My love is for soccer. That probably makes me a traitor in the eyes of the Natsis - those who goosestep for Nationalists Ireland. They sometimes take to calling me that as part of their umbrage at my having abjured their hatreds. Because I was in prison on a number of occasions for IRA activity, they whine about my betrayal of Ireland. They seem to have difficulty computing that I served time for shooting people like themselves. Then they were called loyalists. But when you have bowels for brains that is the sort of shit your head churns out.
Being traitorous to their warped worldview is a badge that is as big as the jacket that bears it.
Three weeks ago when I attended the semi-final of the all-Ireland hurling clash between Kilkenny and Clare, it was my first time inside Croke Park. Not many cease being a Croker virgin at 66. But popping that particular cherry was an exhilarating experience.
My son and daughter had been there before and along with their cousins from Arizona they accompanied me to the game. Which was really the reason I went. It was a spectacle and one I shall remember for some time to come. Despite my love for soccer, being at Croker is a much more atmospheric experience than attending games at Weavers Park. In many ways reminiscent of being at Parkhead or Anfield.
I don't read much about GAA sports either although I always find Pádraic Mac Coitir's writing on the subject entertaining and informative. Sports wise, I am not that promiscuous, tending to stay within my own narrow bandwidth.
Nevertheless, the All-Ireland final serves up a feast to fill any day and this year's decider between Dublin and Kerry was no exception. I watched it on TV with my wife, my son and daughter off doing their own thing. Even the outstanding French espionage drama, The Bureau, had to take a back seat for Croker.
A hard fought game, at the end saw two points separate the sides, courtesy of the finetuned kicking of Dean Rock, son of the legendary Barney whom I recall from the great Dublin side of the early 1980s. It was not like watching a final with Mayo playing where the expectation is that their opponent is bound to win. This was anybody's game, never easy to call until the closing minutes when the blue wall closed ranks like a phalanx of Spartans. Impenetrable to the final whistle.
Once Dublin edged in front, even prior to Rock's second score, they were in command. With David Clifford being well below par, the team in blue knew how to see out the final stages and maintain their slender lead. If there were two crucial differences today that decided the outcome the first would be general in that the overall play of Clifford was not what we expect from arguably the best player in the sport since Gooch Cooper. The second is specific and occurred when Kerry needlessly gave the ball away, leading to the Dublin goal.
The commentary throughout referred to the constant turnovers that were taking place in a hard fought battle. If there is any form of reverse exorcism that can tackle dispossession neither team found it. The ball was won and often as quickly lost again. In the end Kerry had to yield and the trophy was turned over to the Dubs. Sam Maguire is now in the capital. Kerry might still be The Kingdom, but today Dublin were crowned kings of All-Ireland.
My son and daughter had been there before and along with their cousins from Arizona they accompanied me to the game. Which was really the reason I went. It was a spectacle and one I shall remember for some time to come. Despite my love for soccer, being at Croker is a much more atmospheric experience than attending games at Weavers Park. In many ways reminiscent of being at Parkhead or Anfield.
I don't read much about GAA sports either although I always find Pádraic Mac Coitir's writing on the subject entertaining and informative. Sports wise, I am not that promiscuous, tending to stay within my own narrow bandwidth.
Nevertheless, the All-Ireland final serves up a feast to fill any day and this year's decider between Dublin and Kerry was no exception. I watched it on TV with my wife, my son and daughter off doing their own thing. Even the outstanding French espionage drama, The Bureau, had to take a back seat for Croker.
A hard fought game, at the end saw two points separate the sides, courtesy of the finetuned kicking of Dean Rock, son of the legendary Barney whom I recall from the great Dublin side of the early 1980s. It was not like watching a final with Mayo playing where the expectation is that their opponent is bound to win. This was anybody's game, never easy to call until the closing minutes when the blue wall closed ranks like a phalanx of Spartans. Impenetrable to the final whistle.
Once Dublin edged in front, even prior to Rock's second score, they were in command. With David Clifford being well below par, the team in blue knew how to see out the final stages and maintain their slender lead. If there were two crucial differences today that decided the outcome the first would be general in that the overall play of Clifford was not what we expect from arguably the best player in the sport since Gooch Cooper. The second is specific and occurred when Kerry needlessly gave the ball away, leading to the Dublin goal.
The commentary throughout referred to the constant turnovers that were taking place in a hard fought battle. If there is any form of reverse exorcism that can tackle dispossession neither team found it. The ball was won and often as quickly lost again. In the end Kerry had to yield and the trophy was turned over to the Dubs. Sam Maguire is now in the capital. Kerry might still be The Kingdom, but today Dublin were crowned kings of All-Ireland.
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