The Games That Mattered

A man of my experience and bottomless intellect doesn’t have it easy. Rare are the occasions when I can enjoy a quiet drink in my local, The Mongrel Calf, without a punter approaching me requesting a yarn regarding games of old, be it in the Polo Grounds or the time Iggy Jones lapped Croke Park three times without a glove touching him. Sometimes I take herself out to the pub with me but that normally ends up a disastrous decision. She loses the cool after my fourth or fifth tale and has been known to wreck the bar in a fit of temper. So, in order to avoid future publican’s bills, I have decided to summarise the games I am asked most about – my crème de la crème.

1982 Ulster Final

Armagh 0-10 Fermanagh 1-4

Not since Adolf called it quits had I witnessed the Erne County battle it out for Ulster’s finest trophy, the Anglo-Celt Cup. Herself was born in Tempo, growing up not knowing the English Language and washing the odd time. I educated her over the years and you can almost make her out now though she still prefers the grunting. Anyway, that year she was on a permanent high from May until July. Victories over Derry and Tyrone had propelled the Wet County into a Clones showdown with Armagh, a fearsome Orchard team with an eternally burly Kernan terrorising defences and Moriarty pulling the orange strings. That didn’t prevent herself from maintaining the blind faith. At night, amongst the unbearable snores, she’d be calling out “McGinnity ye boy ye” or “Keep’er lit Peter Greene”. Well, how else would a man feel hearing that? I wanted Fermanagh OUT. I didn’t want my amorous advances to be repelled with the likes of “Hasn’t Ciaran Campbell strappin’ arms” for the rest of the season. As we made the approach to Clones on Ulster Final day the mood couldn’t have been more strained. She was leaping about that morning like a child on Christmas day before the opening, whilst I prayed to Cardinal O’Fiach that if there was a God at all he’d be wanting the Cathedral City to win the damn thing. At 5 pm she cried in my arms, her dreams crushed by John Corvan. I kissed my orange scapula.

1960 First Round

Down 0-14 Antrim 1-4

I’ve always had a soft spot for the Saffron men, even though they broke my heart in 1912, losing to Louth in the All-Ireland final. I had 5d on them. Earlier in the year in 1960, I had watched Antrim blitz a poor Down team 5-17 to 0-3 in the Davidson Cup. I was spellbound. A youthful Sean McGourty, aged 22, ripped the Mourne defence apart that day, ably supported by a spritely yet deceptively tall Aodhan Hamill and the Albino-featured Jon MacManus. This forward line was unparalleled in my eyes, not since the days of the Breffni’s Mick Higgins, Peter Donohoe and Phil ‘The Gunner’ Brady had such an array of talent graced a playing-field in Ireland. Down, on the other hand, had a wayward Paddy Doherty, the lacklustre Kevin Mussen and the weak-link, Sean O’Neill. It was Saffron men against Mourne Boys. I shouted from the roof tops in all the local papers that this could be the biggest annihilation since The Battle of the Blackwater. I re-mortgaged the house and pre-spent on a holiday home in Maigh. A few of the neighbours trusted me, sold off a few organs and the like to lump it on the Saffrons at a tasty 3-1. Down were perhaps the worst side I had seen in my lifetime, I believed – incapable of stringing together 2-3 passes and completely unaware of the need to knock the ball over the opposing goalie’s crossbar for a score. They were lacking the basic skills a primary school child would possess. This was no contest and it was a matter of how many All-Ireland titles Antrim would want before they got bored of travelling to the capital. As it turned out a last minute goal prevented a 10-point embarrassment for the Saffrons. Down went on to win the All-Ireland. And the next year too. I never returned home that night. I never returned home again. Under the cover of darkness, I left Newry a poor man. She still brings it up around Cheltenham time, just in case.

1995 All-Ireland Final

Dublin 1-10 Tyrone 0-12

Fours years of Ulster success had made the province dizzy. Anything was possible. All nine counties were jockeying for position to see who would next step up to the winner’s podium. After maiden success for Derry and Donegal, and a couple more Sams for Down, Tyrone Gaels thought they’d have some of that. Being a Fermanagh woman, herself wasn’t overly fond of that idea. In fact she once yelled at the TV when Tyrone nailed the Erne county “ away a that a ye yiz wee leprechauned runts”. I suggested a tour of the O’Neill County in the week before the All-Ireland in order to soak in the atmosphere of expectation. Unfortunately I’d lost the licence the week previous due to a small incident of road rage when I encountered Sean McGourty walking and the memories of 1960 came flooding back. Herself had to drive me to Tyrone – and it put her in a foul mood. Parish after parish, pub after pub, from Moy to Strabane, we were met and greeted with obvious excitement and merriment, and this only made herself worse. Our last stop was Ballygawley to buy some buttermilk. Lo and behold, who was shopping in Centra only the man himself, Peter Canavan. He was purchasing Jocob’s cream Crackers and a tin of Spam. As he left I tapped the great man on the shoulder and said “ye’ll do it, Peter”. He smiled back. I was amazed when herself repeated my actions, but even more so when she said “llab eht luof uoy epoh” and turned herself around three times. Peter shrugged his shoulders and ran out of the shop. I just took it that her medication was wearing off. Another surprise was the fact that herself came with me and watched the match, in Croke Park, that following Sunday. Despite it being a poor spectacle Tyrone were in the ascendancy at the finish and it looked like the great man was going to fulfil my prophecy. Suddenly, as Peter approached the ball with a minute to go, herself got to her feet and uttered the same words she mouthed in the Centra in Ballygawley, “llab eht luof uoy epoh” and this time spun around repeatedly. Sean McLoughlin’s point was ruled out as Peter was adjudged to have committed a foul. I looked at her as she smiled a manic grin. I have never looked on her the same way again. She’s not as backward as I thought – or is she?