Among the people I bumped into at the French embassy’s Bastille Day party on Friday was Dublin MEP Barry Andrews.
There was no special significance in this, except that I hadn’t seen him for years, perhaps not since we met in the finishing area of a half-marathon in the Phoenix Park circa 2014. In any case, we exchanged greetings again briefly and went our separate ways.
Then, 24 hours later, I filed into Croke Park for the first All-Ireland semi-final, having secured a late, stray ticket. And no sooner had I planted myself in Seat 11, Row X, block 327 of the lower Hogan than someone tapped me on the shoulder from behind. And who should it be except Barry Andrews?
Naturally, I suspected this was an omen. Like many sports fans, I have spent my life reading tea-leaves and entrails in search of reasons for optimism about games, not to mention trying to identify ways in which I might influence the result.
The Dromcollogher cinema fire disaster – Frank McNally on a fateful day in 1926
The spirit of 1965 – Kevin Rafter on Ireland’s first television election
Grief and remembrance – Ronan McGreevy on Dublin’s Armistice Day in 1924
The Night Mayor – Oliver O’Hanlon on Jimmy Walker, New York’s colourful political kingpin
I don’t believe in such superstitions, of course. But just in case last Saturday, for example, I was wearing a Monaghan top that had not been washed for a month, lest the luck that had seen us past Kildare and Armagh in previous rounds be rinsed out.
One possible line of inquiry, omen-wise, was that Andrews used to be CEO of the Goal charity. And we would need at least one goal – charitable or otherwise – to beat Dublin, I knew. But by the time I remembered this, he had passed up the row behind to take his seat. Which was maybe just as well, or I might have felt compelled to rub him for luck.
***
On Sunday afternoon, as the other semi-final reached its closing stages, I happened to be walking past the Hugh Lane Gallery on Parnell Square, where a middle-aged woman in Kerry jersey was pacing the plaza, gesticulating madly.
At first I thought she was having an argument on her mobile phone. Then I realised it was a transistor radio she had pressed to her ear, while her free hand sawed the air.
Was she celebrating scores? No. Expressing exasperation at refereeing decisions? Not quite. Her gestures were more like those of an orchestra conductor. It was as if she was trying to dictate the course of the game – although, once or twice, she also just reached for the sky, invoking divine help, it seemed.
Unlike the first semi-final, the second was no sell-out. She could easily have bought a ticket if she wanted one.
Was it too stressful to be there in person?
Or was she one of those family members who, not having attended the earlier rounds, are banned from the later ones, lest they jinx everything? Maybe under the terms of her barring order, Parnell Square – a mile from the stadium – was as near as she was allowed go?
Watching surreptitiously, I thought about engaging her in conversation. But there were only a few minutes to go in Croker and the scores were level.
Whatever she was doing to influence the outcome, clearly, complete concentration was now vital. As she implored the sky again, I left her to it, noting from my own phone that Kerry had just nudged into the lead.
***
After you’ve run out of ways to try and influence the outcome of games, the last ritual of every GAA season – for me anyway – is to go down with the ship. No matter how bad the beating, or the weather, or the prospective traffic jam, I always feel honour-bound to wait for the final whistle.
Not everyone shares this obligation.
Once a Monaghan defeat was inevitable last Saturday, Row X quickly became a lonely place. By the end, there was just me and, immediately behind, a group of noisy Dublin supporters who, after sounding increasingly stressed for 65 minutes, were now in triumphalist mode.
They were no worse than we would have been in the circumstances. Still, I didn’t feel like talking to any of them just then. So when the final whistle went, I thought twice about turning around and wishing them well in the next game, as GAA best practice demands. Emotions were still too raw.
Instead I busied myself composing a seasonal valedictory tweet. Then I heard a Dublin accent ask: “Will ye be writing about that in the Diary?”
Oh no, I thought, flinching from recognition at such a tender moment. And at first I pretended not to have heard, in the hope that whoever it was would decide it was mistaken identity and leave me alone with my misery.
But the voice persisted: “Will ye be putting that in the Diary?” So ruefully, I turned and agreed that this was a strong possibility. Then the man said something nice about the column and that he read it every day, whereupon all hostilities melted.
I smiled a wan smile, swallowed my disappointment, and somehow found the words: “Good luck in the final.”