’t claim to know a great deal about Irish history…. Me
neither, but I can count up to 100. Anyway, never mind that; equilibrium was
restored as I soon found myself in The Palace Bar, The International, The
Porterhouse and The Stag’s Head, not to mention a rather nice Greek place on
Dame Street. A Hull Tiger and a Celtic Tiger in the same place, at the same
time…
All
of which set me up nicely for a trip out to Maynooth to meet John and our long
day’s journey into night for his 64th birthday. He loves driving,
which is just as well as we found ourselves whizzing through Kildare, Meath,
Cavan, Fermanagh, Monaghan, Armagh and Louth (in addition to Dublin, Westmeath,
Longford, Roscommon, Galway, Sligo and Leitrim the previous week) as we toured
the unapproved roads less travelled. Not only did I visit 14 counties this
time, my debut visits to Cavan, Monaghan and Fermanagh now mean I’ve set foot
in 31 of the 32 counties, with only the Healey Rae fiefdom of Kerry left to
experience. Normally, a trip through the Irish countryside sees an array of Bed
and Breakfast establishments on offer, with small hotels in the towns as well;
there was none of that in Cavan, Monaghan or Armagh, though Fermanagh, more specifically
Enniskillen, was geared up for fishing holidays. Elsewhere, the roads were
deserted other than farming and other commercial traffic; tourists just don’t
come to these parts.
You’ll
no doubt notice that the drive included a crisscrossing of the “border;”
frankly there is no discernible difference in landscape between Cavan and
Fermanagh or Monaghan and Armagh. No red, white and blue kerbs or Orange
Lodges, though we did see a disused Masonic Hall in Clones, Monaghan. Certainly
brave, indomitable Crossmaglen, with its sombre memorials to fallen Republicans
in the town square, gave no indication of ever paying allegiance to the House
of Windsor. That said, we still felt a little nervous when the same car tailed
us all the way to Castleblaney; old, paranoid habits die hard. New traditions
need to be learned.
The
main purpose of our tour was to take in Drogheda United v Cabinteely, though
the first ground we saw that day was Gortakeegan, the currently disused home of
the former Monaghan United. It looked in far better shape than the charmingly
ramshackle United Park, which until recently had been called Hunky Dory’s Park. In the year of his
death, this had nothing to do with David Bowie, but was the result of a sadly
expired sponsorship deal between the Diamond Drogs and County Louth’s very own Tayto Crisps. Incidentally, Monaghan’s former
home was Belgium Park, while Drogheda initially played at Lourdes Stadium; what
brilliant, bonkers names for football grounds.
Drogheda
harbour promotion play-off ambitions and are well-placed to achieve this modest
target. Their star player and captain is Sean Thornton, a former international
with Premier League experience at sunderland in both their 19 point and 15
point relegation seasons. It didn’t come off for him this game though; Cabo
were as disciplined and organised as they were the week before and a frustrated
Thornton was replaced on the hour. The game saw both teams employ a short, neat
passing game, utterly without a cutting edge. Just as it seemed the only risk
to a blank scoreline would be a moment of inspiration or insanity, Aaron Ashe
swooped on a loose ball and drove it into the bottom corner; a decent enough
finish. One goal was, predictably, enough and the 500 Drogs fans, complete with
obligatory drummer, went wild at full time. The 11 Cabo stalwarts shrugged
their shoulders and made for the car park; it is only a game after all. If the League of Ireland does go to a single
division of 16 clubs, let’s hope it’s passion and achievements on the pitch
that count when handing out the membership. However, if it’s financial
stability and a solid structure that are the requirements, Cabinteely are
waiting quietly in the wings.
Full
time, we headed back to Maynooth and made it into The New Town Inn for just
past 11, where several pints of Kinsale Pale Ale were enjoyed, still without any
evident gay subculture abroad, as well as a few back at the house. I managed to
get up in time for sport on the Saturday though. I had been thinking of the 4B
football qualifiers, where Cork were playing Donegal at Croke Park and where Cork
were to blow a 5 point lead and lose 1-14 (17) to 0-21. The second game of the
double header saw Mayo wallop Westmeath, but I decided I wouldn’t watch that either,
as I knew at an elemental level that a summer Saturday must have some cricket
involved.
Cricket,
like many things in Ireland, isn’t governed in a way that seems either
predictable or even logical to the interested outsider. Like rugby and boxing,
the international cricket side is an island of Ireland construct. Recently the
main issue bedevilling the game has been the withdrawal of their automatic
place at the 20/20 World Cup. Considering the parlous state of Bangladesh, West
Indies and even Sri Lanka as test playing nations, the intransigence of the ICC
regarding Ireland seems not just stubborn but wrongheaded. Last year I’d
enjoyed a trip to Malahide Cricket Club to see Holland defeat Ireland in the
semi-finals of the 20/20 qualifying tournament, where a mightily impressive
crowd had gathered, and so I was anxious to show my solidarity with the Irish
Cricket Union with further visits to local cricket.
Similar
to rugby and the GAA, cricket is played by provinces in Ireland; in cricket’s
case, there are not 4 of them, but 5 provincial unions. Simple enough to
understand is the province around Dublin, Leinster, where I was based. A quick
search on-line lead me to a treasure trove of information; the glorious,
encyclopaedic www.cricketleinster.ie which told
me everything I needed to know. For a start, there are 47 clubs in Leinster,
including 33 in Dublin City and County, who field a total of 128 open age sides
in 16 divisions of 8, with one up and one down at the end of the season.
Additionally there are 3 women’s divisions and a vast array of youth, involving
boys and girls, leagues. Naturally, this being cricket, there are more cup
competitions than clubs, or so it seems. Compared to GAA, soccer and rugby,
cricket is the invisible participation sport of the capital and surrounding
areas, where the sheer volume of those playing is both staggering and testament
to the truly multi-racial, multi-ethnic and socially inclusive fabric of
contemporary urban Irish society. Historically it has to be said that cricket
was the game of the West Brit upper classes, but that state of affairs is
changing rapidly, because of social mobility and the changing demographics of
Ireland as a country.
Beyond
The Pale, the situation is mixed; the Connacht Cricket Union was formed in
2011, the first new administrative region in 60 years, and runs a league with 8
teams, while Munster has 13 clubs playing in 3 divisions of 8, as well as
extensive youth and women’s cricket competitions. Of course, this being
Ireland, the waters have to be muddied somehow; Munster’s best team are Cork
County, so they play in the Leinster leagues and Connacht’s best team are Galway
County, who play in Munster. Even more confusing, there are 2 cricket unions in
Ulster; thankfully the reasons for their existence are purely geographical. The
Northern Cricket Union, involving Armagh, Antrim and Down oversees 50 clubs who
field 137 teams, while the North West Cricket Union looks after Derry, Donegal,
Fermanagh and Tyrone, with 23 clubs fielding 51 teams in 6 divisions. All in
all, 28 counties play cricket, compared to 18 who play hurling. The 4
non-participants are Cavan and Monaghan in Ulster, as well as the hurling
strongholds of Clare and Kilkenny, where they don’t even play GAA football.
Surprising really, considering how hard those hurlers can hit the ball.
Now,
if you know my obsessive nature, you’ll not be surprised to know I’m already
planning my next sporting conquests for once I’ve ticked off Cobh Ramblers,
Cork City and Limerick to complete the League of Ireland. Visits to Salthill,
Thurles and Tullamore leave me with 29 GAA county grounds to collect; Croke
Park doesn’t count as Dublin’s home in my book. Should I look to the pursuits
of the plain people of Ireland rather than striking out for Garrison Games at
Bagenalstown or Ballaghadereen cricket clubs? For the minute I’ll look to visit
grounds close my regular bases of Dalkey and Maynooth, which is why I am so
indebted to www.cricketleinster.ie for the voluminous amount of information they
provide. Certainly, I advise you to check out their history of the game in
Ireland; fascinating doesn’t tell half the story.
Checking
the fixtures, two games stood out for the last weekend in July; on the
Saturday, the Leinster Senior Cup final was to be played at Clontarf Cricket
Club. The hosts of the final are generally the holders; sadly Clontarf, whose
top player is Ireland international Alex Cusack, had been eliminated. Instead
the combatants were Leinster Cricket Club (as distinct from the Leinster Cricket
Union, Senior Cup, League or interprovincial select side, just to clarify
things), from Division 2 and YMCA from Division 1. These two opponents both
crossed the city from the affluent southern suburbs, halfway towards the other
stronghold of cricket in the north of County Dublin.
Comme
d’habitude
I arrived fashionably late via train and DART to encounter one side struggling
at 58/3. Seeing two blazered gentlemen about to undertake the traditional laps
of the ground, I inquired of them who was batting. The two fellows, who I
subsequently discovered were former Cricket Ireland President Arthur Vincent
and renowned Irish cricket podcaster and YMCA legend Heatley Tector, informed
me it was Leinster and engaged me in very friendly conversation about this
particular game, cricket as a whole, my affection for Tynemouth and
Northumberland, the presence of Irish players at Durham, before joining me in
excoriating the conditions that had caused the Brexit vote; O tempora! O mores! indeed. Their superb
hospitality convinced me immediately that YMCA would be the side I wanted to
win. Just like the North East Premier League, the welcome was friendly and
genuine. What sport other than cricket offers such unconditional camaraderie?
Clontarf’s
Castle Avenue is shared with the rugby club of the same name and is a lovely
spot to watch a game; an attractive, expansive, tree-lined treasure that was
blessed with a decent sized crowd. Certainly there were more present than at
Drogheda United v Cabinteely. It made me certain in the belief that opting for
this game, rather than Croker for Cork v Donegal or the AVIVA for Barcelona v
Celtic was the correct choice. Amidst the bouffant hair, perfect teeth and
obligatory swathes of Ralph Lauren, I could have been in Dalkey (or Gary
Oliver’s wardrobe). However, there were also many Irish of Asian descent in attendance, not to mention literally dozens
of teenagers and young women cricket fans and, in all probability, players; all
well-spoken and none of them ever resorting to foul language in their ordinary
conversation. It was civilised, it was heaven and I felt ever so humbled when
the dad of Durham player Barry McCarthy came over and introduced himself.
Leinster
made 225/8, of which the highlight was a fine 70 by George Dockerell, though
the total is less impressive than it may seem as the LSC is a 60 over
competition, which feels slightly too long to me. For YMCA, Simi Singh benefitted
from rash strokes by the lower order to claim 5/57. Between innings, I had a
coffee in the bar area and was surprised to see the levels of interest in the
fag end of the Cork v Donegal game on RTE. There was a minor scare at the start
of the YMCA reply when Fisher was out for 1, but superb, authoritative batting
by Jack Tector (75), Simi Singh (66) and a fluent 58 not out by Sean Terry, son
of Hampshire and England’s Paul, accompanied by 53 year old international rugby
referee Alan Lewis on 13 not out, saw YMCA home by 7 wickets with 10 overs to
spare.
I
didn’t hang around for the presentation, as I was keen to beat the traffic from
Croke Park and the AVIVA. I was unsuccessful in that hope, being squashed onto
a DART from Lansdowne Road with 20k Barstoolers gushing about Messi and how
Celtic are the biggest team in the world. I was glad to escape at Dalkey.
Over 40,000
had seen Efe Ambrose score for Barca, though this game wasn’t the ultimate
Barstooler experience; 4 years previous Man United beat a League of Ireland
select 7-0 in front of 50k in the AVIVA, almost all of whom took the piss out
of their own domestic players’ performances. Sickening. Just sickening and
certainly not cricket.
Next
morning, alert and refreshed, I headed for the 50 over interprovincial game
between Leinster Lightning and Northern Knights at Leinster Cricket Club. Only
3 provincial unions are considered of a high enough standard to play in this
and the sister 3 day tournament; Munster may be close, but it’ll be a cold day
in hell before Connacht feature I’d imagine. Having opted for another long walk
through the elegant Georgian terraces of Ranelagh and Rathmines, I arrived at
the magnificently named Observatory Lane to see Northern Knights lose their 7th
wicket for only 124. It seemed as if the game would be a short one, but perhaps
a touch of complacency by the home side saw some less than stellar fielding, as
well as a few lusty blows by Getkate, who scored 87 and was dropped 7 (seven!!)
times, enabling Northern Knights to amass a more than respectable 246 all out.
Between
innings, I did a couple of laps and recognised many in the significantly
smaller crowd as having being present at Clontarf the previous day. Indeed
Heatley Tector greeted me as a long lost friend he’d not seen in a decade or
more. Observatory Lane is a nice ground; perhaps less scenic than Castle
Avenue, but more atmospheric than Malahide. The Leinster reply wasn’t a fluent
affair; wickets fell regularly, including Simi Singh for nought, but a dogged
85 not out by Sean Terry and a pugilistic cameo unbeaten half century by Lorcan
Tucker saw them home by 4 wickets, winning the IP 50 competition in the
process. Now I’ve dipped my toe into the pleasant waters of Irish cricket, I
can’t wait for a full body immersion; presumably on a soft day at
Ballaghadereen.
At
the end of the game, I walked south east, back through Rathmines and Ranelagh
to Sydney Parade DART station. Just as during my midweek wanderings in the
scruffy north side, an epiphany occurred to me as I became aware of the
tolerant, inclusive, multi-cultural nature of the privileged south side;
Ireland really can show Britain how to be a civilised country. The words of the
1916 proclamation of Pearse and Connolly still ring true today; The Republic guarantees religious and civil
liberty, equal rights and equal opportunities to all its citizens, and declares
its resolve to pursue the happiness and prosperity of the whole nation and of
all its parts, cherishing all of the children of the nation equally, and
oblivious of the differences carefully fostered by an alien Government, which
have divided a minority from the majority in the past. Surely it is time to
move forward in history and in Europe as a beacon of civilisation in an
increasingly hateful world.
Still
dreaming of a potentially radiant future, I met a disconsolate Declan on board
the train. He’d been to Croker watching Galway in the football quarter finals. While
Kerry had eased past Clare, Tipperary had thumped Galway; their first win over
the Tribesmen in 114 years. I didn’t know what to say to comfort him. The last
two quarter finals will be Dublin (Leinster champions) v Donegal and Mayo v
Tyrone (Ulster champions). The winners of the first game will play Kerry and
the winners of the second will face Tipperary in the semi-finals. It’s all
getting exciting, unless you’re for Cork, Galway or Roscommon.
As we passed by Dun Laoghaire, an open air
music festival of a distinctly funky hue was taking place. Lee “Scratch” Perry
had been on earlier, while Rick James was performing at that point. Top of the
bill was George Clinton; I almost went in to check if he’d renamed the band
Dail Eireann for the occasion, but there was an early flight to be caught, so
we headed back to Dalkey in the twilight, ready to watch The Sunday Game, which is one of my new traditions. Only 50 weeks until I return home, where I'll still observe the old traditions as well...
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