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Unexpectedly, an opportunity arose to go to the match. I was in my classroom in the Christian Brothers School when two senior students named John Dineen and Mossy Lord O’Connor came in. They were organizing a trip to Dublin and invited our class members to join them. They had hired a minibus to catch the train in Tralee and had booked accommodation in Dublin. These lads certainly showed initiative and I was yearning to go. I convinced my mother that the trip had the blessing of the holy monks and that it would be good for my education. I was relying on the fact that her brother Thomas was a Christian Brother and she could depend on their astute judgment. Surprisingly, I got the nod and I was over the moon to be on the bus the following morning. The other lads included Michael Slattery, Brendan Brogeen Flaherty, John Curran, Michael Dillon, John Emanuel Brosnan, Martin Scanlon and Michael Boland and many other likely recruits. We boarded the bus without a care in the world. Our enthusiasm knew no bounds. Shortly after the train set off from Tralee Station, the conductor’s attention was drawn to a minor commotion at the end of the carriage. A passenger who was reading the paper had been whacked with an apple. Bullseye! Right in the middle of his forehead. He was not amused. We pleaded innocent but the conductor threatened to eject us at Farranfore. Fortunately, we managed to reach Dublin without further incident. Some of the lads began imbibing on the odd bottle of Harp and Black Label. As we headed towards O’Connell Street, we left everyone in our wake knowing who we were. Not only were we from Kerry but we were from the Wild West. Up Dingle, we chanted, Come on Lispole, An Ghaeltacht Abú. We might squabble and argue back home among ourselves about local trivialities but once we crossed Blennerville Bridge, we were a united front. We were the self-appointed ambassadors from Corca Dhuibhne. I was thrilled to be in their company and it certainly beat sitting in a wooden bench in the old monastery. Imagine three full days without ….faigh an leathar….sín amach do lámh…..no more stair na hEorpa with Ritchie O’Sullivan or Laidin with Bráthar Lennon or dreaded eolaíocht with an Bráthar Harkin. We bought green and gold paper hats and walked into the GPO for a gawk! We crowned the statue of Cuchuallan with a green and gold hat and scarf as a good luck omen. Our next destination was to book into our lodgings at The Kerry Arms which was located in Talbot Street. The lady of the house was originally from Dingle and I heard one of the lads say “She’s sound out…, she was one of our own”. We were ushered into a very large bedroom which contained about four double beds and a sizeable number of camp beds. Now we were joined by a number of lads from the West – Colm Leahy, Dowd, Welsh and a fellow with a name I hadn’t heard before called Jimmy Francis. That evening the boys headed up to Parnell Square to a rendezvous with the rest of the Dingle brigade. We squeezed our way into the Shakespeare Bar. Never had I seen a place so packed. It was sheer bedlam. There were groups singing, well to be more accurate they were bawling at the top of their voices in every nook and cranny. They were from all over Kerry, but mainly from the West. Each group were trying to out sing or out shout the other. The Rose of Tralee, The Wild Colonial Boy, Dingle Bay, An Puc ar Buile, The Boys from Barr na Sraide were given unmerciful treatment.
Occasionally, I made a foray down O’Connell Street. I was getting braver and more assured. I walked from Parnell Square to Talbot Street on my own and taking in all the sounds and the different accents. I gorged myself with numerous ice cream cones and ate about half a stone of potato chips. Then I walked as far as O’Connell Bridge and crossed over to the other side. I felt as if I was a city slicker. I returned to the bar but had to join a huge queue. After many more renditions of The Kerry Anthems, we headed back to the digs. All the lads were in cracking form. One or two were a little under the weather, another was pretending to be maith go leor, but overall they were all well behaved. We sang, shouted and bawled our way home. We stopped for photographs and spoke to everyone who was willing to converse. It was mighty to be away from home. Such freedom and tomorrow was still on the horizon. We settled down for the night. We were billeted in two separate rooms but seemed to have gained a few more guests. Two lads slept on the top of the beds and two on the bottom end. It didn’t matter, we were all happy and carefree. During the night we sang more songs, told numerous iffy jokes and made a wide variety of sounds which the Cherokee Indians would recognize and appreciate. There were a number of knocks on the door and we were requested to keep the noise to a tolerable level but to no avail. At one stage some of the lads lifted a large wardrobe on top of a bed while the occupants were half asleep….finally, we were overwhelmed by exhaustion and heads fell into pillows and deep slumber. This was followed by the eerie sound of a snoring orchestra. We sounded like a colony of seals off Beginish Island or a pod of muc mara’s. The noise of a Jumbo jet wouldn’t have woken us from our heavy sleep. For breakfast we ate a mountain of rashers, black puddings and fried eggs before setting off for Croke Park.
After a customary stop over at the Shakespeare Bar, we walked along Summerhill Street. There were groups of young girls sitting on the steps of the tenement flats. We gazed in amazement and wondered how so many families could live in one big house. The girls started yapping at us in Dublin accents which we couldn’t understand. We retaliated and asked them where did they keep their hens and ducks. “Youse are gobshites” they yelled, “Go home and milk yer cows….did you forget yours wellies”…….one of the lads started speaking Gaelic….“Oh Jaysus, youse can only speak bleedin Irish….why don’t youse speak English righ?”….. We enjoyed the harmless banter before ambling along to the stadium. We paid our way into Hill 16. I was engulfed in a sea of red and black. The match turned into a damp squib. Down were much superior and stormed into the game. My abiding memory from the final was Down’s first goal. A high ball which seemed bound for a point struck the top of the Kerry post. Time stood still and no one moved except the ever alert Seán O’Neill. He intuitively stabbed the rebound past the Kerry goalkeeper. Suddenly, there was a massive roar and a tidal wave of black and red clad supporters swept me from my vulnerable position on Hill 16. I felt terrified and ended up about ten steps below my original position. Worse was to follow as John Murphy goaled almost immediately. Incredibly, Down were leading by two goals and three points to one point with only eight minutes gone on the clock. Séamus McGearailt from An Ghaelacht replaced Seanie Burrows and played with great gusto while Séamus Murphy the only other West Kerry player had a fine game. The best indication of Down’s superiority was that the Kerry goalkeeper Johnny Culloty had a great game. The youthful Brendan Lynch scored a goal from a free kick in the last minute which gave the scoreboard a more respectable look. However, Down won well on merit. I passed most of the time gazing at the latecomers climbing onto the back wall behind Hill 16. It cost two shillings to climb the ropes. They perched precariously on the wall watching the game. Some of the more adventurous jumped onto the roof of the Nally Stand and our hearts were in our mouths with anxiety. The final score was Down 2-12, Kerry 1-13. Kerry’s goose was cooked and I followed the waves of green and gold from the ground, long before the presentation of the cup. We trudged our way back to the Shakespeare. Spirits were low and it took a while before the singing started. We battered the usual songs, but only half heartily. The bar was cleared at ten o’clock, due to early closing on a Sunday night. We gathered outside to bid farewell to the lads heading back to England, when suddenly I noticed a gang of gawky looking youths staring in our direction. They wore short-cut jeans, which seemed to be flying at half-mast and oversized nail boots. The nearest and meanest looking chap advanced in our direction. He accused us of being bleeding muck savages. He was swinging a bicycle chain but I didn’t see any sign of his bicycle. The Gaeltacht lads were cogar-muggering about a pacha diabhail agus buachaillí bróga…….One of the lads said they were gurriers. This confused me because home in Dingle a gurrier was a hatching hen! Suddenly, the engagement came to an abrupt end, when he was lamped with two haymakers. He struggled to his feet and got an almighty lasc up the bundún to bring him to his senses. His loyal disciples scattered like grasshoppers in a sweet meadow. That finished the clampar. We headed towards Talbot St. without further adieu! The second night was a much quieter affair. Our energy levels were dipping into the red zone. We were like spent herrings. The eirí in airde and teaspach was well knocked out of us. However, an unforgettable episode was about to unfold. Outside of the synchronized snoring, the night time had been relatively peaceful. At about eight in the morning, there was a loud and continuous knock on the door. I peeped out from under the blanket as a lady entered the doorway and spoke in quite an anxious manner. We instantly guessed that some emergency was at hand and cocked our ears to grasp the detail…….lads would you mind getting up straight away….there has been an awful tragedy….the man of the house has just collapsed and has died. There was an eerie silence in the room. Youths don’t have any reference point when it comes to mortality. Suddenly, one of the lads blurted out….“dead or alive, I want black puddings for my breakfast”. The folly of youth!
In truth, we were very well behaved and respectful and immediately cooperated with the lady’s wishes. Soon we were on our return journey to Dingle. We were stone broke, exhausted but exhilarated after our visit to the capital. The following year I would return to see Kerry beat Meath. On this occasion I was a more seasoned campaigner, but would I stay in the Kerry Arms…….…..of course I did!
