Al Pacino, Cork u-21 football and passion in sport

WE ARE driving to Páirc Uí Rinn to see a lad we know play in a Cork under-21’s football final.

It is a first for me (yes I know it’s important to open your mind before you close it and all that, but opening my mind to sport has always felt exactly like opening my mind to aubergines, which I’ve never liked, nor ever will.)

In the car, we’re listening to Al Pacino’s pre-match “inch by inch” motivational tirade from the sports film, Any Given Sunday. The lad we know lent it to my husband.

My husband hopes it might get me over my constitutional aversion to sport and “into the spirit of things”, even though he and I both know I’m always going to remain that person least likely in the world to say, “We were robbed”. Even after listening to good ol’ Al.

Pacino thinks life is a game of inches, and so is football. He booms about life, death, football and inches all the way to Cork. He’s so convincing that by the time we get to Páirc Uí Rinn, I think life is a game of inches and so is football, too. In fact I don’t just think it is. I know it is.

I’ve had a low-grade, nervous sort of feeling ever since we switched on Pacino, but as we park outside the grounds, this feeling intensifies badly.

“I’ve got a funny feeling,” I tell my husband, “I think I might be… pumped.”

I hope the funny feeling will dissipate once we get inside, but by the time I reach the big concrete steps (that’s ‘stands’ to you), my feeling has intensified; not only am I thinking about inches, I’m also thinking in Pacino’s voice; I’m thinking this is the biggest battle of our lives and it all comes down to today. I’m thinking that on this team, we must fight for that inch; we must tear ourselves, and everyone else around us to pieces for that inch.

I’m thinking this even though I’ve forgotten the name of the opposition and don’t know which team is wearing what colour. (He’s good, Pacino, very good.)

“Which team is our team?” I ask my husband.

“We’re in the green and red,” he says tersely.

“And which way are we shooting?”

“That way,” he points, “the direction our team is running in now.”

“Oh.”

I look about. I recognise many faces but this is a disturbing sensation since most of them look like they want to stab someone.

Even the man from the post office looks like he wants to stab someone. I think he’s from the post office but I could be wrong; it’s hard to tell, what with his murderous expression and all.

By chance and great good fortune, I locate my eldest daughter’s boyfriend and family, who are neither screaming or swearing but simply looking like their usual selves. Boyfriend is just smiling at me and looks to me like a safe port in a storm.

“We must claw with our finger nails for that inch,” I think, as I approach them, “because we know, when we add up all those inches, that’s gonna make the f**king difference between winning and losing, between living and dying.”

It’s very dislocating, I must say, to feel so strongly about life, death, football and inches, when you don’t understand the rules of the game.

“What are the rules?” I ask boyfriend.

He explains.

“Oh I seeeee, it’s like a cross between rugby and soccer,” I say, “kind of like a fusion thing. You can score a goal and a try.”

He looks blank and pauses. Then he says, “Umm, not really,” and looks lost for words.

It all goes very well for the red and greens for a while. And then it all goes very wrong. From everyone’s shouting, I gather this has something to do with the ref. But nothing that anyone is shouting makes any difference at all. Inside, I scream either we can stay here and get the shit kicked out of us, or we can fight our way back into the light but this makes no difference either.

When the final whistle blows, the crowd looks terribly, terribly upset in itself, but not as upset as a couple of the red and greens down the far end of the pitch, who look like they’re throwing punches at the ref.

I don’t blame them. We were robbed.