Living like common people, high in the Hogan Stand

Cavanman's Diary

Croke Park in high summer. We travelled to see David but we went home talking about Clontibret’s Goliath. There is no more admirable footballer than Conor McManus and it was he, more than anyone, who powered Monaghan into an unlikely All-Ireland semi-final.

Because they know I attend a lot of matches in my job, people often ask me where they would go about getting tickets for club or county games. I am the worst person one could make such enquiries of; it is my privilege to get into games with a press pass and I genuinely am usually not sure how tickets are attained for the different matches, club or county. I don’t even know where the best places are to park because the media usually get access close to the ground.

On Saturday, wanting to, like Pulp, live like common people, I decided to head to Croker for the double-header of All-Ireland quarter-finals and enjoy the match-day experience as a paying customer.

Tickets, bought online, were €40 each, which I felt was reasonable for two knock-out matches featuring four of the best teams in the country and, in my opinion, the best forward the game has seen in the aforementioned Clifford.

We parked in Phibsborough, not far from Dalymount Park, a half-hour walk from Croker. En route, we stopped in the Bald Eagle, where the Guinness was awful, and had another diversion at the Hideout, tucked away amid a warren of back streets in the shadow of the stadium and boasting the best stout on the north side.

The Hideout wasn’t overly busy but, a bar man told me in the thickest Dublin twang, “We’ll be choc-a-bloc tomorrow, we will.”

Soon, we were in our seats and they could not have been better, right on the halfway line, perched on row level seven of the Hogan Stand, over-looking the press box.

I went to the bar and picked up two plastic bottles of Carlsberg and a bottle of water, which cost me the princely sum of €16.70. I asked for a receipt but was told I’d have to get one at a different till. As far as I could figure out, the beers were €7 each.

When I recovered from that shock, it was back to Clifford Watch – but the great man wasn’t himself. His movement was surprisingly limited and he kicked several wides and just one point from play.

But the Fossa Collosus produced one unforgettable moment in the second half when, penned in along the sideline right underneath where we sat, he hooked the ball with a volley to Tony Brosnan, taking out two defenders. Within seconds, Seanie O’Shea had the ball in the net at the Hill 16 end.

It was another piece of magic for Clifford’s ever-burgeoning highlight reel but overall, he had a poor game by his lofty standards.

Still, the All-Ireland champions showed enough quality to wrap the first game up a long way out and the match petered out, with that old Tyrone defiance conspicuous by its absence, even in the stands.

The last time I sat among the plebeians was the 2019 All-Ireland final. Back then, I noticed a trend but here it was more pronounced. Football has a big problem; the rules haven’t kept pace with tactical innovations, with the result that for long spells, not much is happening.

Around us, people were chatting among themselves; some were looking at their phones or scanning through the match programme. The main frisson of excitement would arrive, with a jolt, when a team forced a turnover but for minutes at a time, it was boring.

Still, Clifford’s moment of magic made it worth it. Monaghan and Armagh took the field next and soon, the strains of ‘Trouble with a Capital T’ by the Horslips were reverberating around the ground. There was sure to be fireworks.

It was time to re-fuel. Jealous from looking at my erstwhile colleagues across the barrier in the press area munching on sandwiches and sinking soup, between the two games, I decided to check out the catering facilities for the ordinary plebs.

My timing was bad. The queue was half an hour long. By now, the sun had gone in and it was getting nippy - but not as cold as the burgers themselves. I know it’s fast food but this was not good fare.

I forgot to note exactly what I paid but it wasn’t cheap. I had figured it wouldn’t be when I noticed a sign above the counter with special ‘meal deals’, one of which was €17 for a burger, a little tub of chips and a bottle of beer. The small print at the bottom of the banner noted that “all meal deals including Coca-Cola are subject to a 20c supplement”.

I know I am a Cavanman but if that’s a special deal… We hear a lot about price gouging and I understand it costs a lot of money to run the stadium and so on but this seemed extortionate to me.

Anyway, the ball was thrown in and it was clear there would be no free-wheeling stuff here. The physicality was awesome and in fairness to the ref, who came in for plenty of stick for his handling of the closing stages, he facilitated that. Scores were chiselled from granite. Maybe it was my familiarity with both teams but I enjoyed this game immensely.

Extra-time seemed inevitable – amazingly, there was never more than a point between the teams in normal time – and so it came to pass.

“This is not good for the ticker,” a Monaghan man behind me grimaced.

“I know,” I said, “and we are neutral.”

In truth, we weren’t. We were cheering on our neighbours, don’t ask me why…

It’s amazing what you notice when you’re not taking notes. After Rian O’Neill’s brilliant late point, it seemed Armagh would win it but then Monaghan earned a free and there was a long delay as an Armagh man was treated for an injury.

In that time period, Monaghan won the match. On the sideline, manager Vinny Corey worked it all out and could be seen sending word to Rory Beggan, who might have been considering having a pop from 65 metres.

Vinny choreographed the play – work it to McManus, he will win a free and we’ll take it to penalties, seemed to be the message. Monaghan did that and McManus nailed the resulting kick, which wasn’t easy.

The shoot-out ensued. The tension. I’m not a fan of the method but the drama is undeniable.

Armagh’s kicks were actually better but Monaghan got away with a few tame efforts which still found the net. And then Beggan saved and it was all over.

“That’s three f**king times now,” complained one female supporter bitterly within our earshot as we filtered out, referencing Armagh’s previous shoot-out losses.

On the way back to the car, we noticed a lot of Monaghans and Tyrones supping tea from flasks and devouring sandwiches at the boot of their cars. No €17 meal deals for them; only the canny Cavanman had been conned.

Fore-warned is fore-armed; we’ll be back but, next time, we’ll come prepared!