I sat there, with my heart in my mouth, barely able to breath, afraid that if I moved a muscle it would somehow change the outcome. Watching, waiting, hoping, praying, beyond belief, beyond doubt, beyond reason, beyond reality. And then it happened. I jumped so high out of my seat, I’m surprised I didn’t hit my head on the galvanised room above. Screaming more than air in my lungs allowed. Hugging and cheering and waving and shaking and shouting.
In the end, we didn’t win. Note the word ‘we’. But strangely in losing, we found out that we lost together. Not me or you or he or she. But us. Together. We stood together and listened together and felt the disappointment together. But our heads weren’t hung in shame. They were held high with the sense of pride that every ounce of every person who was in any small way associated with our parish had gone into that season.
Now don’t get me wrong, I wish we did win, purely to reward all of the hard work. But I don’t wish that we did anything differently, because we did it together.
The truth is, it was about more than the sixty minutes played on the pitch. It was about the coming together of a community in a world where we are so often divided.
The signs and flags were up in force all over the place. The colours decorated the landscape, outpours of support and backing and hope. You couldn’t drive for more than thirty seconds without seeing the colours on a house or a pole or a roundabout. Every business and institution possible, offering words of well wishes and good luck.
The children were the best. Their sheer hope and unbridled joy and excitement was infectious. The stunned gaze in their eyes as they looked up at the players, even after the defeat, would make you believe that dreams really do come true. Asking them to sign footballs, jerseys, their arms, wanting to make a memory of the first time they knew what it meant to be inspired. They picked out their favourite player, favourite jersey and confidently told their friends that one day they would be the hero wearing that number. And you know what, with that conviction, I think they will.
Because it’s not about the game. No sport can survive that long on skill alone. It’s the people that make it. The community, the supporters. They’re the ones that have the ability to make a simple set of rules into something special, so sacred to survive hundreds of years.
The truth is, GAA or any sport for that matter is more than just a game. It’s about community, connection and coming together.