Talking football more fun than watching
Fortunately, I’ve been too busy. But, truth be told, if I had the time, and there was an opportunity to catch a match or two, I still think I’d pass.
That might seem like a strange confession. For more than 15 years, I spent nearly every Sunday in life covering a match. Starting with the McKenna Cup in January, there was the never-ending national league, followed quickly by the championship, then the club. And I enjoyed all of it, particularly the awful All Star exhibition games, and the International Rules, more so the tours in Australia.
Yet, now that I’ve stopped, I can honestly state that I’m not missing the press box in the slightest.
Well, that’s not strictly true. I miss the camaraderie. I miss the chat, the craic and the bonhomie of liked-minded individuals. That’s irreplaceable.
What I don’t miss is the actual games. Fifteen men stuck behind a ball. Fist pass. Fist pass. Fist pass.
Yes, it’s clever, effective and well coached. But as a spectacle, it stinks.
Just reflect for a moment on this year’s football Championship. Try to identify five contests which left you with your heart in your mouth and your bum on the edge of the seat.
I know. It’s extremely difficult. Apart from the games between Dublin and Mayo, it was a pretty mundane season. Then again, last year was similar too.
Aside from the two games between Kerry and Mayo, little else lingers in the memory.
For all the television coverage, column inches and endless debate – that doesn’t seem like a very fair return.
Then again, maybe it’s us columnists and pundits who bleat on repeatedly about the paucity of quality and entertainment who are really missing the point.
The question that needs to be asked is this: has is ever been any different? In the end, it’s all about the promise of an epic contest and the opportunity which that provides for discussion. What happens isn’t really that important.
That particular theory was reinforced by one of my customers last week.
A regular trainer who never misses a session, ‘John’ informed me last Thursday he wouldn’t be attending the class I run every Sunday morning.
“I won’t be there,” he said unapologetically.
“Why’s that?” I enquired, curious about his uncharacteristic absence.
“Crossmaglen and Kilcoo,” replied John with a gleaming smile.
It should be noted at this juncture John isn’t a native of either parish. And the glint in his eye and the grin on his face wasn’t borne out of a desire to see a beautiful game. John went to the Marshes to see a battle.
Before he headed home, we talked about what might happen in Newry. It was a typical football conversation. They’re strong in that department. They’re weak in that sector. He’s good. He’s not so good. They’ll play like this. They’ll play like that. A multitude of scenarios was dissected and discussed.
But it was the promise of a full- blooded, no-holds-barred storm which was the real draw for John.
While I was slightly envious of my his enthusiasm, I suspected John was going to be disappointed.
Even the old-fashioned thumping matches aren’t what they used to be. Back in the day, when two clubs developed a seething rivalry, the paying spectator had a fair idea of what he was going to get.
I’ll never forget seeing Newbridge and Ballinderry. It was the 80s. Even by the standards of the time, the drawn match was particularly savage. The first match attracted a few thousand. For the replay, they came in their droves from all over Ulster. Again, those were different times. There was an honesty about the unlawful methods of the past.
Men hit each other. More often than not, they didn’t make any great secret about it. If the offence was spotted, and the referee wasn’t sufficiently terrorised, a red card was shown.
Players are no longer so naïve. A red card is too costly. So players seek to hurt, maim and provoke by other means. They bite, they gouge, they insult and they taunt. Corner-boy stuff. It’s not a pretty sight.
In terms of the perfect blend of physicality and football, the 2005 All-Ireland semi-final between Tyrone and Armagh was Gaelic football at its zenith. The game was unspeakably fast, the hits were bone-shattering and the intensity never relented.
However, as Dublin, then Kerry and now finally Mayo, have adopted the defensive system, the game has lost a good deal of its lustre.
And yet attendances continue to increase and the appetite for previewing and reviewing games shows no sign of abating.
On Sunday night, I sent John a message via WhatsApp enquiring about his trip to Newry.
“What sort of game was it?” “Shite,” came the instant response. “The ball was in play for about 15 minutes.” And yet when John comes to the gym later this week, we’ll still spend chat about that game or another one.
And maybe that’s the way it has always been. Gaelic football has never been a consistently great spectacle, but it gives us something to talk about – and that’s the main thing.
