Big Nialls independent article

A case of deja vu as we go back to hurling roots

AR ais aris: "Is Nicky still the manager of Tipperary, Dad?" asked my
youngest as we approached the stadium yesterday afternoon. It's hard to have
a grown up conversation with a six-year-old on important matters such as
Tipperary hurling, especially when the kid has never been to a hurling match
of any description. So while I should have told him that Nicky English's
ghost still haunts the team and his input is pasted to the hub of everything
they do, I found myself taking the easy option, "Yes son, he's finished.
There's a new man in charge now."

"Will it be like Howard Wilkinson at Sunderland?" he further enquired. Wow.
I knew I was heading into awkward territory so I jokingly replied: "I
suppose half the crowd at Nolan Park today will hope it turns out that way,
but no son, there's a new boss called Michael Doyle and he's going to bring
more glory days."

After a short pause in which the inquisitive look on his face grew more
wrinkled the inevitable follow-on arrived.

"A bit like Mick McCarthy at Sunderland then?" Where did we get him from?

Well, in a way you're probably right," I replied, hoping that might be the
end of the tricky line of questioning.

"So Tipperary are going to be relegated then?"

"No, no son they won't."

"Why not?"

"Well it's different in Ireland, you see the championship is far more
important than the league."

Struggling to make any headway in this conversation and pretending to be
more interested in directions for the ground I was delighted to hear my
nine-year-old daughter intervene. "The championship in Ireland is a bit like
the FA Cup Mikey, except it means more to win the All-Ireland than the FA
Cup. In England it's better to win the league."

She continued: "Since hurling began Tipperary and Kilkenny are the greatest
of rivals at the top of the hurling ladder and this game today could be a
prelude to a magical meeting of two giants next September."

"Where did you learn all that?" I asked.

"Read it this morning," She smirked.

"What else did you learn?"

"That neither of them won the All-Ireland last year."

"Are you sure about that?" I asked.

"Quite sure," came the reply. "Armagh won it by defeating Kerry by one
point."

Once on foot I explained that Grandad had brought me to many matches here in
Kilkenny and although it was great to re-enact those days it might be better
for all our sakes if we declined to copy his post-match routine of calling
into half a dozen publican friends on the journey home.

Anyway, we made our way to our seats in plenty of time for the first whistle
and soon I found my mind wandering back to the 70s and the weekly trips
around hurling country. From Cork to Waterford, Galway to Dublin and any
place in between, wherever good hurling fayre was on view the Quinn family
was often found there.

The nostalgia soon evaporated when a burly Kilkenny fan vociferously dragged
me back to reality reminding me that "Sunderland are finished" and that I
"got out just in time".

Maybe he's right, maybe he's wrong but he certainly got me thinking as this
past week has been eventful to say the least. On Tuesday morning as we set
sail from Holyhead on the first leg of our return to Ireland I took a walk
on deck and thought about the great times I'd had over the last 20 years.
England has been very good to me and I felt twinges of regret as we left
Anglesey in the background. Above all I felt sad recalling the wonderful
years we spent in the north east of the country where alongside an emerging
football club our lives prospered.

Nothing I've achieved in club football could come close to the satisfaction
of being part of the awakening of a sleeping football giant and the
tremendous success story that saw Sunderland AFC move from 17,000 slumbering
fans squashed into a ramshackle Roker Park to 50,000 ecstatic Mackems at the
finest ground of them all - The Stadium of Light.

Once out to sea the giggly anticipation of a new chapter in our lives
returned when the excited expressions on our children's faces provided all
the reassurance required to feel that we were making the right move. Life
felt good as we settled down to a warm coffee in the trucker's restaurant,
courtesy of a free meal voucher given to the Surf, when she boarded with the
horse-box.

It was about this time that a discarded tabloid paper brought me the
sickening news that my old club had given notice of compulsory redundancy to
50 percent of the non-playing ground staff at the Stadium of Light. Over 80
hard working ex-colleagues of mine were paying the price for the disastrous
on-field failures of the players. Guilt, frustration, anger, you name it, I
felt it. How could it all have gone so wrong? What are these good people
going to do?

DUN Laoghaire appeared on the horizon. Driving off the ramp and cruising
into our new life I promised the kids that I'd take them to a proper match
at the weekend. A tiny cement seat at Nolan Park would replace the sanctuary
of the player's family room at The Stadium of Light but something told me
that we'd all have more fun on Noreside rather than Wearside.

The game itself was a pleasure to attend. Having promised the kids a
magnificent occasion I was apprehensive in case it was a flat match. On the
contrary, from Conor Gleeson and Peter Barry's first skirmish seconds before
the ball was thrown in right up until the referee's final whistle, we sat
enthralled at the entertainment on offer.

On a day when Tipperary threw up a new hero to set pre-championship hopes
rocketing (Ger O'Grady), my lasting memory will be the look on my children's
faces when Tommy Dunne and Derek Lyng broke timber in a fierce clash yards
from our seat. They've probably seen a hundred Premiership matches but I've
never seen them sparkle like they did amidst the clash of the ash.

Coming home in the car, it felt good to listen to the match report and the
observer's view that he had witnessed as fine a game as one could hope for.
Redundancies and relegation were far from my thoughts as we pulled into the
new driveway. To finish a perfect day, the kids got out their two pristine
hurleys which until now had been confined to the attic. Though limited in
their ability it warmed the heart to hear them squabble over which one was
going to be Tipperary's new star.

"I'm Ger O'Grady."

"No you're not, I'm Ger O' Grady."

It's good to be home.

Yavvy

well now, whats that a heart warming story.
there is help for us all