Tuesday, June 26, 2012

#nothingbeatsbeingthere

It was always 'around the next corner'. Always 'just on another bit'. We were always 'nearly there'. Páirc Uí Chaoimh, the spiritual home of the ancient game in the People's Republic of Cork, or just Cork, as it's more commonly referred to. I'd need more than one pair of hands to count the amount of times I've attended matches there. Always the same atmosphere. Always the same tingle. Always memorable. Always.

You get to the Dunkettle roundabout, turn right and travel parallel to the river. After just a few minutes you can see it and the excitement builds. We always seemed to park in and around the Odlums mill. About as far from the pitch as possible. We were always early. If a salad or 'cold plate' as I've realised they call it in Dublin was not on the go something was amiss. Nothing was ever amiss. The mother would be up at the crack of dawn, have got mass and proceeded to putting the finishing touches to what would fill the boot. 

'Cold plate' or salad... You choose!
I hear people saying 'nom nom nom' quite a bit these days, indeed I use it myself when nibbling on the queen's ear (no capital on queen you'll notice, it's my queen I'm talking about) but in this instance it was the only way to describe the fare on offer.

Once the food disappeared we'd throw a shape. You wouldn't be walking long before the crowd swelled in and around you en route. The Blackrock End was invariably our destination. Though we'd have only eaten, a couple of bars of soft chocolate and a tin or two of warm fizz were hard to resist.

...hardly the grandest entrance!
We'd reach the turnstiles, hand over our ticket. Slowly make our way through and into the bowels of what was to be our home for the next few hours. Find our place on the terrace (my father always liked to be up against a barrier), preferably over an exit. Nobody could stand in front of you then you see. We followed him.

The teams would appear. A warm-up ensued. And then the game. Up and down, over and across. That was just the ball, and my gaze. Regardless of the outcome we'd leave knowing that these were days we'd always remember.

Last Sunday I sat on the couch as Tipperary and fellow Munster kingpins Cork squared up to each other for a place in the provincial decider. Tipperary's experience got them over the line in the end against a young Cork side. My experience on the couch was not a pleasant one. I wanted to be there. To be part of the buzz. To have a story to tell in years to come. I won't as, cue the hashtag, #nothingbeatsbeingthere

I'll not make that mistake again.

2 comments:

Radge said...

There's an image in that piece that I'm not getting out of my head any time soon!

Oliver Skehan said...

There's no arguing with the fact the Blackrock Terrace entrance is not for the faint hearted...