We don’t play to reach heights, we play to avoid lows
“Whatever you do boys,” he would say, “Don’t let those shower of b*****ds beat you.”
If a survey was conducted into the most popular statements in the GAA, then the chairman’s favourite would probably top the poll.
Anyone who has ever played football or hurling will have left a house or run on to a pitch with those words ringing in their ears.
In many ways, this exhortation embodies the primary motivation of all GAA teams, which is to avoid defeat.
In this respect, the GAA is different to most other sports, where the main objective is to win.
But the GAA is different. It’s parochial. It’s tribal. It’s war without pikes.
Having played the game, I’ve had the experience of winning and losing — but mostly losing.
And yes, winning is good. As they say in today’s parlance, it’s ‘sweet’. That description is particularly accurate as it conveys the sense of well-being and satisfaction which follows a victory.
However, the pleasure of winning is never commensurate with the crippling pain of defeat.
Losing is sickening. It’s agony. It’s poison. Losing to parish neighbours is worse again. There are men who take at least a week to recover from a bad result. Some women never really got over it.
Contrary to popular belief, the worst part of losing doesn’t come at the final whistle.
Like any crash, the flood of adrenaline coursing through the veins provides a certain amount of anaesthetic. Fatigue also helps to numb the initial pain.
While the immediate aftermath is highly unpleasant, the real torture is only beginning.
The first course of suffering is served back in the changing room. This is when the full reality of the situation comes into sharp focus.
Having returned to the sanctuary of four walls, the tumult of the pitch fades and the only noise is the clacking of studs, the hiss of showers, and the odd, random expletive.
Following defeat, a room that was filled with aggression and attitude is replaced with a space where all energy is sucked dry. Players who were bouncing on their toes sit slumped in total dejection. Everyone converses in half whispers. The only interruption to this muffled silence will be the intermittent slamming of the door. (Only master tradesmen should be allowed to hang doors in GAA changing rooms).
Some players can’t cope with this atmosphere and race outside. But their bid to escape is futile. Their hasty exit will only provide a temporary reprieve. No man can escape his head.
The misery will continue unabated on the journey home. While supporters use the car trip to vent anger and identify various culprits, players and managers don’t have this luxury.
Ultimately, they know that responsibility for defeat lies with them.
They realise the disappointment the result will have caused their family and friends. Before they enter the blame game, they must sit quietly, shoulder the guilt, and wonder what is being said about them in the post-mortems.
I was 10 when I tasted my first major defeat. It was the first round of the South Derry U12 Championship. I played left corner-back. I held my man scoreless. It made no difference. Kilrea still trounced us. I went home and cried my eyes out. Back then, I had no complaints to make about our manager, the referee, or fellow team-mates. It was just pure unadulterated remorse. A few minutes after the tears had dried, I was grand.
Nowadays, I no longer cry, but that’s not to say I’ve become any more accepting of defeat.
Nothing could be further from the truth. With age, it’s got worse. Most people I know are the same.
In more recent years, the real torment only gets under way several hours after the game is over. This is when the internal replay button refuses to stop.
The obvious conclusion to draw from such an experience is that quitting is the only sensible course of action. Surely, it’s better to cut your losses and take up gardening or golf.
During the past few weekends, hundreds of players and managers who have suffered defeats in county finals will have toyed with that very idea.
But time is a great healer. And as the weeks pass by, recovery will kick in. The hurt will then make way for a deep-seated desire to remedy previous mistakes and to exact revenge.
For most people involved in the GAA, quitting just isn’t an option. So, they press on. They keep going. Because next year is going to be different. And next year, they’ll do whatever it takes to avoid yet another long, dark night of the soul.
