My life as a GAA widow

Michelle Murphy laments her life with a GAA obsessed / addicted boyfriend

I SWORE it would never happen to me. Growing up I watched the life my mother had at the hands of my father and vowed that that would never be my lot. The cravings, the all-consuming obsession, the constant search for the next fix.

No, I vowed, that will not be the life I choose. And yet, here I am: a modern, educated, thirty-something woman in exactly the same situation my mother found herself in over fifty years earlier. It’s strange: no matter how hard one tries to break the cycle, sometimes history just seems determined to repeat itself.

I know I am not alone in my plight. I know that the choice to stay or leave is mine and mine alone. I know that my boyfriend has to ‘own’ his problem - that unless he admits he has an addiction and needs assistance that nothing and nobody can help him. And yet, I keep hoping that things will change despite all evidence to the contrary.

Sundays are the worst with a full day stretching out in front of him. He always says it’ll just be for a couple of hours but deep down, in my heart of hearts, I know this not to be the case.

And so I wait at home, often with just the dog to keep me company, never quite sure what kind of a mood to expect him in when he eventually returns home.

You see, my boyfriend is a GAA addict. At first, he tried to hide his addiction and I was more than happy to go along with the charade. If he seemed to spend a little too long on his smart phone, checking results and fixtures, well, what of it. Didn’t most men enjoy watching sport? It was his way of unwinding, I reasoned, after a long week in work.

And sure, he did seem to watch an inordinate amount of televised GAA, particularly on Sundays but he assured me he could stop any time he wanted.

And if, on a recent foreign holiday, it felt at times, that there was, to paraphrase the late Princess Diana, three people in our relationship — my boyfriend, myself, and Brian Cody — so engrossed was he in the latter’s autobiography which he brought as pool-side reading, well too much time together isn’t always healthy, is it?

If only there was somewhere he could go for help with his addiction – some kind of twelve step programme. G-AA perhaps. I mean, God knows most hurling strongholds have access to state-of-the-art community halls these days where meetings could take place.

I can imagine my boyfriend, standing up and introducing himself to his fellow addicts. Telling them how he had his first taste of GAA as a young child, how growing up in his family, it was normal, that all the men in his house were involved in hurling and that he assumed every family was the same. How that it was only as time went on, when he’d left home and got a job that he realised not every family was like his.

He’d have to admit to being powerless over the back-door system and the black card.

Equally, maybe the GPA (Gaelic Players Association) could look at setting up a support group for the wives and girlfriends of GAA addicts:

G-Al Anon. In it we’d share stories of how our lives have been adversely affected by our loved ones addiction — how holidays abroad have to be meticulously planned so as not to coincide with The Championship. And if for some reason this can’t be avoided, how Irish sports bars showing live coverage have to be Googled in advance so that the match can be watched whilst overseas.

We’d learn that those who are closest to the GAA addict often suffer the most — the weekends spent languishing in pubs, watching the minors on TG4, masquerading as going on a date: “sure didn’t I buy you lunch?” The lure of an admittedly delicious home-cooked meal only to realise that it’s all just a ploy, to, yep, you guessed it, stay in for the evening to watch The Sunday Game.

Just recently though, I’ve been feeling optimistic. Autumn will soon be upon us, marking the end of inter-county season. Maybe, just maybe, the winds of change will gently blow through our relationship, signalling the demise of my beloved’s GAA addiction. I know it won’t be easy, as any addiction counsellor will tell you; the person has to really want to change. Nevertheless, it would be a start — we could, to use Twelve Step programme parlance, take one day at a time.

My boyfriend smiles as he unwittingly dashes any burgeoning hope: “....But sure then the club championships start”

God grant me the serenity......