Dublin culchies
By Seán O Donaile
I've oft' been queried, harassed and even abused by fellow
countrymen for cheering for ``them Jackeens above in Dublin''.
It was never going to be easy finding a football team to follow,
growing up in Clare. In the 70s the county side were woeful and
weren't ever glamorous or attractive for an impressionable seven
year old.
Was it going to be Craig Johnson with a Ferrari and a perm or
Tommy Tubridy with 48 stitches and Leo Yellow?
When I did go to see them play they were usually ``lashed oura it''
by 967 points by Kerry or Cork and the only time they weren't was
when sheep invaded the pitch and the match had to be abandoned.
Like most soccer supporters I stumbled on the Dubs by accident.
My Dad had been promising for months to bring me on a trip for
``doing me Communion'' even though I forgot to take me tongue in on
the way down after getting the holy bread and mortifying Auntie
Francis who'd travelled all the way from Gouganebarra with her
new hat and had never seen the likes.
I decided after that to forget religion in favour of football.
Fortunately for me I was brought on the train to Dublin where
Heffo's Army were expected to add the League crown to their 1974
All Ireland title. Somebody forgot to tell Meath and not for the
last time they tore up the script and won by five points - that
was irrelevant especially as ``they robbed it and sure wasn't the
ref a crook and sure the championship is what really matters''.
I don't recall much of the match as I was too busy watching
sweating men with cigarettes having a baby over a ball and folk
taking lumps outa' boiled egg sammidges and the referee; and the
Hill.
I remember two women telling my Da' in an Italian chipper that
Bobby Doyle had gorgeous legs and should be one of the Bay City
Rollers and some smart arse told me I looked like Jimmy Keaveney,
the full forward with a pot belly and Michael Jordan score rate;
and that was that - I was a cosmopolitan culchie - the Jacks were
back and Hill 16 had never seen the likes of Heffo's Army.
The Jacks were back last Sunday and once again Meath were there
to knock them off their hill - Jimmy Keaveney is long gone and
they've even got hot dog stands now and Jason Sherlock is the new
sex symbol - unfortunately he was symbolic of a Dublin forward
line with crooked boots who wasted a huge amount of possession to
hand Meath a three point victory and consign the Dubs to a blue
summer.
Meath will be the first to acknowledge that they didn't perform
particularly well, apart form a terrific 20 minute burst in the
first period, yet they always seemed to be in control.
After the Dubs raced into an early two point lead Meath put the
foot on the pedal and stormed into a 1-10 to 0-4 lead and that
looked like that.
During this period they took some glorious scores from far out
and ultimately this was what won the game for them.
Just when the Royals looked like running away with the show,
Keith Barr thundered a terrific shot to the net. That was quickly
followed by two points and suddenly we had a match.
In the second half Dublin slowly nibbled away at the Meath
surplus, but due to countless fluffed chances could never get
level with Meath who only seemed to re-awake in the last ten
minutes.
They were always strong finishers and after taking a 40 minute
break tapped over 3 points to clinch victory.
To round off Dublin's woeful score rate, Paul Bealin cracked the
last second penalty off the crossbar and that was that - the
culchies had won again and I began to regret spending my
Communion money on the last Choc ice.
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