Increased education has not doused ‘sanctioned violence’
Why do GAA matches end up in fights? asks
There used to be a view out there in certain circles that it was all to do with the insularity of growing up in a rural area and that a good dose of education — rounded off by a glimpse of the world out beyond the hedges — would put an end to all the badness.
Basically, get the savages out of their native heaths and civilise them.
When you look at Ireland on the eve of the arrival of free second-level education, you can see how strongly that view held sway.
In the mid-1960s, only 36% of the children who left primary school were still in education at the age of 16.
Looking back across five decades, that is a remarkable fact.
Many of those who left school headed straight from the schoolhouse into the fields; many more headed for the boat and the plane and pitched up in the vast Irish enclaves in Birmingham and Boston and beyond.
In 1964, the land they left behind was subjected to a fascinating report, The Limerick Rural Survey, which was published by Muintir na Tíre.
The report offers a unique insight into life in the Republic of Ireland’s rural communities.
In the middle of the report, there is an article on social structure in county Limerick. It is written by Patrick McNabb, then a recent graduate of the School of Philosophy in University College, Dublin.
As part of his explanation on how rural communities in Limerick were organised, McNabb grappled with the place of the GAA.
More than that, he looked at the meaning of hurling and how it was central — as he saw it — to how people were perceived.
McNabb wrote that hurling was essential to have “an understanding of the deep-rooted psychological attitudes of this community… The community was deeply involved in the fate of its hurling team. The inter-parish matches were the clearest demonstration of community consciousness and loyalty; spectators were not only prepared to cheer for their team, but were ready, and even willing, to fight for it”.
According to McNabb, mere love of the game did not explain the passion for hurling: “The inter-parish matches acted as a safety-valve... The insecure community needs assurance that it is not inferior. Success is of vital importance to it. Since to this community material success was unobtainable, the only means of bolstering the ego was through the success of the parish team. The parish team was a symbol of unity and self-consciousness. Its success was vital.”
Within this hurling unity, class was considered an irrelevance: “The good player, whatever his class, has a special status in the community. His position is somewhat like that of a university student; the community is lenient towards his transgressions and indulges his whims.”
And this was a man’s world: “The hurling match expresses that combination of physical toughness and egotism which is the ideal of the bachelor groups. Skill is of less importance to the male spectator than spirit. Spirit means courage, nerve, showmanship and willingness. It is the Odysseus-like player who is admired and with whom the male spectator identifies”.
McNabb considered that the interest of women in the sport was born of a different motivation: “Girls are also keen followers of hurling. One may see groups of girls at every hurling match and they are often more enthusiastic than men... They are attracted by the opportunity for frank appraisal of the male form which is permitted by the community”.
There are some obvious truths in some of what McNabb wrote and it is obviously shaped by the mores of its time, but there are elements of this piece that are typical of the nonsense that too often informs sociological analysis of life outside the city.
For example, this nonsense can be found in the idea that the passion for hurling — and the related willingness to fight — can be explained, at least in part, because ‘the insecure community needs assurance that it is not inferior’.
And, of course, as we all know, the capacity for sport to descend into violence did not disappear with the arrival of material prosperity or other supposed markers of progress and security.
Instead, it is fostered by something much more elemental – it is that same elemental thing that ensured that rugby matches played in the affluent suburbs of south Dublin meant so much to the people involved in the game and could also end in violence (or the threat thereof) as the minutes of the meetings of the Leinster Branch of the IRFU in that same decade of the 1960s frequently attest.
By the way, perhaps the most violent — or potentially violent — incident to take place on a rugby field came back in the 1920s when Trinity College, Dublin were playing Blackrock College in College Park.
This game was always a huge social occasion for the great and good of the city.
In the mid-1920s, however, as a disciplinary committee of the IRFU heard, there was a particularly tasty match and at half-time, the Blackrock touch judge “informed the referee that he had a revolver with him and that he would plug him (the referee) if he attempted to give a wrong decision against Blackrock”.
There was no plugging, but the point stands that the idea of moving men and women from the country to the city to civilise their behaviour on the playing fields was never going to hold water.
Which leaves us with education. Five decades on from the introduction of free second level education, Ireland has one of the highest rates of second-level completion in the EU.
Now, in 2018, more than 90% of the population of the country completes the Leaving Cert.
More than that, the last census shows that 56% of people aged between 15 and 39 now possess a third-level qualification.
This compares with just 19% of those aged 65 and over. Indeed, for that age group, less than 40% of people are educated only to primary school level.
So you couldn’t seriously argue that people staying longer in education has been much of a factor. This is not even to mention the fact that the Fitzgibbon and Sigerson Cups have been known to stage some fairly frantic fights.
When it comes down to it, the issue involves the capacity of a sport to manage aggression. It is true that games are demonstrations of skill, teamwork, tactics and character. But competitive sport also demands a level of aggression. And in physical contact sports, that aggression is essential — it might be considered, at the edges of the rules, a sort of sanctioned violence.
The word ‘sanctioned’ matters there, however. The only thing that stops fighting tipping over the edge into lawlessness is a proper disciplinary system that is equitably run across an organisation and which is not just fair but is also seen to be fair.
That being said, it’s only been 131 years since the first county championships were organised — no need to rush into anything.
Paul Rouse is Associate Professor of History at University College, Dublin and his book, The Hurlers is now on sale.
