My father was a mere 22-year-old when Monaghan won the Ulster Football Championship in 1938. Ulster titles were still a fairly routine occurrence for the county then, and All-Irelands must have seemed likely sooner or later. But instead it was the aristocrats of Cavan, complete with royal blue shirts, who dominated the foreseeable future.
Without warning, meanwhile, an ice-age descended on Monaghan. By the time the county won a provincial title again, my father would be 63. It was probably no coincidence that he had become a heavy pipe-smoker in the interim, with a philosophical attitude bordering on defeatism.
This survived even the heady heights of 1985, when Nudie Hughes & Co nearly toppled Kerry, and the young bucks among us thought it was only a matter of time before we went all the way.
Crazed optimism
A year later, after we were dumped out of Ulster by Down, the old man sounded almost cheerful that the crazed optimism was at an end. “That’s Monaghan gone for another few years,” he declared between puffs of smoke, making me want to throw a two-ounce plug of Mick McQuaid at him, hard.
The wonder is I didn’t take up smoking myself during the more recent big freeze that set in after 1988 and ended only two years ago. But now that we’re enjoying something of a golden era again, I’m determined to enjoy it as much as possible. After all, at current averages, I won’t live to see another one.
It was strange driving up to Clones on Sunday to cheer on a Monaghan team in a final for the third year running. Such a sequence was itself unheard of since the 1920s. Then to see us win for a second time in three years was the sort of thing that might have threatened the home supporters’ humility, if we hadn’t perfected it through so much practice.
Among other things, the result meant another trip onto the holy ground of St Tiernach’s Park after the game. It remains one of the glories of the GAA that fans can do this, at least in provincial venues. In fact, now that Croke Park is off limits, post-match, occasions like the Ulster Final are all the more special.
As a latter-day connoisseur of Clones pitch invasions, I thought Sunday’s was in some ways even better than in 2013. It was the proverbial hour in the sun – a bit more than an hour, I think. We were there long enough, certainly, that my two boys were pleading dehydration by the end, and suggesting that if they didn’t drink Coke again soon they might suffer permanent brain damage.
But every time we were about to leave, another of our heroes would become available for a picture, or shirt signing. Or I’d be introduced to yet another vital member of the back-up team, without which none of this would have been possible.
Speaking of which, I spent a pleasant few minutes chatting to Conor McManus’s mother – a lovely woman who reminded me of the civilising influence of GAA mothers in general. I don’t mean the way they raise their children, necessarily. I mean just the fact that they attend matches.
There’s nothing worse at a GAA game than when you shout something even mildly critical at a player and then your neighbour leans over and whispers “That’s his mother behind you”. Your blood runs cold at such moments. And next time you’re tempted to open your big mouth, you think again.
Anyway, when we eventually tore ourselves away from the pitch, we sauntered back through the town, still in no hurry. The kids, taking advantage of the occasion, sneaked a couple of full-sugar Cokes past my guard while I wasn’t looking. Then we lingered around the Diamond for a while too, in case that opportunity might not present again soon.
Provincial venue
It’s strange too that Monaghan’s period of joint-dominance with Donegal should have coincided with a time when Clones is on death row as a provincial venue. You’d fear for the town’s economy if and when the finals do migrate permanently to west Belfast.
For now, granted a stay of execution by planning problems in Andersonstown, Clones’s charms look all the more winsome. I’m thinking of such things as the ladies fashion shop on Fermanagh Street that had diversified into catering for the day, setting up a table outside to sell tea, sandwiches, and buns. This probably happened in 1938 too. But if and when the finals move to Belfast, I fear, its likes will not be seen again.
@FrankmcnallyIT