A New York reader e-mailed me recently, availing of this column's occasional service in interpreting Ireland to the diaspora. The descendant of emigrants who left during the Famine, Brian O'Connor poses a number of questions, one of which I have chosen as this week's theme. "Just how long can an Irishman hold a grudge?" he asks.
Well, Brian, the record so far is a whopping 800 years: this being the period, rounded down to the nearest century, for which we claim to have been oppressed by the English. The figure is even more impressive when you consider that the English didn't get around to oppressing us seriously until the 1500s. But at some point, possibly following a review by independent consultants, the grudge was backdated to the Norman invasion of 1169, and the 800-year figure is accepted now by most authorities, including the Guinness Book of Records.
It is too easy, however, to hide behind this statistic. And the sad truth is that, like many Irish traditions, the ability to hold a grudge is on the wane. True, one still comes across people here who nurse grievances so faithfully they could qualify for Carer's Allowance, but these are increasingly the exception. Communal grudges are becoming even rarer, because of the time and energy they require. Most of us are too busy these days to make the effort. Young people don't want to come to the meetings any more, and even if they did, their short attention spans mean they can't be trusted to hold grievances, especially long-cherished ones.
The blame lies partly with globalisation, which has led to the increased availability of cheap perspective throughout Ireland, and encouraged the growth of a philosophical outlook. Easy access to counselling has taken its toll too.
If it wasn't for sport, many grudges would die out altogether. I attended a game between my local soccer club, St Patrick's Athletic, and Dublin rivals Bohemians earlier this year, and the level of hatred between the die-hard supporters was truly moving to witness. It was the night of a televised Champions' League match involving Manchester United, and the crowd was admittedly small. But it was all the more impressive that a few hundred fans made the effort to come out on a cold night and shout vile personal abuse at each other.
In a different code, the GAA has been crucial in keeping the grudge tradition alive, and yet even here there are signs of decline. Take my home county of Monaghan, for example. People in Monaghan have been oppressed by people in Cavan for as long as anyone can remember and, so far as I know, the feeling is mutual. Either way, the rivalry was heightened throughout the last century by Gaelic football.
Nobody outside the area understands the grudge: a common - and hurtful - reaction from visitors is that they can't tell the people of the two counties apart. In recent decades, we've even been forced to share a political constituency. Near the peace-line where I grew up, things have been further confused by mixed relationships. I have a Cavan-registered car, for example (I remember the day I first brought it home - you could have cut the tension with a knife). Yet the mutual antipathy had remained passionate, until recently.
Last Sunday the counties met in the Ulster football semi-final at Clones, and tribal loyalty forced me to attend. It was only partly the attraction of seeing the great rivalry renewed, I'll admit. After years in the outer darkness of Ulster football, I didn't want to miss out on Monaghan's hour in the sun, regardless of the opposition. It turned out to be three hours in the sun - we were in the minor match as well. And sitting in an exposed, south-facing area of the stand on one of the hottest days of the year, I was the colour of a tomato by the end. (Which reminds me: another Irish-American wrote on foot of a recent column, wondering what exactly an "Ulster fry" was. "If it's more dangerous than what we know as an Irish breakfast, it must be truly lethal," he suggested.) Well, our section of the attendance was an Ulster fry last Sunday. But in so far as the occasion was a heated one, the sun alone was responsible. The game was played out in an atmosphere I can only describe as polite. There wasn't a bad tackle on or off the pitch. Booing was limited. Even applause was restrained. The only abuse of the referee I heard was mild questioning as to whether, being from Cork, he had a sufficient understanding of the local cultural issues.
The consensus among Monaghan supporters at the end was that while Cavan weren't great, they were a bit better than us and the two-point winning margin was a fair reflection of the game. For a supposed ancient rivalry, the event was an embarrassment. And as the two sets of supporters streamed away through the narrow streets of Clones, shoulder-to-shoulder, I couldn't help feeling we'd all lost something.
fmcnally@irish-times
