Esther McCarthy: Cork v Dublin was an opportunity for a family memory
Later as the boys are settling in in the back of the car, the 10-year-old says sleepily: “I think that was one of the best days of my life.”
We’re trying a new thing as a family this summer — vowing not to murder each other.
It’s an annual thing, something I heard in a podcast, or read somewhere — I don’t know, it’s a minor miracle it stayed in my brain at all, ok, leave me alone.
It’s about a little vocabulary change and redirecting your perspective.
So instead of saying ‘We have to...” we’re all trying to change it to “We get to....”
When our prebooked taxi didn’t turn up recently, and the impatience and the ‘for feck’s sakes’ started, we did the “We get to...” script.
“We get to be together in the sun, with no school or work to worry about.”
“We get to play thumbs wars with each other.”
“We get to eat ice cream while we wait.”
I used it myself recently, when we were trying to get to the Cork V Dublin hurling semi-finals in Croke Park.
“It’s such a lovely thing to do as a family, isn’t it,” I say, as five of us hover over two laptops, phones, and some carrier pigeons in the minutes leading up to Ticketmaster releasing the tickets.
It’s the 16-year-old who secures four seats altogether as I try mashing my fists into the keyboard in panic as the little blips turn from green to red.
“Oh no!” I say as he confirms the purchase. “That’s one short. Don’t worry, I’ll stay at home. Ye go.”
I Revolut him the cash feeling magnanimous and martyr-ish, while thinking of a full Saturday with a guilt-free free gaff.
Already picking out my elasticated pants, I send him the €240. In the stampede online, I forgot it was real money, but as I’m trying to not buy any new clothes for 2025, I’ll take my dopamine kicks where I can find them.
“No, these are for ye. The lads have my ticket,” says the teenager. “We’re going on the bus.”
On one hand, he’s doing what we’ve reared him to do. He’s independent, organised, and prefers the company of his peers.
On the other hand, instead of a lie-in, the papers, five croissants, and coffee, my Saturday is now looking like hangsangers, traffic, and the torment of parking in Dublin.
But my training kicks in.
“We get to spend the day together in Dublin!” Not an utterance you’re likely to hear too often out of the gob of a Cork woman but there you go.
We vow to hit the road early and it works a treat. We’re up in no time, into the park and ride by 10am.
“We get to ride the Luas!” I say enthusiastically, as two huge dudes that look like oak trees with heads and stab vests check our tickets.
We make a day of it. We go to Dream Point in the Docklands, we have a brilliant bashy balloon fight, take pictures of ourselves in an upside down house, and write UP CORK in big letters in the glow art corridor.
Oh, and we get to swim in a giant ball pit, and it’s such a laugh.
Then we walk to O’Connell Street and watch the marchers, protesting the State’s housing policies.
“When housing rights are under attack,” a loudspeaker booms and the crowds chant back: “Stand up, fight back!” We get to be grateful for a roof over our heads.
We check out Foot Locker and the big Easons, and we wave into the portal. Then we get to join the sea of red and white as we make our way to Croke Park. We join in the chants of our own tribes,
Oh to, oh to be, oh to be a REBEL. We meet friends, and share photos in the family WhatsApp of our progress towards the Davin Stand.
And then I get to see the 10-year old’s face explode with joy at every point, and I get to hug him and thump his back. We jump and roar for every CÚL that lights up the stadium.
Afterwards we float on the atmosphere and the bonhomie and we end up in the city centre again, and get to have dinner in the coolest place ever.
Like it’s ridiculously cool. If it were a person, it would pee icecubes while quoting Fran Lebowitz. There’s a live DJ, the staff look like they’ve been scouted from a music video, and the pizza oven has an EU award. If I’d known, I might have panicked about my look.
But hey, we’re in Cork jerseys — and we four sweaty, sneakered boggers slow-moed into that hip restaurant like Warren Beatty boarding a yacht. We get to make absolute piggies of ourselves in Little Pyg, reliving every point with sauce-covered fingers and zero shame.
Later as the boys are settling in in the back of the car, the 10-year-old says sleepily: “I think that was one of the best days of my life.”
And I got to be there for it. And we get to play to Tipperary in the finals next Saturday. We likely won’t score tickets, but we’ll watch it together wherever we are. HON THE REBELS.
