Keith Duggan at Croke Park
If the founding fathers of the GAA were spinning in their graves, the tremors were not felt in the polished corridors of Croke Park. Just before five o'clock on Saturday afternoon, in a noisy room high above the lonesome splendour of the green field that has gripped the heart and mind of the association for over a century, everything changed.
When president Seán Kelly read out the vote that erased Rule 42 from the GAA rule book, the delegates allowed themselves a second of stunned silence before the whooping began. They were shocked and liberated by their own daring, hollering with the disbelief of a church choir that had gone skinny-dipping for the first time.
After a strange week when Rule 42 became the national obsession, even breaking into the jocular chit-chat of drive-time disc jockeys, the delegates were perhaps astonished by how easy it was in the end. The skies did not darken nor did the metal frames of the imperious new stands crumble and fall away.
Maybe Jones's Road will play host to glittering soccer nights and tumultuous rugby battles, and maybe it will not. That is something that will now have to pass the stern scrutiny of the high priests of Central Council. The point for the men and women of Congress was that they had made such dreams possible.
"It was perhaps the most generous, the most liberal decision ever taken by any sporting or business body," Kelly said as the delegates spilled out of the great hall, still slightly dazed and euphoric by the sudden arrival of the new order. "Because we have out of the generosity of our hearts put our finest asset at the disposal of our keenest rivals."
The vote came after an impassioned afternoon of debate. All day, the mood in the great hall had been giddy, like schoolchildren impatient for the summer holidays to begin. Kelly sat at the top desk with the air of a vexed schoolmaster, scolding his charges to quieten down and listen up, and even how to vote correctly.
"None of this business of half-lifting your arms above your shoulders," he warned.
Although the delegates came equipped with a broad mandate of support, there was a sense that some members would be overcome by a late rush of conservatism even as they put pen to ballot paper.
The majority decision to carry out the vote by secret ballot gave members the option of going with their conscience rather than their duty. And for over an hour, the oratories sounded by those asking for an 11th-hour revival of old-fashioned sense. The ex-presidents led the way. They sat together like holy men, sober of suit and concise and eloquent in their delivery.
Pat Fanning, who presided over the removal of "the Ban" in 1971, drew on the lessons of that distant past.
"We were told in 1970 that rugby schools would embrace our game. Not one rugby college has relaxed their own severe ban. Now, we will give them further ammunition to move into our schools. I have not heard a single cogent reason as to why we should abandon what is a principle. If we open Croke Park, we are abandoning a principle on the altar of expediency."
Con Murphy gave the dark prediction that removing Rule 42 would represent nothing less than a death, followed by the "formation of a new association that caters for everything and stands for nothing".
They were fierce and bright and compelling in their arguments, these elderly gentlemen who had guided the GAA through what was a different country. That they believed their association was signing away its soul was apparent. And although the gallery listened respectfully, the prevailing mood was not interested in doomsday scenarios. It was, one delegate said later, "like Custer's last stand".
The rush for change came to the accompaniment of optimistic voices and high humour. Tommy Kenoy, the Roscommon man who has been pioneering this cause for four years, talked about the wishes of the grassroots members across the country.
"There are people in this organisation afraid of what this change will bring. But it will hurt our association if we leave this stadium standing idol while we export major international events to Britain. This will be a defining day for the association," he announced.
Seán Quirke from Wexford declared the GAA had nothing to fear from other sports.
"Sure, we have already played American football here and, I can guarantee you, it hasn't caught on in Wexford anyway."
The crowd laughed and the gulf between those who clung dearly to history and those impatient for a brand new future became more apparent.
The final count was 227 for and 97 against. The public got its wish. "Croker" had become a municipal playing field.
And even as the delegates celebrated, Kelly moved swiftly toward the next motion. He had a successor to elect, and half an hour later Kilkenny's Nickey Brennan was close to tears as he accepted the electors' wish that he become the next president of the GAA.
The defeated candidate, Christy Cooney from Cork, had been tipped by many as the heir apparent and his narrow loss marked a black day for the Rebel County. Seconds after the verdict was announced the two men embraced and Cooney then somehow found the poise to deliver a restrained and graceful valedictory. Kilkenny men shook their fists in restrained triumph and Cork folks waited in line to pay their respects, as if attending a country funeral.
That poignant scene brought the curtains down on a strange and unforgettable afternoon. And it clarified that, for all its rules and customs, the GAA is, first and last, about its people.