Opinion

Jarlath Kearney: For a GAA supporter, there's nothing quite like the Sunday game

Great altogether: GAA
Great altogether: GAA Great altogether: GAA

Sorting the kit. The start of every GAA supporter’s Sunday. Maybe a three-quarter zip, or a light mac. A body-warmer for the wee’un. Bobble hats with crests, or the trusty flat-cap with the rusty texture and well-travelled smell.

The backpack with the busted zip is the only one that’s empty. Throw in a few sandwiches or baps, stuffed tight into a used bread bag. But only if you’re going to make a day of it. And don’t forget, there’s one who hates butter. (Or is it mayonnaise?) Same with the flask. Tea or coffee? A clean mineral bottle for the milk. The right shoes matter too. Cushy enough for a mile or two.

Always add an extra twenty minutes. Just in case. Sure you’ll know yourself when you’re in the ball park of the ball park. The creative parking of cars is the certain sign.

A big black jeep lazily laying across two spaces. Better than the rest, eh? The awkward reverse of four young lads. Already tried it nose first. Driven by the vision of a seamless getaway into the static post-match traffic jam.

The fella locking up his wagon in front of the gates with the large sign that says: ‘Do not park here. Access must be kept clear day and night.’ (By the end of the match a van sits in the same spot with the words ‘traffic management’ on its sides. Quite.)

A tenner-a-head for a seat in the stand. Cubs get in for free. Running late. Need to put a foot in the stride now as the roar of play ripples towards the turnstile.

Phalanxed colours of families and friends. Magpies and maroons. Dyed in their wools. Cheeks by jowls. Neutral space signalled only by the odd empty seat.

Probably asking too much for the whole stand to shift up a bit. So grab a couple of spots down there in the two front rows near the 45 line. The extra space for the absent friend.

Wind that’s soft. Warmer than autumn. Dryer than wetter. But turf that’s heavy going.

A decent point scored. The stand still settling up behind. A private wee clap. Not private enough. The neighbour comments: “And your boys are a man down too.”

Dangerous space this, not declaring a hand. “I’m more of a neutral myself.” A white lie. Sideways glances. No mention of family ties to both sides’ management. Whatever you say, say nothing.

Thick, guttural battles. Hard-headed county masters. Warriors throwing their weight and strength and skill into every mix. A testing cocktail.

One player mouthing at a manager. Undignified. Unnecessary. Another’s arms flailing at his marker. Ill-disciplined. Needless. Moments that matter. A point that was wide. A free that wasn’t given. Stomach strings being twisted and tightened.

The ‘aul lads have it right. As always. Critique by comparison. “Now McEneaney, there was a referee. Pat McEneaney, ’thon man knew how to let a game flow. Best in the country.” Legends last.

Half an hour. Half-time. Updates through cyberspace. Dozens of wee girls and boys charging onto the battlefield. Tripping over daisies.

Three cups of tea fitted neatly into a Kit-Kat box pass down the line. (None of your posh Italian café cup-baskets here.)

Second half. Sterling stuff. The crowd rising. Another dismissal. Another debate.

Experience against resilience. Drilling versus determination. Pressure mounting. The linesman getting it in the neck. “Do your job linesman!” “Sure do you not want to go and help him up too?” Cross words, but no curse words(at least not in earshot). Good to hear.

The cheeky-bony whiskers on the grizzled front-row face seem to bristle ever sharper with the minutes ever shortening. His bright eyes bouncing frantically after the breaking ball. Shuffling stacatto in the seat.

A yellow vest bolts the stand gate. Officially. His point scored in this game too. Even if the bar’s just three foot high.

Final ten. A penalty’s saved. A cross-bar’s shaved. An old hand’s wasting time. Leaders for life born and made in a Sunday afternoon. Pleasure and pain drifting desperately over a sea of thousands.

Poundings hearts, both broken and brave. Losers on their knees. Maroons marching onwards, tested to the core. Magpies knowing tears, knowing they’ve got more. Still, their season’s over now.

The stand spills. The pitch fills. Comrades and cousins, greeted and hugged. An odd nod. The finger-wag wave. The Sunday supporter. All across Ulster today.

The players matter most. But ‘all in, all out’. Right? So we’re done too. Heading for the hills. Lives changed forever by one kick of leather.