I went to Croke Park to watch a match. It broke every personal rule I have when deciding whether I will enjoy an event. It had lots of other people there and I could not drink, the latter meaning I couldn’t offset the former. But I persisted.
An Irish friend who had visited a nature site sacred to indigenous people in Australia had described the goosebumps he felt standing there. When I asked what the Irish equivalent was that I should visit, his answer was Croke Park. “Isn’t it a stadium in Dublin with loads of kebab shops around it, though?” I countered.
“Exactly,” he said, misty-eyed.
My other half bought tickets. He loves both the run-kick and the stick-hit GAA. I am not as fond. I have called the GAA a "cult without the perks of group sex" in a national newspaper. The time demand it makes on even its most junior players makes me think the sport is actually a front.
I suspect GAA is for people who secretly hate their spouses but hate confrontation more, so need to spend as much time outside of the house as possible
As with marathon running, I suspect it’s a sport for people who secretly hate their spouses but hate confrontation more, so need to spend as much time outside of the house as possible. Who knows how many relationships the GAA is keeping together? What would happen to the sport if we all stopped suppressing emotions? Would it disband entirely?
I ask these questions out loud to friends. I do not get answers except “Please shut up, you Australian gom, you’re embarrassing us all.” This, I think, is a fair response.
On the way in I see kids selling water bottles from their front garden as we head towards the Cusack stand. I love seeing small children playing capitalism by selling essential commodities to a captive audience. I buy two. “Wait, can we take these into the stadium?” I ask him. “Yeah, of course you can. People bring whole lunches in,” he said, looking at me strangely.
This was a revelation. No more confiscated food and drink. I’ve long played victim to stadium vendors whose snack markups are determined by writing the biggest number they can on the sign without laughing. My dad had to buy us chips once at a football game in Sydney, and he still hasn’t financially recovered.
We got to our seats. Families around us were pulling out Taytos and bread to make crisp sandwiches. There were flasks. It was beautiful. I saw one group in coloured jerseys offer another group in different-coloured jerseys a bag of mini KitKats. This truly is a place belonging to the people. People who understand appropriate snacks for sport watching. I once went to a rugby (union) game and the shop sold port, cheeseboards and sushi. An unholy Venn diagram of “notions’’ and “impractical”.
I was disappointed, however, to learn the true purpose of the braided strands of coloured wool people wear around their wrists. Turns out they’re county colours. You wear them to show what team you are going for at the game and, later, to tie around your rear-view mirror, so that people know what team your car goes for too. I am sad they are not just a bunch of grown men who have decided to make friendship bracelets for each other and wear them on a day out, as I had initially thought. I still like to think maybe they are indeed still accidental friendship bracelets worn between 25,000-odd friends who just haven’t met yet.
Rugby league has its own anthem, AC/DC's Thunderstruck, played three times every game. Flamethrowers go up when someone scores. It is the monster-truck rally of football, and I will love it until the day I die
We watched as goals were scored, balls kicked over crossbars. I had no idea what was happening, but, as with any sport, I discovered you can cover that up by yelling, “Are your eyes painted on, ref?” at intervals.
Player went up against player. We all got excited when they grabbed the front of each other’s jersey and did that weird little waltz sportsmen do when they are angry but know throwing a punch first will get them sent off. The aggression, however, did not find its way into the stands. Supporters from either county sat side by side and, aside from some clever slagging, were quite cordial to each other. One man turned around to shake the hand of an opposing fan before the game was finished, a gracious acceptance of his team’s imminent defeat.
My partner says his favourite part is the roar of the crowd that goes up after the national anthem. The bit at the end where we all sing louder and higher.
It’s unlike rugby league, the game I know and love. The GAA plays the national anthem because its history is inextricably linked with Irish statehood. Matches are shown in the Irish language. Gaelic Sunday and Bloody Sunday are commemorated every year. Players take no payment and can only play for their parish and their county.
Rugby league has its own anthem, AC/DC’s Thunderstruck, played three times every game. Flamethrowers go up when someone scores. A referee informs the crowd of a try or no try via a spinning KFC bucket on a jumbo screen. It is the monster-truck rally of football, and I will love it until the day I die. But the gentle magic of BYO snacks, Croke Park and GAA have me converted. Until the Artane Boys Band learn AC/DC, that is.