RUGBY:Heartbreak runs rich through Irish history. After a century of a lockout, the Ireland rugby team ran onto Croke Park greeted by a nation in a mood for celebration. But after 80 strange and furious minutes, the French had stolen this day of revolution.
With exquisitely Gallic timing, les Bleus brazenly crafted a winning try with Ireland just two minutes away from completing a perfect day in the storied GAA cathedral on Jones's Road. We should have known. No sporting theatre does stunning endings quite like Croke Park.
In the stands - and possibly on the field - everyone was still celebrating the 76th-minute Ronan O'Gara penalty that promised an electrifying debut victory in Croke Park. Out of nothing, France rushed down for one last, carefree attempt that ended with winger Vincent Clerc dancing through three despairing Irish tackles and diving jubilantly for what must go down as an immortal try at the Canal End.
Perhaps, in the prevailing mood of celebration and congratulations, everyone forgot that in sport, there is an immutable truth. Many an old Gaelic Games legend could have warned the Irish rugby men that this old ground is a beautiful place in which to win a match but a heartless home after a defeat. But then, had the great, departed players like Seán Purcell of Galway or Christy Ring of Cork been magically transported from heaven for this day, they could not have recognised their old stage.
It was hard to believe that this jazzed-up, modern theatre still ran on the same timeline that dates back to the Technicolor era of Kevin Heffernan's Dublin or the flickering, black and white image of Wexford's Nick O'Donnell planting a kiss on Ring's forehead and back, on back to that black, poisoned day of Bloody Sunday.
The trick of the past week was about respecting that history, those stories, while throwing the gates of the citadel open to the outside world. It made for mixed emotions. Several prominent GAA officials wandered around their stadium beforehand, looking slightly dazed and proud at the transformation before their eyes. Yesterday morning on the radio, Ollie Campbell, the pale and elegant virtuoso who wore the green number 10 during the raucous days of 1980s amateurism, told a magical story.
Campbell has a view of Croke Park from his window in Clontarf and on Saturday night, seeing the place bathed in celestial floodlight, he couldn't resist wandering down for a peek. Through a chink in the gate, he could see the rugby posts rising up in front of Hill 16. It was a startling image, one of Ireland's most accomplished rugby men whose photograph, legend has it, used to adorn the Parisian mantelpiece of Samuel Beckett, peering like a child through the gates for a glimpse of paradise.
By noon, tens of thousands were following in his wake. And how peculiar to see the Europeans gathering outside Hill 16, all ooh-la-las of approval. To see those rugby union football posts planted on that field, bold as exclamation marks. And then to hear the lovely, jaunty hymn La Marseillaise ringing over Dorset Street. Lansdowne Road suddenly seemed farther away than just the posh side of town.
In the Canal End, we saw five men wearing bright-pink jackets and white, peaked hats and were pleased that the GAA Ard Comhairle made such an effort for the occasion. We saw a couple of cockerels strutting about and heard someone say, "If Kilkenny were hurling today, those lads would end up as stew."
It was shocking how small the rugby field looked transplanted onto the Gaelic field. And it was noted that the GAA might use it to put on hurling exhibitions on the spare grass to entertain the crowd while waiting for Jonny Wilkinson to go through his penalty routine when England come to play. Because of the bittersweet conclusion here yesterday, the thought of England is worrying now.
Ireland played bravely and smartly on this debut Sunday of trembling emotion and iconographic moments.
O'Gara bursting over for a beautifully worked try in the corner of the Canal End. Andrew Trimble, the blond Ulster Christian, tearing on a lone burst to glory in front of the roaring Cusack stand before buckling, as if under the wave of sound. Big Sebastien Chabal stalking around the centre of the field, hirsute and frightening. The Irish pack driving, bullying and pushing eight reeling Frenchmen up through the heart of the field and generating an incredible din of pride. When O'Gara sent that late penalty floating towards Hill 16, the day seemed won.
And it was as though nobody ever considered there could be anything other than a perfect ending. The French, of course, did not care for the Irish symbolism behind this match or for this ground. Ireland's past is none of their business. They let us down in 1798. And yesterday, they let us down again.
Backs to the wall, they fell into their default mode, all dash and dare and free running, and they broke Irish hearts. The 1948 Grand Slam will not be matched this year. Croke Park could not ward off fate or bad luck.
And suddenly the thought of another tough day out against the all-white shirts of England, with the paraphernalia of Empire draped around the Hill and the Hogan stand and the first airing of God Save the Queen all seemed like the making of another tough day out. Croke Park emptied quickly and soon, the singing, delighted French housed in the top tier of the Hogan had this place of ghosts all to themselves.
The day started off full of hope and brightness in a brave new Ireland. But by the end, we might as well have been in Paris.
