MY FIRST big defeat was the most traumatic. It was the first round of the South Derry U12 Championship. I was the 10-year-old left corner-back.
Before leaving home, my parents prepped me. The result was never mentioned. The emphasis was on performance. No matter what happens, never give up. Never, ever give up. Try your best, that’s all you can do.
Even though I was under no pressure to be on the winning team, the subsequent thrashing still destroyed me. I came home and cried my eyes out. Winning, I like. Losing, it kills me.
That’s why sport provides a great training ground for life. Defeats never get any easier. You simply learn to deal with them. You learn to keep getting back on the horse. Never give up. Never, ever give up. Keep going. Then, one day, when it all comes together, you discover that the real enjoyment actually comes from the journey and not the result. But it’s still great to get the result.
Last week’s column in which I argued for the introduction of a second-tier competition stemmed from the basic premise that competitive sportsmen hate losing. I believe it’s wrong to put footballers into a competition which they have absolutely no chance of winning. Because no matter how often they get back on the horse, the journey will always come to a dead end. That’s not right.
However, having watched Fermanagh’s reaction to their defeat by Dublin, I am prepared to concede that I might have got it wrong. There were no tears in the Fermanagh changing room on Sunday. Far from it. At the final whistle, the players stayed on the pitch and applauded their supporters. The fans were jubilant. The players sang on the bus on the way home. Text messages received from Fermanagh friends confirmed that everyone had a wonderful time.
The first one said: “Feel very morally victorious this evening.” The second message was more succinct. It simply said: “The craic was great yesterday.”
The idea that all in Fermanagh were happy to put on a decent performance against the Dubs was confirmed when star forward Seán Quigley tweeted: “I would not want to play in a second tier competition and miss out on massive days like today.”
So there you have it. If Fermanagh are a reliable gauge, then there is no appetite among weaker counties for a second-tier competition. Lo and behold, it is the taking part that counts. That amazes me.
Given that the GAA will be reluctant to impose new competitions on weaker counties against their will, it’s unlikely that there will be any change in the near future. However, counties like Fermanagh might not always be allowed to maintain the status quo.
Truth be told, I didn’t bother watching the second half of Dublin and Fermanagh. After completing Swatragh’s 65-mile bike ride on Sunday morning, I struggled to stay awake during Kerry and Kildare.
Before I dozed off on the sofa, Kerry had scored one goal. When I woke up, they’d bagged six.
Fermanagh were never going to beat Dublin. Unwilling to watch another procession, I took my nephew Conleth down to the pitch to kick some ball. Conleth is over from London on his holidays. Having played rugby since he was a child, he started playing Gaelic football earlier this year. He loves it. Earlier in the morning, he entertained us when we asked him about the differences between rugby and football.
“Our coaches are mental,” he said giggling.
“How are they mental?”
“They curse at us all the time.”
“What do you mean?”
“They say ‘f’ all the time. They say ‘f’ in every sentence.”
“Why do they curse at you?”
“They curse at us for everything. They curse at us for giving away a free. They curse at us for kicking a wide. Everything.”
Conleth was laughing heartily as he recounted his experiences with the U14 and U16 teams. The contrast with rugby still shocks him. In rugby, his mentors never cross the sideline. Players get substituted if they get involved in fights or talk back to the referee. But Gaelic football in London is no different to how it is at home. Etiquette comes a distant second to the result.
Imitating the southern accents of his coaches, Conleth conveyed the mania of his underage games. In his last match, the manager stood bare-chested, almost in the middle of the field, cursing and swearing like a madman. We laughed because that is the GAA we recognise. The extremism. The passion. The terrifying passion. And then I think about the All-Ireland Qualifiers, and those increasingly dull games entirely devoid of intrigue, drama – and passion.
Last Sunday, referee Pádraig O’Sullivan awarded Dublin four free-kicks. That’s not a game of football. That’s a pity party. While Fermanagh might have been happy to get their day out in Croke Park, it remains to be seen if neutral viewers will continue to tune in to these non-events.
There is already some evidence that the Qualifiers are losing their allure. In 2002, the round four double-bill between Tyrone-Sligo and Donegal-Meath drew an attendance of 43,682. Last weekend, Tyrone-Sligo and Donegal-Galway attracted just 25,665 to HQ.
While smaller counties might be content to get ‘a big day’, the assets sheet could eventually convince the GAA to consider other options. And be under no illusions, while the GAA listens to opinions, it responds to the market. If the crowds continue to shy away from Croke Park and the viewing numbers begin to dwindle, new ideas will be discussed.
In the meantime, the minnows can continue dreaming about those great days in Dublin when their team gets a respectable hiding from a superpower. I think I prefer the shirtless underage manager cursing like a trouper. At least I understand that.
Moral victories. Enjoyable defeats. Sing when you’re losing. It’s the GAA – but not as I know it.
