Julie Jay: My five-year-old’s first trip to Croke Park was a cracker

When a town wins the All-Ireland final, it’s not just the players at the pitch who win, but everyone, whether its the child blowing his horn or the 40-something-year-old woman like me who’s never kicked a ball in her life

Dingle's Mikey Geaney celebrates kicking the winning point at the All-Ireland Club Senior Football Championship Final between Dingle and St Brigid's. Photo: INPHO/James Crombie

LAST week was Number One’s first trip to Croke Park, and boy was it worth the nine-hour round trip to our nation’s capital.

By the time we arrived in the stadium, the hurling was in its final moments, with our Munster cousins Ballygunner coming out on top. After the fanfare had died down, we took our place for the football game, and I was mortified immediately. Not by any wayward behaviour from Number One, but because our seats were way too good for the likes of me, a woman who had never kicked a ball in her life.

We were sat directly behind the television cameraman, a mere three rows from the pitch, and I straight away started scanning the crowd to see if anyone I knew from Dingle wanted to swap seats with me, such was the level of guilt I felt at our prime position.

However, when Number One realised that not only could we watch the game IRL but also technically watch it on the telly at the same time (the cameraman very kindly let him have a gawk), there was no budging him.

Between his love of cameras and his love of canteen conversations, if I don’t manage to bag him some TY work experience in RTÉ, it will be an almighty travesty — though sadly for Number One, whose dad occasionally works there, I think the national broadcaster no longer operates on nepotism.

I won’t even attempt to go into the minutiae of the game, because my current boss and principal Eamonn Fitzmaurice, who writes for this very paper, has got that topic covered, and I’d be fuming if he decided to discuss parenting issues next week.

So, I will just say this: It was simply the best football match I have ever witnessed. There was nothing between the two sides, and every time one team went ahead, the other gang was hot on their heels, bringing the equaliser.

Number One had a horn he was allowed to blow if and when Dingle scored, and blow it he did.

The Roscommon man behind us was so well versed in football that Number One ended up enjoying an accidental grind in sports commentary, repeating his encouragements verbatim, “settle into it, stick with it, add on, take it handy” with all the sincerity of a five-year-old who is still trying to master his own high kicks. 

It would have been a little humorous but for the gravity of his tone, the weight of his command, signalling that he truly wanted nothing more than a win for his Dingle.

During extra time, Number One came up with a deception tactic where he kept calling the opposition’s footballers telling them to “look over here” — but it is a testament to their professionalism that they didn’t look over to the kid in the Dingle hat even once, even when he waved his horn. Amateur sport, my eye — these guys are fully dedicated to the craft.

Dingle's Conor Geaney at the GAA Football Senior Club Championship final against St Brigid's at Croke Park. Photo: Seb Daly/Sportsfile

In the last three seconds of the game, Mikey Geaney scored the winner for Dingle. Number One and I nearly lost our minds, and we even managed to stay for the first half of Paul Geaney, the Dingle captain’s incredible speech — before a hint of crankiness appeared in my little guy, who had been as good as gold considering he had been sitting outdoors for over three hours, with only a horn and the best football match of the century to keep him entertained.

Driving home to Kerry, Number One was asleep before we had even hit the Red Mile Roundabout. All the way down, I thought back to the afternoon and the way it felt to be there. To cheer on a team and the power of feeling part of a place.

When we finally landed home, the town was eerily quiet, with anyone with any sense at all having stayed above in Dublin.

Lifting him out of the car, he whispered in my ear: 

Mammy, my Dingle won.

“They sure did pet,” I whispered back, as I carried him to our front door.

“They made everyone so happy,” he said, and in that moment, I felt the emotions of the victory. Because when a town wins the All-Ireland final, it’s not just the players on the pitch who win, but everyone, whether it’s the child blowing his horn or the 40-something-year-old woman who’s never kicked a ball in her life. They haven’t just given us joy, but a license to be joyful. What a priceless, priceless thing.

Except, of course, if you were on the other team. Then it wasn’t a win, but a soul-crushing disappointment, especially for kids. Seeing their devastated tears on the day did temper the joy a little for me, but only momentarily — as I remembered that, unlike us, they had a mere 90-minute trip home to face into, leaving them more than enough time to make it home for Room To Improve.

Poc ar Buile

As I lie awake after the surreal journey home, a little wired from it all, I think back to the Poc ar Buile blaring in Croke Park, the sheer enormity of it all, and recall the last time I heard that song play on the streets of Dingle. 

An American tourist at the time had asked me if the late Seán Ó Sé’s classic hit was about the War of Independence. And I had said yes because it was easier than telling her it was actually about a goat.

Still, it is an appropriate animal to be singing about when celebrating a Dingle win because this team truly are the greatest of all time, just ask any five-year-old who, on his first trip to Croker, got to blow his horn 23 times. What joy.