In the Shadow of a Stand
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Last year I went through something of a change in lifestyle, upping sticks from Drumcondra and moving to a small crossroads village in Kildare. It was a change of monumental proportions and one that I am still getting used to.
Traffic and concrete used to dominate the senses and I could tell when the Port Tunnel was closed by the noise of the displaced trucks on the road outside my bedroom window. Now I wake up to birdsong and the clip clop sound of hooves as priceless race horses trot by on their way to their morning gallops.
But the biggest difference between then and now is that I am no longer overlooked by an 85,000 seat football stadium. And I miss it. Over the years I watched through my front windows as the crumbling old Croke Park was levelled and replaced by the gleaming structure that it is today. Each in their turn, the stands and terraces were demolished and bit by bit the new skeleton rose from the dust. It was a compelling if gradual process.
But what I really miss is match day. Summer Sundays became an opera on my doorstep. No matter how early I got up there would always be supporters there on the street, nibbling on sandwiches still moist from the tin foil and sipping warm tea from the thermos. They would stretch and pace by their cars and test the air as if it might hold some clue as to how the game would go later that day.
Gradually the few would multiply into dozens, then hundreds, then thousands. The neutral smell of the city would transform into a haze of frying onions and nipping across to the shop became a journey into organised chaos.
As match time approached a hush would descend. The street emptied, like the sucking out of the tide in the moments before a tsunami. Then it broke, the deafening roar of the throw in. If the game was on television I would switch it on, turn off the sound and open the windows. Dolby surround sound my arse, this was the real thing.
I remember the famous four legged battle between Dublin and Meath way back in the nineteen somethings. When Dublin finally lost I was looking out the upstairs window waiting for the mesmerising sight of the oceans of people flooding out of the alleyways and onto the road in front of me.
First out was a young boy, he couldn’t have been more than ten. Decked out in all his Dublin gear he stomped up the street suffering what may have been his first real taste of what defeat can do a passionate soul. Off came the scarf and he fecked it into a garden. He stomped on for a few yards and then the flag was hurled furiously onto the pavement. On he went, livid. Then came the hat, snatched from his head and dashed onto the ground.
Behind him were a thirty something couple draped in the green and yellow of Meath. They trotted after him, picking up his thrown away treasures. When they caught up with him they each put an arm around his little shoulders and, together, the unlikely trio made their way out of view. It is a picture I will carry in my mind forever.
In later years came the rugby and soccer. I had regular tickets for the soccer matches in the upper tier of the Davin stand from where I could see through my bedroom window which peeked up from behind the famous ‘Hill’. I never quite got rid of the expectation that one day I might see myself wandering about inside.
There were plenty of benefits to living so close by. For a start it meant that I didn’t have to worry about parking. It also meant that I could leave the house about fifteen minutes before kick-off, provided I didn’t mind being a bit early. And after the final whistle I could be in front of the fire with a cold can of beer before the other 84,999 punters had even got to their cars. It was the best of both worlds, I got to see the game live and watch Eamon, Gilesy, Bill and Liam take it apart afterwards.
Then there were the concerts. U2 became like noisy but lovable neighbours and I got to listen to my boyhood heroes The Police playing live outside my living room. On the flip side, I did have to suffer through three nights of Garth Brooks and his fleet of video filming helicopters. Night one was okay, smiling as I recognised his various yodelling show stoppers. Night two was a bit, ‘Okay Garth, I’ve had enough now’. Night three was like having Guantanamo Bay visited upon my eardrums. Items were thrown at the choppers and curses were hurled into the night. “For the love of God man! Leave me alone!”
I miss all of these things but as summer comes and the games at Croke Park come thick and fast I realise that the thing I miss the most are the crowds. There was always a bit of craic to be had on match day. The excited, expectant buzz of the throng became a bit like company. I’ve tried driving over the hill to watch the crowds at The Curragh on race day but it’s not the same. They don’t work in the same pulsating way as GAA or football crowds do.
No, living in the country is all well and good but I think I may have been born to live in the shadow of a bloody big stand.
Traffic and concrete used to dominate the senses and I could tell when the Port Tunnel was closed by the noise of the displaced trucks on the road outside my bedroom window. Now I wake up to birdsong and the clip clop sound of hooves as priceless race horses trot by on their way to their morning gallops.
But the biggest difference between then and now is that I am no longer overlooked by an 85,000 seat football stadium. And I miss it. Over the years I watched through my front windows as the crumbling old Croke Park was levelled and replaced by the gleaming structure that it is today. Each in their turn, the stands and terraces were demolished and bit by bit the new skeleton rose from the dust. It was a compelling if gradual process.
But what I really miss is match day. Summer Sundays became an opera on my doorstep. No matter how early I got up there would always be supporters there on the street, nibbling on sandwiches still moist from the tin foil and sipping warm tea from the thermos. They would stretch and pace by their cars and test the air as if it might hold some clue as to how the game would go later that day.
Gradually the few would multiply into dozens, then hundreds, then thousands. The neutral smell of the city would transform into a haze of frying onions and nipping across to the shop became a journey into organised chaos.
As match time approached a hush would descend. The street emptied, like the sucking out of the tide in the moments before a tsunami. Then it broke, the deafening roar of the throw in. If the game was on television I would switch it on, turn off the sound and open the windows. Dolby surround sound my arse, this was the real thing.
I remember the famous four legged battle between Dublin and Meath way back in the nineteen somethings. When Dublin finally lost I was looking out the upstairs window waiting for the mesmerising sight of the oceans of people flooding out of the alleyways and onto the road in front of me.
First out was a young boy, he couldn’t have been more than ten. Decked out in all his Dublin gear he stomped up the street suffering what may have been his first real taste of what defeat can do a passionate soul. Off came the scarf and he fecked it into a garden. He stomped on for a few yards and then the flag was hurled furiously onto the pavement. On he went, livid. Then came the hat, snatched from his head and dashed onto the ground.
Behind him were a thirty something couple draped in the green and yellow of Meath. They trotted after him, picking up his thrown away treasures. When they caught up with him they each put an arm around his little shoulders and, together, the unlikely trio made their way out of view. It is a picture I will carry in my mind forever.
In later years came the rugby and soccer. I had regular tickets for the soccer matches in the upper tier of the Davin stand from where I could see through my bedroom window which peeked up from behind the famous ‘Hill’. I never quite got rid of the expectation that one day I might see myself wandering about inside.
There were plenty of benefits to living so close by. For a start it meant that I didn’t have to worry about parking. It also meant that I could leave the house about fifteen minutes before kick-off, provided I didn’t mind being a bit early. And after the final whistle I could be in front of the fire with a cold can of beer before the other 84,999 punters had even got to their cars. It was the best of both worlds, I got to see the game live and watch Eamon, Gilesy, Bill and Liam take it apart afterwards.
Then there were the concerts. U2 became like noisy but lovable neighbours and I got to listen to my boyhood heroes The Police playing live outside my living room. On the flip side, I did have to suffer through three nights of Garth Brooks and his fleet of video filming helicopters. Night one was okay, smiling as I recognised his various yodelling show stoppers. Night two was a bit, ‘Okay Garth, I’ve had enough now’. Night three was like having Guantanamo Bay visited upon my eardrums. Items were thrown at the choppers and curses were hurled into the night. “For the love of God man! Leave me alone!”
I miss all of these things but as summer comes and the games at Croke Park come thick and fast I realise that the thing I miss the most are the crowds. There was always a bit of craic to be had on match day. The excited, expectant buzz of the throng became a bit like company. I’ve tried driving over the hill to watch the crowds at The Curragh on race day but it’s not the same. They don’t work in the same pulsating way as GAA or football crowds do.
No, living in the country is all well and good but I think I may have been born to live in the shadow of a bloody big stand.
About Simon O'Gorman
Simon O'Gorman began reporting for Extratime in 2010. He remembers Milltown and Flower Lodge and, back in the mists of time, saw Diego Maradona play at Lansdowne Road. He now lives in Co Kildare and … View Full Profile