In Sydney, tickets are gold dust. All the Irish bars say the same thing. Galway and Kerry is a sell-out. Out in Olympic Park, Michael Johnson and Cathy might be the hot show, but on this night, getting in front of a big screen is tougher.

Summer GAA is a big thing in Sydney and, for the All-Ireland, is seems that every expatriate is wearing either gold or maroon. There is rumour of a spot down near Darling Harbour, a sports bar in a vast, latenight mall. It is enough to start a stampede. By 1.30 a.m., hordes of Tommy Varden shirts are to be seen marching around, asking directions to this unlikely oasis. By the end of the minor match, they are streaming in steadily, fast-talking Kerry folk and boisterous westerners. The one thing this particular bar does not lack is televisions. There appears to be several million of them, all varying in size, all showing Croke Park.

They are positioned in such a way that it is impossible not to watch the match - unless of course you decide to avail of one of the many video game machines that line one side of the bar.

It is a strange sight, Croke Park in the midst of all this recreational technology. Marty Morrissey meets virtual tennis. Truly, the GAA is undergoing a seismic shift in terms of image.

Kerry takes the field. We cheer. Galway follows suite. A similar roar. Then, a rush for the bar. Back to the studio and there is Pat Spillane. At this late hour, deep in the southern hemisphere, these pictures are beamed in as if from a distant kind of heaven. Never has the RTE studio looked so homely, so inviting.

All the familiar characters sitting there, knees crossed and the conversation earnest, the panel like old friends who have, in your absence, carried on just as you'd imagine. When you are away from home long enough (and also when you have drunk enough) every image takes on a certain symbolism.

It is possible, therefore, to gaze at the screen with beery incomprehension as Pat Spillane rattles on at a million miles an hour and experience a strange sensation. You can, when you are thousands of miles away from Ireland, watch him machine-gun his way through half-back lines and feel for him a certain . . . fondness. It sort of hits you. It is a startling realisation and not a very hopeful one.

On with the match. Twenty minutes in, Galway are getting walloped, no matter what screen you look at. At 0-8 to 0-1, it is becoming painful. Several folk deflect their gaze to the virtual tennis. Marty Morrissey is sounding vexed, wondering how come Galway are so flat. There are no answers in this bar, only the sound of Kerry glee.

The maroon corner starts to bubble as Padraig Joyce and company actually get on television for a few moments. Gradually, they begin reeling the Kerry men back in.

By the second half, a nervous silence begins to descend. It is coming towards 3.0 a.m., there has been drink taken. Never has there been so much emotion in one shopping mall. Maurice is brought in. Kerry folks go ballistic, Galway men look grim.

John Donnellan kicks a point that could make you weep. Seconds tick on and mouths are dry. Work, Monday morning is a mere three hours away, but by now we are all back home, all wedged into the Hill End. We are right there.

Seamus Moynihan makes another miracle catch. In awed unison, we shake our heads. The teams are gelled together. Michael Donnellan makes a late run.

"Hit it" yells someone. He does, but too short. Kerry surge up-field. All eyes search out Maurice. Next thing, the ball is twisting wide. There are screams for Pat McEnaney to blow it. Every one exhales when he does.

"Sure we got out of jail," says one fella. Could have been from either county.

The crowd spill out towards four. Outside the mall, the harbour twinkles, still and beautiful and jolting after Croke Park. Transmission ends.