Glory days that don't pass you by

Thomas Lyons

Vicarious: (adjective) describing an experience, feeling, or action that you live through or feel by watching, reading about, or imagining someone else, rather than by doing it yourself.

Six weeks ago, the bandwagon showed up. I hadn’t expected it. Liveried in maroon, with discreet white trim, it first made its presence known when I unconsciously referred to the Westmeath Senior Men’s GAA team as ‘we’. “I really think we can do it,” I said, and when no one pulled me up on my affiliation, I elbowed my way onboard. I probably had considered hitching a lift shortly after “our” demolition of my hitherto home county of Longford.

The seed was probable planted several months earlier when Jarlath Burns, at the launch of TEG as the Westmeath GAA main sponsor, pointed out that the Lake County had the ability to contest against the top tier teams.

After the rout of Longford, the momentum built; the underdog tag against Meath in Tullamore was retained for the Kildare fixture also in Tullamore.

“So what will I need to do to get a press pass for the match,” I inquired of the boss. To have a decent foothold on any bandwagon requires some sort of connection. To be officially appointed lends a gravitas to the association; also you get a free ticket.

Sunday morning, Jones Road, press entrance, and the streets of Dublin 3 are thronged with supporters in maroon. Given that a Dublin team are already contesting the ladies version of the Leinster final, it would be an easy assumption that perhaps the blue bedecked fans had already taken their seats.

That wasn’t the case. In the first game, the Dubs overcame Kildare to take the Leinster crown in an engaging affair. Right up to the final seven minutes, when they scored two back to back goals to claim the cup, Dublin were under the cosh.

The surprising thing about the game was the small number of fans in attendance. As the final few minutes were played out, there were more Westmeath fans in the stadium, an hour before throw-in, than supporters of the participating teams.

The presentation of the Mary Ramsbottom Cup took place on a pitch lined out with cones and slalom poles.

The Dublin senior men’s team flooded out of the tunnel like a stream of water, agility training between the women to find the shortest path to the pitch. Predator-like in their movement, they exuded the confidence of the home team. They went straight to kicks and then into drills.

Westmeath, as if acknowledging a momentous occasion, ran to the mid-pitch bench to have their picture taken before embarking on the kicks and drills build-up.

It was the visitors who dominated the stands, the Hogan and Cusack a blanket of the maroon, while a pocket of Westmeath fans took over the top of Hill 16, marooned on an island in a sea of blue.

Before the throw-in, the capital fans looked to intimidate with a boisterous chant of “come on you boys in blue” but the superior numbers of Westmeath fans drowned out any such efforts. Even from that early juncture, the feeling that this was a home game for Westmeath was making itself known.

Just how much the fans would be a part of the game was clear when David Goldrick threw in the ball; Ray Connellan won it over Peadar Ó Cofaigh Byrne showing that the crowd were not afraid to let their voice be heard.

And what a start. Two unanswered points; the commencement McHugh’s men have taught their supporters to expect.

Still at the back of the mind was the record 14-in-a-row Leinster titles Dublin won between 2011 and 2024. That pedigree was what saw them ease their way back into the game and after 19 minutes go ahead, 0-5 to 0-4, and the blues fans let their presence be felt.

A single word to describe the Westmeath first half performance: grit. Otherwise it could be graft, hard work, labour, toil, or grind. Even with all that effort, they went into the half time break behind 0-11 to 0-9.

The initial exchanges of the second period showcased the concise Dublin attack and their parsimonious defence. Though the metropolitans were fast and fit, the sheer determination of the midlanders brought them back into contention.

After the game, captain Ronan Wallace would speak of how a crowd feed a team: “You’re feeling a bit low on energy, you just get that boost after a score or a turnover,” and as the match progressed that was apparent.

Each Westmeath score was accompanied by a sonic boom that resonated through the capital. That hysteria spilled over to the bandwagon and any press impartiality was jettisoned.

There were just 47 minute gone, the sides hit parity at 0-15, 0-15, and from high in the stand a cry: “Ah for God’s sake, he’s his hand on his back,” I roared just loud enough for Goldrick to hear my insistence. Such cries are unusual in the media enclosure.

“Do you mind, we’re in the press box,” a disgruntled journalist, clearly a Dublin supporter, admonishes me. I leaned back up against the rail that separated the press from the public, as if to make the point that we were at a football match and not a piano recital.

It’s remarkable how some minutes can seem so dense and time laden when you are living them, but appear so brief when they are past.

In the push and pull that brought the 70 to a conclusion, Westmeath always presented a comfortable confidence. It seemed at odds with the anxiety in the stands.

Extra time belonged to the men whose appetite was whetted by over two decades of longing. As the Dublin players went down to cramps, Westmeath hunted like the wolf packs described on their wristbands.

It was a glorious end. A fitting end. An end that encapsulated the day. Jack Duncan, having returned to the pitch for extra time, sealed the win with a goal at the death of the game. Perhaps not an end, there are more days out promised by this team.

A chance to share in success, even if it is vicariously.