New year, same old story...

Cavanman's Diary

Last Thursday was a significant date; it was the feast of the Epiphany, which commemorates the Three Wise Men, and it also marked the first football match of the year and the Cavan senior team’s first outing in 181 days. In the hours beforehand, speculation was more rampant than Omicron - what would the line-up be? Would the new players be up to it? Would there be a row?! Truly, anything could have happened.

Now, I like to get to matches early and particularly so when it’s a big game or the first one in a while. I left home around 6.20 for a 7.45 throw-in. Hitting the stadium, the flags were blowing east (or maybe from the east, I’m not sure), fluttering in the howling gale, which I took as an ominous sign.

Because the east wind is a particularly nasty one. In the Old Testament, Moses, maybe the first bainisteoir, summoned it to bring a plague of locusts. Later, he called on it again to part the Red Sea.

On this occasion, the plague came from Armagh, Cavan’s old friends, against whom they have had it ‘hot and heavy’ for the last decade, most famously in a pre-match brawl in the Athletic Grounds eight years ago when the band were scattered like it was ten-pin bowling.

The referee took note that day – he reported some players for steee-riiiking (sorry), resulting in long bans – and Cavan even lost their corner-forward before throw-in to a broken hand.

In the meantime, there have been various fiery encounters between them. Suffice to say that Cavan and Armagh don’t seem to scrub along all that well, which, again, added to the anticipation for this opening match of 2022.

On the back pitch, one of the Cavan mentors, swaddled in so many layers that I could not identify him, stood guard over a dozen footballs, waiting for the players to begin their warm-up. I watched him for a couple of minutes, stamping his feet to stay warm, before I took the plunge and jumped out of the car. Immediately, I was glad of the extra padding provided by the indulgences of the festive season; there was a breeze that would cut lesser insulated men in two.

Not that this was anything new. The cold to the McKenna Cup is like New York to a Scorsese movie – a character in itself. It was no surprise that the press box at the back of the stand was glacier-like as I sat down.

“It’s not warm,” I announced, to nobody in particular.

“Jaysus and it’s not. They said the snow was coming at four o’clock but…” the man to my right, from the Ulster Council, said. “Maybe the rain brought it away.”

I liked that theory and filed it away for future use alongside other gems such as “it’s too cold to snow” and so on.

I opened the laptop and, urged my numb fingers to type out the teams, which they eventually began to do. At this stage, a half an hour or so before throw-in, the “any changes?” conversation usually begins.

“Any changes?” I asked someone.

“No, seemingly not,” I was told, although the tone suggested not to take this as gospel truth. Normally, you see, in these off-Broadway affairs, the programme is little more than a rough guide.

At half seven, Armagh took the field. “Please put your hands together for the Armagh team!” announced the Cavan PRO. A smattering of supporters took her cue, glad of the opportunity to generate some heat.

On the PA system, ‘Freed From Desire’ was playing, a curious choice. “Freed from desire, mind and senses purified,” I found myself humming, like one of these backroom sports psychology Svengalis. It wasn’t a bad mantra in the dog days of early January, to be fair. And it’s a catchy number.

Just as I was beginning to relax, enter, stage right, a chilly Damien Donohoe. “Any ch-ch-changes?” he asked, Bowie-like.

“Seemingly not,” I said, through chattering teeth.

At 7.35pm, we were requested to “please put our hands together for the Cavan team”. We did as instructed, knocking off a few icicles as we went. It was then that the thought struck me that I could have just watched this at home, in front of the fire.

At that, I got a text. “€12 to buy the stream for this game!!” exclaimed an outraged Cavanman. “They saw you coming,” I ice-texted back, purposely masking my jealousy with aggression.

The teams committed to the Word documnent in front of me, the waiting game began. I tuned into snatches of conversation in the stand before me. The only ones in attendance were family and friends of the players and the usual lifers; if you were into Buddhism, you’d have to say that they must have been particularly bad in a previous existence to warrant this punishment.

“Did ya get a programme?” asked one man.

“Naw,” replied his companion.

“Is that young O’Neill from Kildallan?”

“Aye. And big Argy is in the middle of the field I think.”

A steward overheard the exchange and leaned in. “Do yiz want a programme lads?” he asked, handing one over.

“Good man. Any changes?”

“Seemingly not.”

Eventually, the game began. It took seven minutes for the first score to arrive. By half-time, Cavan had only managed three points, none from play.

By then, though, Mickey Graham – in a curiously formal touch, he was listed as ‘Michael’ on the programme – had consulted with his own wise men, McMenamin and Johnston, looked to his bench and, like Moses, summoned some back-up. Thomas Galligan was on and swinging like a demolition ball; soon, he sent for Killian Clarke and Gerard Smith too, the tried and trusted.

At half-time came the announcement we had all been waiting for. “Hot food is available in the GAA Kitchen, where tonight’s special is… curry chip for €3.” I decided to make do with the tea and, to be fair, it perked me up.

The players must have had some too. In the second half, Cavan were a different team. As the rain and sleet hammered down, Gearoid McKiernan fired over some great points; James Smith almost broke the crossbar with a goal effort. Maybe it was the cold but the usual conventions seemed not to apply any more; players were kicking Garryowens, whole halves of the field were left unmanned. Mad stuff all round.

In the dying seconds, Cavan pushed up, searching for an equaliser, and Armagh caught them out. The blue sea parted and Armagh ran the ball into an empty net. The referee didn’t bother with the kick-out, just sounded the whistle to blew it up. By then, the supporters were halfway home.

After chiselling the match report out like one of those ice sculptors, I hit the button to post it on our website, closed the laptop and made for the car.

The McKenna Cup, the archaic January ritual from Pagan times, was half-over for another year. Any changes? You can fill in the rest yourself…