A letter from Salthill

A letter from Salthill


Daniel Carey

THE last time Galway lost a championship match on home soil, I was the second last man out of Pearse Stadium. Working for an Athlone-based newspaper, I was in the City of the Tribes to cover what turned out to be a famous win for Westmeath.
The midlanders were wearing green and white that night, and while finding a parking space, we passed what looked like the very definition of optimism: a man selling a lone flag in the temporary colours. We wondered if anyone from Limerick was in the vicinity and mad enough to stock up for the following year.
When we arrived at Pearse Stadium there was a small gang of Westmeath fans on the clubhouse side of the pitch. Approximately 10 men wearing the bibs of ‘maoranna’ were positioned about 20 yards inside the gate. None of them made a move, or showed any inclination that their job might involve telling supporters when or whether the gates will be opened. It was 5.30pm.
Eventually, a man pulled up in a maroon car and directed us to the entrance on the far side of the ground. There we joined approximately 400 people who were standing outside locked gates. Move along, folks, nothing to see here.
We spied a half-open door, flashed our media passes, and were admitted to the inner circle. Directed to the tea room, we shuffled in and guiltily munched on a few sandwiches. This is what the last days of Tsarist Russia must have been like: a small group of people feasting on goodies while a mass of people gathered at the gates outside. El Salvador and Honduras went to war over a game of football. Maybe revolution would be sparked in Ireland by a fourth round qualifier.
Made my way up to the press box. The stand was almost entirely deserted. “Maybe it’ll be like Ryanair, where they can’t guarantee your seat after 6.20,” quipped one journalist. People started banging on the gates outside. Others tried to storm the door marked ‘players, officials and media’. Vowed to hide anything that identified me as a journalist on the way out, lest I be identified as one of the Tsar’s courtiers. The pen may be mightier than the sword, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to find out.
By 6.25pm, a certain chunk of the attendance had taken their seats in the stand. Brown envelopes were believed to have changed hands. One or two fellas apparently used Moss Keane’s old trick, dressing up in lab coats, and using the code word ‘vomit’ when challenged at the entrance.
Rumour had it that a group from Mullingar had started singing ‘We shall overcome’. In apparent retaliation, the authorities unleashed céilí music piped through the PA system. A man with no press pass but in possession of a laptop and a confident wave joined us, fearing the worst. “The gates are STILL closed,” he said disbelievingly. “Throw a few bottles of cider into the mix and there’ll be war.”

Full-time. A dash to the mixed zone where Westmeath players were mobbed and, bizarrely, Westmeath-based journalists were congratulated by gracious Galwegians. Acute embarrassment first felt while eating ham sandwich returned. Shucks lads, it was nothing. My dictaphone failed me, and two pens quickly followed suit.. “You should have been playing for Galway,” says one local hack ruefully. “Nothing went right for them either.” Vowed to get my biros into a training camp so that they could learn to pace themselves better.

By 10.30pm, the last steward was locking up. He was not a happy camper. “Jesus, that was awful shite,” he says. I considered challenging him on this, then realised he’d probably win if it came to a fight between us. “There was some crowd,” he continues. “Half of them got in for nothing, they ripped the door off the hinges.” Managed to avoid replying ‘I can’t say I’m surprised’. It seems the revolution was not televised after all.
By Monday afternoon, the green and white flag was for sale on e-bay. The bidding on this ‘collector’s item commemorating a historic event’ had reached €4,000. No doubt someone who backed Westmeath at 4/1 found a few bob for it.