The hill was alive

62,788 eyes are glued to the action on the field in the magnificent theatre that is Croke Park. It’s Leinster Final Day in the Capital and the Dubs are going for three-in-a-row against Laois, who have replaced Meath as the other powerhouse in Leinster (I’m talking football here, not boxing, so Graham Geraghty’s personal ‘title challenge’ doesn’t count).

Most neutrals are predicting a Dublin victory, but before the game, the mood on Hill 16 (or Dineen Hill 16 as it’s now called, after the man who originally purchased the land on which Croker stands) is a little nervous: this could be a potential banana skin. Which Dublin side would turn up? The team who dispatched Meath so clinically in the replayed game on June 17 or the 15 who huffed and puffed their way to beating an Offaly side woefully short of ideas a week later?
The pubs along Drumcondra Road and Dorset Street are rammed long before the game, but the majority of fans manage to assume their positions in time for the 4:15 throw-in, which is something of a novelty when Dublin are involved. Myself and the lads have got in early, as usual, to get a decent spot on the Hill before the start. Early arrival isn’t always a guarantee of a good view, however: many’s the time I’ve had any chance of seeing more than 5% of the pitch obliterated in an instant by the arrival of a beer-sodden Dublin “fan” two minutes before throw-in, usually accompanied by a shout of “Anto, we’re grand here” and a waft of cigarette smoke in the face. That said, despite hysterical tabloid headlines to the contrary, the only “coke” this writer saw on Hill 16 was in a bottle with the familiar red-and-white logo on the side.
Before the main event, the Minor final provides a welcome distraction for the nerves, with Laois remaining true to the form-book at this level by edging out a valiant Carlow side. Predictably, most of the blue-clad supporters are rooting for Carlow, so when the victorious Laois team parade their trophy in front of the Hill, they’re greeted by a chorus of boos. One of the two young ladies behind me is particularly offended, roaring “Fuck off down the Canal End, yiz cunts, we don’t want yiz down here.” That’s sport for ya!
The first rousing ‘Come On You Boys In Blue’ as the team take to the field never fails to send a shiver down the spine. Or maybe that’s just the Dutch Gold spilling from the back of the terrace. Seriously though, standing on the Hill roaring on the Dubs is an experience not to be forgotten. Aside altogether from the wonderfully tribal nature of supporting your native county against a host of auld enemies, Gaelic football can offer up a dizzying spectacle.
Admittedly, there’s little beauty to be found in the blanket defence so-often adopted by Tyrone or the pulling-and-dragging matches that many league fixtures descend into. But I defy any true sports fan to tell me there’s nothing aesthetically pleasing in watching Ryan McMenamin in full flight up the wing or in the free-flowing total football that saw Donegal lift the National League title earlier this year. Seeing the Gooch spin on a sixpence before sending another pin-point score high over the bar from a seemingly impossible angle is a sight to take your breath away.

CHOKERS AND FANCY DANS
At this point, it’s imperative that I introduce my two fellow Hill-dwellers, who form such a vital role in this writer’s Hill 16 experience: a former Dublin Intermediate hurler and fountain of knowledge of all things GAA, Enda’s first ever title was a Bonny Baby Rosette at the Erin’s Isle fete in Finglas in 1974 and he’s primarily responsible for anything intelligent I write about the match. Then there’s Doyler, whose failure to grasp the game’s intricacies is matched only by his passion and the gusto with which he berates the players any time they fuck up, usually delivered with a string of adjectives as blue as the jersey he wears. After one particularly foul-mouthed tirade at a League game in Parnell Park a few years back, one obviously shocked gentleman, who was accompanied by his very young grandchildren, tipped Doyler on the shoulder, remarking, “That’s disgraceful – in front of the kids!” “I know,” replied our hero, “they’re fucking brutal today.”
And so to throw-in: after a decidedly non-enthusiastic rendition of ‘Amhran Na bhFiann’, the players take up their positions, with the Dublin forward line displaying better balance than it has in years – although Mossy Quinn can count himself unlucky to lose his starting position. As well as the return of Jayo (the only veteran of Dublin’s last success in 1995) to the fold, we have the two Brogan brothers, Alan and Bernard, sons of the Blues legend from the Seventies (Bernard Senior); the workhorse, Conal Keaney; the captain, Collie Moran; and the man whose sharp-shooting has propelled Dublin to the final in the first place, Mark Vaughan – the fact that Vaughan’s peroxide-white hair matches Alan Brogan’s pristine boots somehow adds to the sense of symmetry, or maybe that’s just me.
However, it’s the Laois front-line that makes all the early running, with the midlanders’ slick passing and direct running creating havoc in the Dublin defence, with Colm Parkinson particularly impressive. A sloppy goal from Dublin’s perspective after eight minutes, converted by Ross Munnelly, prompts the female voices behind to comment, “Munnelly, you’re only a bollix... but he’s a nice fella though.”
12 minutes in, and Laois have opened up a four-point lead. A few Vaughan frees keep the Dubs in touch, but Laois have the better of the first half... until the 28th minute, when Bryan Cullen (moved forward from Centre Back to combat Laois’ use of an extra man in their half-back line – thanks Enda) picks the ball up on the edge of the square and runs at the Laois goal. Despite seemingly taking too many steps, Cullen is allowed to go on, before he is eventually sent tumbling to the deck, but the Skerries man has the wherewithal to off-load to Vaughan on the edge of the small square: he buries it in the back of the net. The Hill erupts, and myself and the lads are thankful for the barrier at our back.
No sooner has the ‘lepping’ subsided, and we’re sharing our space with a whole new set of Dublin fans, then the Dubs go and do it again. This time, Keaney fields a pinpoint pass from Jayo, before laying it off to Bernard Brogan, who slots home with aplomb. This time around, the entire terrace is like a mosh-pit, with even those of us old enough to know better going absolutely beserk: it’s like Rage Against The Machine down in Semple Stadium in 1994, albeit without the dreadlocks and liberal political slant. Once Dublin score their third goal in the 12th minute of the second half, it’s all over bar the shouting, and there’s plenty of that, thanks to Doyler’s bullhorn-like berations, as Dublin once again prove their Rip Van Winkel-like tendency to doze once they’ve amassed any sort of lead.
Before that, though, we’re treated to a half-time pitch invader dressed as Superman, whose forced removal by the Gardaí results in a hail of bottles from those behind the goal, and the, eh, dubious musical delights of Frankie Gavin and Hibernian Rhapsody, who provide the half-time entertainment (I guess Brian Kennedy was sick, then).
So far this summer, those of us of a blue persuasion have been afraid to even think beyond Leinster. After all, this was a team of chokers and fancy dans, who couldn’t be counted on when the chips were down. After a hard-fought victory over Meath and a third Leinster title in a row, alongside the unthinkable – the emergence of a free-scoring Dublin forward line and a resurgent Ciaran Whelan in the middle of the park – could this be the day Dublin dared to dream of the third Sunday in September?
Forget Spillane, O’Rourke et al, the real experts retired to the Gravediggers in Glasnevin to ponder the possibility of just such an eventuality.