Memories of All-Ireland Sundays

One of my fondest childhood memories is of waking up most winter mornings to the smell of hot milk and cornflakes or porridge wafting up the stairs. The source of this smell was my father. The accompanist to his early morning pre work potterings was the crackle of the old radio which was usually tuned to something boring (to my young years), something like, RTÉ Radio 1.

As with everything, and especially with the passing of time, you end up inheriting a lot of your father's mannerisms and enjoyments. Yes, I am now at the age where I can say I enjoy the placid circumlocutory of RTÉ Radio 1. In particular, there's one show I always attempt to listen to aboard, and that is Sunday Sport.

I love listening to Sunday Sport, especially during the GAA season, more specifically, during the All-Ireland Hurling Championship series. Like many an expat, I find great solace with the familiar, with thoughts of home, the accents, the mannerisms, and the callouts to those listening at home and abroad. Nothing in the world transports me back quite like the commentary on hurling matches. Not only does it transport me home, but it almost transports me to something more tangible, my past, my childhood memories.

I always remember the excitement of travelling up to Dublin to watch my county, Kilkenny, or my father's beloved Tipperary, go to battle for honour and silverware. The whole pomp and ceremony of the event. The early morning start, sometimes with a visit to the local church to try to get the big man onside for the day, the packing of the car with, jackets, umbrellas, flasks of tea or bottles of soft drinks and sandwiches (usually ham) and crisps. The excitement of putting on your team's colours, decking the car out with flags and your county’s paraphernalia, the banter (especially rapid if it was Kilkenny and Tipp) between car occupants. The radio with the pre-match build-up droning in the background, the excitement of seeing fellow fans, or rival fans, joining the motorway en route to the capital and the beeping of horns to signal the new arrivals and building excitement.

Once the parking was out of the way, you were immersed in the noise and excitement of the walk towards the citadel of the GAA, HQ, Croke Park. Watching the droves of fans (usually up from the country) milling about sometimes looking confused while the natives tried to convince them of a 'safe spot up the road' for parking. My dad and uncles would often bemoan the cost of parking nowadays, and regale us with tales of days when you paid no more than a pound or two for parking. We would also hear stories of our grandfathers cycling up to the games, but not before milking the cows prior to departure.

When the sandwiches and tea were consumed, it was on to the pre-match pub/(s) visits, a part of the day I suspect the adults in attendance looked forward to the most outside of the game itself. Us children were seated somewhere out of the way and subdued with glasses of Coke and packets of crisps.

Meanwhile, the adults went about the most important part of the day, propping the bar and downing pints while discussing the match ahead or games long ago. The favourites; the form guide; the lack of wristy hurlers; great teams and rivalries of the past and detailed postmortems of wins and losses. Sometimes voices were raised, but there were never fights. After all, and most importantly, we were all Irish, and the fighting could be left to the football 'fans' across the Irish Sea.

As you inevitably got bored of the pub you'd sneak outside and watch the streams of fans heading up the Jones' road, awash with colour and chatter. The refrain from the local vendors hung in the air - "get your hats, scarves, flags and headbands, three for a fiver...get your flags, scarves, hats/headbands..." as did the smells wafting from the nearby burger and chip vans. Suddenly, the packed bodies inside the pub would start shuffling out as the minor game came to its conclusion. That was the sign that we were ready to move on.

I loved getting my first glimpse of Croker, an impressive structure that towers over its surrounding buildings, and as you got closer, it seemed to take over the sky. The tension and excitement became almost unbearable as you rounded spots like Lowry's pub on Summerhill Parade. Once inside Croker, for my father, one of the most important steps of the day was to locate a match programme. Once firmly clasped in his hand, we moved to our seats. The younger/cooler members of the travelling party would head to 'The Hill', and depending on the weather, get drowned with rain, or on the rare occasion, sunburnt.

As the sweets were handed out, our attention would shift to the Artane Boys Band. When they appeared on the pitch, you knew things were about to get serious. In between, my father would pour over the programme and give his verdict on the team, either cursing or lamenting an inclusion/exclusion. It was always a source of great pride if one of your clubmen made the team - you always saved your loudest cheer for those players. There always seemed to be a micro-silence just before the teams ran onto the pitch (or bounded onto the pitch like spring calves let out to grass). The cheering and roaring reached deafening levels as your team ran onto the pitch and your county flags shot up into the air.

The adrenaline surging through the players’ veins would barely abate as they sat down or stood impatiently for the team photo and the resulting march behind the band. Then the cheering would be broken by the almost reverential pause for Amhrán na bhFiann. Then the ref would gather the players as he prepared to throw in the ball, wisely taking a step back, as the counties drew first blood and pulled hard on the thrown ball. The excitement thick in the air as the hopes and failures of the year hung on the next 70 minutes of all-consuming action.

These memories always flood my mind when listening to Sunday Sport from my sitting room in the Middle East. The power of the commentator's voice, the passion, the soliloquies, the emotion, the scene setting, the roar of the crowd in the background. On Sunday last, I was enthralled, as a neutral, listening to the All-Ireland semi-final between Cork and Waterford. If I closed my eyes, I could imagine being there amongst the masses. Watching the Déise and the Rebels going toe-to-toe, watching 'The Rock' and 'Big Dan' renewing old rivalries on the sideline.

Hopefully, come the first Sunday of September, I'll be attending the All-Ireland Final for the first time since I left home. I’m hoping to get tickets, but I presume they'll be like gold dust for the unique pairing of Galway and Waterford. Hopefully, my father and I can go like the old times, but this time also bring along my Australian wife. More than anything, I'd love her to experience the grandeur of an All-Ireland final day. Now it's just a question of sourcing tickets and who to shout for?

My last attended All-Ireland in 2010. 

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