In some ways, last Sunday in Clones was a return to traditional values – the pitch invasion, wild celebrations of an Ulster title as an achievement in itself, supporters lingering long afterwards on the town’s sun-soaked Diamond, enjoying pints and choc-ices.
In other respects, the event was a radical departure. I believe it may have been the first GAA match I have ever attended in which no male supporter of a certain age even once urged a player in possession to “Drive it!”, or “Drive the f***in’ thing!”, as an alternative to retaining possession.
All my life, it has been an article of faith among old schoolers that there was no problem in Monaghan football for which a long, aimless ball up the field was not a possible solution.
Maybe that idea has finally died. Or maybe it’s the oul’ fellas themselves (at least some of whom, by the way, would have used the letter “B” instead of “F” in the swear word – ie “Drive the buckin’ thing” – as a gesture to politeness) that are now a threatened species.
True, a related phenomenon – exasperation whenever the ball is played backwards – was still alive. It remains a core belief for many traditionalists that a GAA ball should move forward, or at worst sideways, at all times. But even this was restrained on Sunday.
From early on, there was a general – if stunned – realisation among Monaghan supporters that the team had a plan, and would not be departing from it. That it was Donegal’s plan, and that they were apparently powerless against it, only heightened the drama. The Greeks used to write plays about such situations.
With their own strength turned against them, Donegal didn’t seem to have an alternative strategy. Unlike the hapless stewards in Clones, who had to implement theirs – somewhat belatedly – after the match. By the time the PA uttered the immortal words “Stewards — Plan B”, there were already several hundred people on the pitch. But at least there was a plan B, supervising a safe invasion rather than trying to stop it.
No doubt the GAA is even now examining ways to plug the gaps that allowed incursions at Limerick last week and now Clones. Probably everything from increased stewarding to alligator-filled moats will be considered.
In the meantime, I must admit that the hour I spent on the playing field after Sunday’s game was among the happiest of my life. I hope even my Dublin-born children will remember it fondly, as they mixed with country cousins and posed for photographs with players who had to share their triumph, uncomplaining, with an extended family of several thousand.
Whatever about the safety worries arising from invasions – and I accept they are genuine – this is one of the glories of the GAA, that fans get to mingle with their heroes in the hour of victory. And that, indeed, amateur players who live ordinary lives with often very unglamorous day jobs are temporarily elevated on such occasions to the status of gods.
Some of Monaghan’s champions, like full back Drew Wylie, were only at the start of what could be glorious careers. Others, like Tommy Freeman – despite the choirboy smile with which he greeted his last-minute point – were nearing the end.
I was especially delighted for him and Dick Clerkin, another veteran in the last-chance saloon. I sort-of know Dick, having conducted a public interview with him at the Clones Film Festival (second in glamour only to Cannes) a few years ago, where I found him very intelligent and thoughtful, somewhat in contrast with his tough image as a player.
Whether he remembered me I’m not sure. Either way, when I went to congratulate him, he gave me a man-hug, which made my day. We’d been through a lot together, whether he realised it or not.
The aforementioned city-born children seemed to enjoy the occasion as much as I did. Of course, with the tactical nous that comes naturally to kids, they knew it was a day to indulge their old man, who would be indulgent in turn.
This was an occasion, they sensed, when no objections would be raised to Coke, or crisps, or any of the other crap they’d live on if let. There was opportunistic talk of early birthday presents too. My son even raised again the prospect that I might get him a dog. Anything seemed possible.
By the time we left Monaghan, the sun had set on a perfect day. Darkness was now falling, but an afterglow of victory accompanied us as far as the country border. And as usually happens on these occasions, a full moon lit our way back to Dublin.
fmcnally@irishtimes.com
