Embracing Sport!

"Hurling is hockey mixed with murder"

I might have mentioned recently that I’m all on for learning new things, at a rate of about one a week.
I think expecting any more than that is over ambitious, and would be too much for me.

Last Saturday morning, I was sleeping, at about half past ten.  His Nibs and the hounds had gotten up and started their day and I had the bed to myself.  His Nibs had opened the blind and the window, but I was in that happy Saturday morning state where neither blinding light nor a gentle breeze could disturb me.

It’s not so long since my lovely husband used to wake me up on a weekend morning with a cup of coffee and a smile.

I cannot help but notice that this has gone by the board completely.  These days, he walks into the room, starts talking aloud, more or less mid-sentence, as if we’d been having a conversation previously. This baffles and confuses me, and rather than object I find myself struggling to sit up and answer him coherently.

He did this last Saturday morning.  He was talking about hurling, which he loves, and I have less than no interest in. 

It’s not that I don’t respect and admire the skill involved, I really do.  I cannot think of anything more tiring and annoying than galloping around a field after a tiny ball, usually while being hit with hurls by people who come from a different county.

But I choose not to get involved.

His Nibs loves hurling.  Every Sunday from at least May to September, he sits in our darkened living room, screaming at the television and swearing like a maniac.

This Saturday, I had no hope.  He had a plan in mind, and one way or the other, he was going to get me involved.

I think the first sentence I even caught was
“So you’ll come with me then?”

I hadn’t a clue.

“Go where with you?”

“To the match.  It’s only down the road.  Ah go on, sure we should do things together at the weekend.”

I remained baffled.  “What match? What are you on about? “

“The match.  The match.  The hurling match.  Wexford are playing. Ah go on.  It’s no fun on my own.”

I think the last time I went along with this caper was the early nineties.  We were a very short time together then, and very much in love.  We weren’t even living together at the time, so any time spent together was a good time.

A lot has changed since those days though.

I’m one of six children.  And the daughter of two GAA fanatics.  When I was a child many a Sunday was spent with the living room in complete darkness, both parents screaming, us afraid to run across the room, lest we do so exactly when a free was being taken, or someone was being fouled. 

Needless to say, as a teenager I was so appalled by everything my parents said and did that I started considering liking GAA to be something akin to biting your nails.  A dirty habit.

And one of those things that once it takes you over, you’re never free of.  Sort of like the Mafia.

So I wasn’t keen to accommodate His Nibs by attending this match with him.  First, I asked him whether he was sure he wanted to go.  He confirmed that he’d love to, but that there was a possibility that there might be thunderstorms.  And he didn’t want to leave Marley all alone and frightened if that happened.  Nothing bothers our dog Oscar, but Marley gets hysterical and terrified when there’s thunder, and His Nibs is the only one who can comfort him.

This show of kindness made me feel smiley and tender toward my husband.  And so I said that if he really wanted me to go, I’d go with him.  He doesn’t ask me to go to many matches, and I thought that feck it, it’s only a couple of hours.  I’d go.  And I thought that the forecast thunder might materialise and I could look like a good wife without putting any real effort in.

That didn’t happen.  And when His Nibs happily handed me a Wexford jersey and told me we’d be leaving in a few minutes, I knew that the effort was going to be required.

I had absolutely no clue how to get to the pitch, and so we had to print directions.  We were doing surprisingly well, him not ignoring my instructions, when we saw a huge amount of cars parked on both sides of the road, causing traffic mayhem.

I thought that there was no way the traffic could be built up this far from the grounds.  His Nibs asked for my suggestion, then, as to what all the cars were about.

“Hmm.  Maybe a funeral?”

He smiled.  “Love, there’s hundreds and hundreds of cars here.  And buses.  There wasn’t this much traffic at Nelson Mandela’s funeral, I’d say.  It’s not a funeral.  I’m parking.”

And he parked his car on the grass verge, and informed me that we would be walking the rest of the way.
I tried wailing about how it was still miles to the pitch, according to the directions, but as he rightly pointed out, if there was anywhere to park closer to the grounds, people wouldn’t be parking here.
And off we went.

I was amazed at how many people were there.  And delighted to see that the majority of them appeared to be from Wexford, my own home county.  I did a bit of giving out about the long walk.  To be honest, I was whining “are we nearly there?” within five minutes, even though I knew perfectly well that he knew no more than I did.  And I quite enjoyed judging the women in high heels (“At a hurling match, I mean, why would you bother?”) and those who were in full makeup (same comment). And eventually we got there, and got tickets, and he bought me chips and a burger to keep me quiet, and I started to quite enjoy myself.

The players came out onto the pitch about fifteen minutes before the match started, to warm up and do their exercises.  At first they just hit the ball and over and back to each other, practiced scoring points and what have you.  Then they all lay down on the grass and started stretching.  All this seemed perfectly normal to me.  It was when they all started doing the “downward dog” and other yoga moves that I became amazed.  Both at the fact that hurlers now practice yoga, it seems, and at the lovely bottom on one of the Wexford lads.  GAA shorts aren’t usually that flattering, surely?

It’s difficult to describe the match itself. 

So difficult, in fact, that I've decided to put in a link to YouTube, showing bits of the match, so that readers not familiar with our national sport can get some inkling of what I'm talking about.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wF8ymfA970Y

Some readers may remember the Spot the Ball competition in the newspaper that they used to do years ago.  It was a photograph of a soccer match, usually with all the players staring at one spot. There was no ball in the picture, and you had to play an X where you thought the ball should be.

The hurling match was like being in a three dimensional spot the ball competition.  I was there, I was watching the match, I was not thinking about shoes or more chips or even why I was there.  I was focussed. 

But at almost no time did I know where the ball (it’s called a sliotar, for non-Irish readers) was.  You'll understand why if you looked up hurling on YouTube.  I was at least two seconds behind the action at all times, and sometimes looking at the completely wrong end of the pitch.  Eventually I started just cheering every time all the other Wexford people cheered.

 

But strange to say, despite my complete ignorance of what was going on, and my lifelong determination not to become a fan, I got completely involved in the match.

I was the large woman shouting and cheering and screaming and waving my hands in the air, and generally turning into my parents.  I stopped short of roaring instructions to the players, as the twenty thousand other people there were doing, but that was only because I had absolutely no idea what they should do.  Sometimes I shouted the same thing as His Nibs was shouting, but only because I knew he was probably right.

Wexford won the match.   I was absolutely delighted.  I joined in with the shouting “Wex-ford! Wex-ford! Wex-ford!”  I threw myself into the arms of a complete stranger who was standing beside me when the final whistle blew.  She didn’t seem to mind.  She was also in the purple and gold of Wexford, and jumped up and down and screamed in my ear enthusiastically, as we hugged. 

I really enjoyed the shouting, the singing, the drama of it all. 

They say that hurling is the fastest grass game in the world.  If there’s a faster one, I won’t be going to see it.  I nearly got dizzy watching this one.

But His Nibs was right, when he said I’d enjoy it when I got there.  It was great fun.  

Sadly, just as I’m writing this, Wexford are playing again.  And by the roars and swearing out of His Nibs, it’s really not going well at all.

They’re playing Limerick.  My Dad was from Limerick, and I’d be shouting for them if they were playing any team besides Wexford.  

Anyway, being half a Limerick person, I’ve decided that no matter what happens on the field today, I’m a winner.