A Portrait of the Supporter as a Dubs Fan

SliM Dedalus

The following is an article written by me and published in Dublin GAA magazine 'Blue and Navy', not normally a Joyce talking shop but it was well recieved all the same. All comments/ feedback most welcome ...

A Portrait of the Supporter as a Dubs Fan

Alan Brogan came from the stair head, bearing a bowl of silver on which black and white ribbons were crossed. He held the bowl aloft and declared:
- Ta athas an domhain orm an chorann seo a ghlacadh
Halted, he peered down to the blue and navy sea below. Leinster champions again. His side's epic has yet to be written. We are becoming important, it seems.

The victory over Wexford was comprehensive in any man's language. The current state of Leinster football aside, there can be little doubt that this side can potentially achieve the ultimate aim. Champions of Ireland for the first time in thirteen years. Dublin's youngest supporters need the release we were given in '95 and deserve the opportunity to be called to the PE hall to wait for the most potent symbol of success in Ireland to arrive. In order to do so, we will have to hit ground running in the All Ireland series. Recent history in that field, a nightmare from which we are all trying to awake.

Dubs love to be melancholic about Dublin. Recently, a profitable industry has grown up around this desire to remember and commemorate as punters from '76, '77 and '83 have joined the Arnotts hoards on the hill. Our unofficial county anthem, 'Dublin in the rare aul times', highlights the importance of memory and nostalgia in the Dub's supporting social fabric. Each passing decade, championship season, match and score entering a pantheon of collective conciousness and reference; thus achieving varying levels of immortality.

Physical detachment from the aul sod accents this nostalgic tendency. The greatest litereary output of the twentieth century serves to illustrate that when Dublin is in your soul, it dies with you. Throughout history, where Dubliners have left the county of their birth, through economic neccessity, artistic endeavour or, in this case, a self indulgent five week jaunt around the rail network of continental Europe, home is never too far from the mind.

The only Irish Pub in Trieste, Bennigans, closes during the day on Sundays. The staff had never heard of Setanta Sports and had only a vague notion of Gaelic Football. Exiles, indeed. Modern technology, broadcasting rights and internet cafe firewall's ensured that the events of the Leinster final crackled live over a spurious rte on line radio link, until a suitable highlights package could be located and devoured. The one-time occupier of the ten pound note might be pleased to know that the GAA is one institution that did not extend it's influence to his former home. I am not. Watching the Dubs play to a packed Croke Park makes playing junior football all the more enjoyable and understandable. This imitation, written in the shadow of via San Nicolò, serves a similar purpose.

A lifelong commitment to supporting the Dublin football team serves amicably as a chronological backdrop to which the tripartite development of childhood, adloesence and maturity can be measured against factual events. It provides moments of clarity of thought and emotion which can be readily recalled and evaluated at a later, more suitable age.

I distinctively remember standing directly behind the goal on Hill 16 as a traumatised eight year old. The previous, yellow texted electronic scoreboard above the Nally (which had always reminded me of Family Fortunes, for some reason), displayed a series of words and numbers that will be forever seared into my functioning memory.
Ath Cliath 0-15
An Mhi 2-10

Emotionally distraught, physically weak and mentally shot. My Dad's simaltaneous shrugging of shoulders and head shaking was interrupted only by mute attempts to offer some sort of explanation or consolation. To this day, he maintains a completely irrational phobia of being "two points ahead".

The message was clear though, a shared dissapointment that was much more effective than any arm around the shoulder "this is life, son" speach I might have endured. The world is a cruel, lonely and unfair place when it hits you hard. You just have to get back on your feet, brush yourself down and wait until the next time that the Mick Lyons shaped bastard tries to break you up. Jack Sheedy's last minute winning point two years later is still the most frenzied outpouring of relief and celebration on the Hill that I've had the pleasure to have shared. Momentary rapture that surpassed that of '95 in my perceptive memory, be it true or not.

It's too easy to say that "it's only a game of football". It is unquestionably true that in comparison to the real life tragedies that await us all, the disapointment of that faithfull day, suffered annually by the Dubs since 1995, is nowhere near as significant. With age and expereince, a new appreciation and perspective which helps to take the defeat in it's stride must surely emerge. On defeat day, the lived faces, grey hairs and furrowed brows don't seem to take it any better than the twenty year old's though, nor the hurried parents any better than the mini-me's being dragged scabby-kneed across the pavement.

Like no other 80,000 attended spectator sport in the western world, Dublin's days out in Croke Park are a celebration of place, person and identity. Where else might you celebrate a goal in such a spectale and arena, only to meet the scorer the following morning at the Spar deli counter, both waiting for a cure (small bit of personal experience). I daresay all the current crop of Dublin county players were introduced to the championship as were most supporters. They too were excited and naive juvenilles clutching an older, wiser hand while barely keeping apace amongst the heaving mass of blue, navy and beer.

Their desire to see the Dubs win Sam comes from the same place as ours. Their ability and dedication may have seperated them temporarily from the crowd and presented them with an opportunity to achieve a greater place in our 'aul times' memory. When it's over, however, they'll resume their place amongst the ranks with the respect, postion and standing that they deserve. This is what makes Ireland's national games truely unique.

When Alan Brogan raises the Leinster Cup to the sea of navy and blue, he does so partly in recognition of where he came from and where he'll return. The wise hand that once guided him also held Sam in triumph. The returning cheer is also a celebration of self, and of the bond of player and spectator that the amatuer code affords.

Much may be in danger of changing, indeed, the pace of change and evolution has quickened notably in recent times. For example, the black and white ribbons which adorned the Leinster trophy were in recognition of the respective sponsors and not the competing teams. In the current climate, incidents hinting of increasing professionalism in the game are a source of great and legitimate concern to GAA members and supporters. It may be the case that when such an evolution begins to take place, as has already happened, the trend is impossible to halt or reverse. However, the beauty of the 'rare aul times' brand of commemoration ensures that which is lost and gone forever, is that which is most celebrated and remembered.

As supporters, it is up to us to retain those elements of our sporting culture which are fundamental to it.We will ensure that the future takes shape in the mold of the past. It is us that will lead misty eyed celebrations of those who we've lost and the events which have brought us together. For we are Dubs, and no person, event, triumph or tragedy will ever change that fact.[/SIZE][/COLOR]