Spineless supporters sour day to remember

“REMEMBER lads, it’s only April!”

Big Dan Shanahan winked at us in the corridor under Nowlan Park after Waterford’s injury-time one-point win over Tipp in the second NHL quarter-final.

Only April, but what a feast of hurling we witnessed along with nearly 14,000 short-sleeved fans in Kilkenny GAA’s under-exposed crown jewel.

There were two gripping quarter-finals, the first featuring a superb defensive display by a rejuvenated Wexford in a top-class win over Galway, the second that late, late win by Waterford over injury-hit Tipperary. And yet, amid all that joy, a sour note.

As the Wexford/Galway game reached its conclusion, a few of the thousands of Wexford fans began to vent some obnoxious venom on Galway boss Ger Loughnane.

Faces contorted, fists waved as they hurled their abuse towards the sideline figure of Loughnane.

The irony was that the man himself almost certainly couldn’t hear. His focus was very much on what was happening inside the white lines. Compounding the disappointment over this kind of puerile behaviour, however, was that these guys (and one woman) weren’t boozed up youngsters, but respectable-looking and late middle-aged individuals.

Why? Why do people go to games and feel the need to abuse others? Sometimes it’s the opposition — players, mentors, fans – sometimes it’s their own. Why? It’s something I could never understand.

I have a simple enough overall philosophy, a simple enough approach to life. Just do your best.

Take what the gods gave you and make the most of it. Be as honest and as open as you can with yourself and with others; respect yourself, respect everyone else; LIKE yourself — this is critical, you’ve GOT to like yourself — and like everyone else. Leaving yourself open, you’re going to get caught by the occasional baddie.

In liking everyone, you’re going to be taken advantage of, occasionally. But it’s worth it.

You see people like those abusing Ger Loughnane in Nowlan Park, people on television spewing their bile in the general direction of the opposition, and it’s depressing.

Why couldn’t those few Wexford fans last Sunday (and I want to stress, it was only a few, and those few are in every county) just have sat back and basked in the glory of their resurgence under new manager John Meyler? That evening I went to the comfort of The Kilkenny Hotel to finish off the match report of the Waterford/Tipp game, and met a couple of Wexford supporters. They were thrilled, delighted, surprised, enjoying the ride their hurlers are giving them this year.

Why can’t we all have the same attitude to sport, to life? We can all criticise, yes, we can all complain, and there’s nothing wrong with that — it can even be therapeutic. But abuse? Vitriol?

I don’t care how much you paid at the gate, no-one is entitled to inflict that on anyone, and I’m a little disappointed in myself I didn’t stand — even from the press box — and challenge those few.

I have long been an admirer of Ger Loughnane, what he did for Clare in the 90s. He could have sat back and cashed in on that reputation and was already doing very well for himself in print and on TV. But he didn’t. He has put back on the tracksuit, gone back into the furnace to take his chances yet again. In doing so, he has put that reputation on the line.

Surely, surely, such a move deserves only our admiration?

The venomous will cry that he’s being well paid for it, the same thing they would say about Tony Considine in Clare and about a host of other managers in many other codes. No, I say; even if the likes of Loughnane and Considine weren’t making sacrifices of their own, nothing entitles anyone to offer abuse, not of managers, not of players.

As a journalist I’m never going to compose the kind of prose that makes people purr, that’s not my gift. But I’m a slogger, and every time I sit in front of this machine I do my best. Sometimes, that best isn’t very good but never, I promise you, is that because of lack of effort. It’s the same for every player, team, manager and selector who will take the field in this year’s Championship (even, God help us, for every referee!).

Before you stand up to roar abuse this year, I would ask you, I would plead with you — before you vent your spleen, remember that.

Spare those of us who are adjacent to you, we don’t want to hear it. Spare those at whom your poison is directed. But above all, spare yourself.

You’ll be amazed at how your levels of enjoyment will soar.

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