SIDELINE CUT: DUBLIN AGAINST Meath has been the archetypal clash of city and country and has provided great national entertainment for the past 20 years. For the burghers of Ulster, Connacht and Munster, there is nothing better than settling back to see what kind of mischief and dark sorcery the hardy and unknowable men from Meath will inflict on the GAA's Showtime team.
Meath defy all handy categorisation. It has sacred heritage in the Hill of Tara. It has the River Slane and legendary rock festivals. It has townie-towns but is resolutely of the country. It seems to produce a freakish number of successful comedians. The sprawling Dublin metropolis has swallowed parts of the county, yet when you are bombing along the motorway, you instinctively know when you hit Meath: something feels different.
Let’s face it: all football counties are a bit frightened of Meath and it is a private relief whenever the poor Dubs have to test their mood first. The Meathies will, as the cliche goes “invade the capital” tomorrow in their own sunny and boisterous way, in denims and retro Kepak jerseys signed by Gerrys McEntee and Harnan – in their own blood.
In gait, they have a take-me-as-you-find me swagger reminiscent of Burt Reynolds in his heyday. The hoors are built like Sherman tanks. Walk up Jones’ Road when Meath teams are entertaining at “headquarters” and you will see it. It may be they have some secret ancient charter in the Royal County that any man standing under 6ft and not at least as broad as the narrowest oak tree in Trim just packs his bags and seeks fortune in America. Only the Meathies have the chutzpah to behave as if they genuinely “own” Croke Park. I remember seeing Meath playing Donegal in a pulverising All-Ireland semi-final back in 1990 on a big screen in the Hammersmith Odeon. Afterwards, the doorman, who was visibly impressed, told me this was the most intense crowd he had seen since the night in ’73 when Bowie killed off Ziggy Stardust.
Meath have never fielded a player named “Ziggy”, but you wouldn’t put it past them. Think of the Meath roll call of honour: at random – Graham, Trevor, Nigel, Bill Halfpenny, Ollie, Red Collier, Bernard, Jodie, Hank, Robbie. These are not the names we see on bog-standard match day programmes. They serve to illustrate that Meath has a past and a heritage that runs slightly deeper than the scrabbling for potatoes and fishing that the rest of the population got on with.
All that history and those venerable monuments have given a druidic dimension to Meath. It was no great surprise their greatest ever manager was also a shaman of herbal medicine. I saw Seán Boylan not so long ago bounding up the steps of Croke Park, taking about five at a time.
They say around the time Meath won the Centenary Cup in 1984, a night of terrific lightning burst over the Hill of Tara and during the flashes you could see the silhouette of a small, energetic man circling a cauldron. He was wearing Dunboyne club shorts and waving a hurley in the sky and tossing various items – the famous black and white picture of the ’77 Dublin team, a Cork jersey, Kildare shorts and so on – into the pot.
It probably isn’t true but who knows? Boylan was – and is – the most courteous man who has ever answered a telephone. There were a few years when he was simultaneously training All-Ireland winning football teams who were like crack commando units and healing half the county of aches and sores and chestiness so he must have been busy but he gave the impression he was glad you had called.
He always thanked the Lord (“the Man Above”) after one of Meath’s (suspiciously frequent) “miracle” victories. His faith mattered deeply to him and he was a traditional Irish man but it was no real surprise (crazy, but not surprising) when he spoke with Dave Fanning about his lifelong friendship with Tony Wilson, the iconic music impresario and TV host from Manchester.
It is hard to imagine what the man behind Joy Division and the man behind the Murphy-Geraghty division had in common but they were like brothers. One All-Ireland Sunday, Alan Erasmus, who ran Manchester’s fabled Hacienda club showed up at Boylan’s house in Dunboyne. They weren’t playing Cork until three. Boylan most likely took the clubbing man to mass. He probably gave him a run in the back garden to see if he might slot in at half-back. Boylan’s combination of bonhomie and iron will were borne out by the attitude of his teams. They were remorseless and unrepentant.
In 1996, the Mayo folks found them unbearable in victory but, like Churchill, the Meathies were unbeatable in defeat. When they were beaten, they never complained. They were always busy men. I once suggested meeting a well-known Meath man for “lunch” and he was genuinely mystified by the idea. They just disappeared for the summer.
We knew that what we saw – the big bridge at Navan or the gorgeous walk on the way to see Dylan or the Boss at Slane Castle – was not the real Meath. We knew there was another place just out of sight, dark and majestic and that on some field or other, their prized football teams were going through bone-shuddering training sessions. As Dustin sang in his classic Charlene cover: I’ve Been To Paradise But I’ve Never Been to Meath.
It is no coincidence Meath have not won an All-Ireland final since the back-door system was implemented. I think once the knock-out days of old were abolished, football lost much of its life and death romance for the Meath men. They thrilled to the life-on-the-tightrope sensation. You know Philippe Petit, the genius who walked the wire between the World Trade Centre Towers in 1974? Well, he was French all right but they say he has Nobber blood in him.
The Meath psyche does not have the patience for the forgiveness – the softness – permitted by the back-door system. To Meathies, the back-door system makes as much sense as non-alcoholic beer.
But they will make an exception for Dublin.
