Fish out of water: Gaelic is Greek to me

WHAT’S IT ALL ABOUT? Ciara Moynihan sits in the stand in Garrymore as visiting Westport and the homeside fight for their senior status in the Mayo Senior Football Championship. Pic: Paul Mealey

Gaelic is Greek to me


In the third of our series challenging our journalists to move out of their comfort zone, we sent blow-in and GAA neophyte Ciara Moynihan to a Mayo Senior Championship match.

The fact that I was being sent to a GAA game on a Saturday night caused much mirth in my family. Five minutes before leaving the house, I received a text from my mother: “Do you know a goal is worth three points?” I could almost hear the gales of laughter. (And no, damn it, I didn’t know.)
I have no inclination towards GAA, nor any game involving people chasing a ball. Somehow it passed me by.
Not that a love for Gaelic isn’t in my family. My mother is from Leitrim, which, though not known for its prowess on the pitch, spawns fans and players that can not be faulted for their enthusiasm.
My earliest memories of the game are of her GAA-obsessed sister in Dublin glued to ‘The Sunday Game’ on RTÉ, deaf to everything save the commentator, deafening all around her with her yells.
Back in Leitrim, passions would occasionally run over – and not just among the menfolk. A cousin used to play for the U-16s ladies’ team in her parish. My mother and my granny went along to see her play, only to witness at close range her impressive right hook during a sideline spat with a girl on the opposing team.
A great-aunt on my father’s side allowed only one, solitary picture to adorn the walls of her sitting room: The Kildare team.
On hearing that my ‘Fish Out of Water’ assignment would be to go to a GAA match (my first), I hoped (prayed) that this grΡ for Gaelic that was apparently in my blood was simply lying dormant, waiting to be shaken awake by the glory of a good game. I hoped the zeal I’d witnessed in others would be mine, that I’d soon be seen on stadium sidelines dressed head to toe in team colours, brimming with astute observations and emitting blood-curdling roars. I wondered which high-profile stadium I’d be sent to, which famous footballers I’d hobnob with, into which media tower I’d waltz.
“Get thee to Garrymore,” my (football-mad) colleagues ordered, with no small hint of mischief. “They’re playing Westport, your adopted town, so you’ll have an interest.”
“Garrymore?” I replied. “Where’s that?”
Where indeed. A lengthy Google Map search turned up the townland. But no town. From what I could see, there was precious little sign of human habitation, let alone a pitch. Eventually a kindly work mate took pity on me and showed me a corner of green on the map of green fields where, he assured me, I’d find a pitch.



Knowing there was no way I’d find that corner again, I duly placed a marker on the Google map on my iPhone, and my life in the hands of GPS technology.
Thank God I did. Somewhere, deep in the middle of nowhere, the phone told me to take a right. Eventually, having missed the turn several times, I realised that I was to turn up a decidedly inhospitable-looking boreen (I had mistaken it for an overgrown driveway). The shrine on the corner was no comfort. I took it in an ‘Abandon all hope, ye who enter’ sort of way.
My fears grew as I bounced along, listening to the ominous sound of grass whacking and tearing at the underside of the car. On and on I went, deeper and deeper into nothingness. Mercifully, I didn’t meet another car – reversing would have been impossible. Just as humiliating thoughts of being airlifted out of Garrymore were starting to form, a crossroads appeared, and not long after that the pitch rose, phoenix like, out of the green.
Mightily relieved, I babbled something incoherent about The Mayo News and being sent here ‘for sport’ by my Editor to the two men at the entrance. I confessed that I had never been to a GAA match in my life. Amused and bemused in equal measure, one looked at me with sincere incredulity and asked “Where have you been?!”
“Dublin,” I replied. They laughed gently and nodded knowingly to each other.
Inside the hallowed ground, I took my place on the stand and tried to get over my disappointment at the absence of seats. The action on the pitch was fast paced, the language in the stands colourful. It was an important match to the supporters – the loser would face relegation (I’ve no real understanding of what that means, but it’s a fate worse than death, apparently).
Amid cries of encouragement (“Go on lads, take a man each”) and roars of criticism (“Jesus, don’t kick it in the air again”), my confusion grew. Why ‘take a man’? Surely kicking the ball in the air is a good thing? And who were the men in white at the goals, and why were they waving flags?
Hard as I tried, I just could not follow the game. There was lots of kicking, sliding, running, pulling, slamming. Towards the end, I wondered aloud what the score was, and the scoreboard in the corner of the pitch was pointed out to me. “Oh,” I murmured. I hadn’t noticed.
Garrymore 0-12; Visitors 1-8. Thanks to my mother’s text, I worked out that Westport were behind by a point. I smiled to myself and thought, I’m getting the hang of this.   
Suddenly, the stands erupted. A cacophony of cheers and equally loud but alas unprintable laments rang in my ears, and then there was a goal. Westport had clinched it in the final minutes with a goal from the boot of Lee Keegan. (See? See how knowledgeable I sound?)
And, as quickly as it all began, it was all over. As I returned to my car, I couldn’t help but be envious of the animated supporters as they headed to pub bars and kitchen tables to dissect and analyse the action together. There was a unity to it, and I was now forced to accept that it was a unity that I would never be part of.
All that lay ahead of me was the terrifying prospect of that grassy boreen.