Living and breathing the county final

I sit at home at the kitchen table after a wonderful day. There are many wonderful days and today was another one. It’s pitch dark outside but it’s a beautiful night to watch your child play their heart out in a county final. They lost the game but there was nothing more they could do. To watch them line up, congratulate and shake the opposition’s hands, to gather with their coaches and teammates and stand together with pride while their opponents received the cup, was a proud evening for me.

To watch my husband coach from the sideline, to advise but not give out, to let an odd shout go but with positivity, to encourage them on, to hold back the body language when the opposition got a goal, to change the tactics to try everything to help the boys win, added to the pride.

I needed both eyes this evening – one on the younger buck and another on the older buck. I know so well when things are going well how brilliant sport is but when things start to go wrong, one’s emotions can be all over the place. Someone can say something very hurtful, someone can take you out of the game or someone can use dirty tactics. When they do the head can go, one can lose it and the whole lot can go into turmoil. For them to survive the defeat, the belts, the emotions and to walk off with dignity and pride led to a sigh of relief from myself.

To sit with my family, cheer, support and encourage the lads, I can’t help but miss my dad. He would have been at the centre of the attention, screaming his heart out. I look up, I know he is with us.

I love the way the youth deal with defeat; they accept it and move on. They are so upset but can control it. They live in the moment and when the moment passes, they move to the next stage. They gather with their friends, they laugh, play more football and have the craic. We, the grown-ups, find it harder to park it. We reminisce, we analyse, we talk about what went wrong but, on this occasion, not a lot went wrong. Goals win matches and that’s what Belmullet did. One couldn’t say they were the better team. Our Shrule/Glencorrib lads scored twelve wonderful points and it was under-14 championship football at its best.

The tension can be felt from the sideline; the belts, the hits and the shoulders are as intense as a senior game. The speed, the endurance, the work-rate are to be admired, the skill and the points scored from all angles and distances applauded by the crowd. My heart is in my mouth though; it is much easier play than watch, you feel every belt, you solo the ball from your seat, you move left, move right, as if you were playing the dummy.

Five minutes in, my son goes down. It's not often he goes down, when you’re not expecting it and you’re tall, the ground can be a hard fall. He hops off the ground but bounces back up. I know this evening, whether he’s hurt or not, he’s up with determination. No one runs over, the play continues and that’s the way he wants it. I keep both eyes on him with caution.

Football is a simple game and that is what was such a pleasure to watch this evening – a natural game of football where the players controlled the game, allowed to display their talents, skills and ability. They just ran, marked their players, worked as best they could with the ball and the game flowed. What a pleasure it was to watch the goalie kick a long ball out to midfield; the number eight leaps up and catches the ball over his head, solos once, solos twice, and delivers the ball lovely in front of the corner-forward. He gathers the ball into his chest, takes a solo, looks up and off his left foot kicks a wonderful point. The crowd roar, applaud and the stand is alive.

It's been a long year; coming from a small parish, it can be hard to round up enough players for a panel. Even with younger lads brought up to bolster the panel and with most of the lads at the age playing, numbers are still low. With very few subs, everyone is needed, everyone is depended on. Sometimes there’s only a few at training due to other commitments, some matches are won, some are lost, but to get to the county final was sweet.

When there’s two in the house consumed with it, it’s double-barrel, the analysis from both ends, the preparation from both ends, the washing of two rounds of gear, the packing of tea for two on the evening of a match to Achill, Kiltimagh or Tourmakeady; being at the bottom of the county there’s always a journey. The commitment, the dedication, the time, it’s all for the love of the game. My husband, having played for years, is now dedicating his time to the next generation, to help them, to advise them and to work with them, because like teaching a child one must build a rapport, one must gain respect, one must be fair but one must also have discipline, a way about them.

In today’s world, with so many distractions, with so many outside influences, with pressure from social media, everyone jumping on the cool trends, every move is commented on. Coaches are told, ‘I’m not marking him, he's too good’ or that ‘we’re going to the disco tonight and so won’t make the match’ while another says ‘I’m going to a soccer match the night before the final’. Because they are young lads, they don’t have the experience. It’s all about negotiations, belief, will, the strength and keeping the routines the same because the occasion can get into one’s head.

Wanting new boots, the cut socks, the new haircut and to eat protein, I explain not to change anything, go with the same routine and all will be fine. The humour frequently changes too; one can see the nervousness but also the excitement, one can see the fear but also the ambition, one can see the heartache of grandad not being there but the message to the uncle to say they will do it for grandad. It indicates to me he’s okay.

Tomorrow, life will go on, one must get up early, one must go to school, the homework must be done, but for this evening it’s like walking on eggshells. You want things to be normal but you also want the time just to arrive.

We sit and have the tea. I bring up everything but the match. I keep an eye on the clock. My husband, crazy busy all day, rushes home and the panic is on to head for Castlebar. With no time to eat, I send him on his way with tea and sandwiches. I can breathe – the boys are gone and they’re okay, for now!

A chance to get all ready for the morning because no matter what happens this evening, the morning will arrive, school will be open, lunches will be needed, and uniforms will have to be washed.

The phones are hopping, family are on, asking what time is throw-in. Everything gets put back for the game of football; work for some is left early, a family change a flight, the sheep are fed two hours ahead of time. When living in a rural village everyone knows everyone. It’s not often there’s a county final and even on a Tuesday evening the parish shuts down because the GAA is the heart of the community. It’s where the lads hang out, it’s the social scene for every generation, it’s a pastime that can be enjoyed away from technology, where friendship is real, where enemies are friends and where the entertainment is real.

We leave on time. I drive through the parish, the flags fly high. I call for mam, it’s a beautiful evening. On arrival to MacHale Park, there is a county final buzz around the place. We meet some who played with and against my dad, others who played with and against my husband, with and against my brother and with and against myself. Because the game of ball is also about history and tradition. It’s full of emotions and it brings back memories. Bitter defeats are remembered, the victories smiled about, and the neighbouring parishes come out for the look.

In some ways nothing has changed. The boots don’t matter, the gloves look more modern but do the same job, the jerseys are tighter, but the numbers stay the same. The ball must still be won, the scores must be taken, and the goal defended. But the facilities are amazing. MacHale Park is opened for three underage finals. The flood-lights are on and the national anthem is played.

This evening in our county town, the scoreboard says we lost but there were many gains; a small parish was represented with pride, it was a brilliant game of football, no one got injured and the journey lives on.

“Mam, the under-15s is starting next week and we’ve a great team.” “Ye sure do and whatever happens, remember football is a simple game.” As grandad said, ‘It’s not the jersey, it’s the man that wears it!’ 

 If you get the jersey, wear it with pride.