Sheridan
01/09/2003, 10:01 AM
I was just thinking that it might be a helpful means of establishing what keeps people away from eL grounds if each of us were to describe how our enthusiasm for domestic football was kindled. This will probably work best for relative newcomers such as myself, rather than those of you who were fortunate enough to be bitten by the bug at an early age.
My own excuse for ignoring the League of Ireland as a football-mad kid can be expressed in three words: lack of exposure. Football never really gripped me until 1990, when I was nine years old. Strangely enough, my sudden conversion occurred just before the World Cup but had nothing today with the imminent tournament (Italia ’90 did, however, seal my fate.)
My interest was primarily in the national team, and since Charlton’s squad idled away the time between internationals by playing for English Football League teams, this was the league I followed on TV. Having tentatively adopted Everton as “my” team (I think I felt sorry for them after reading about their 1989 FA Cup final defeat) I was fully-equipped to wade into the schoolyard slanging matches with all guns blazing (sadly, as I was soon to discover, Everton’s decade-long slump left me firing blanks.)
But the club versus country debate was always a “no contest” for me. Infuriated by Kevin Sheedy’s release on a free transfer, the announcement of which was humiliatingly relegated to the small print of the sports pages, I tore all my Everton posters from the bedroom wall. Well no, I didn’t tear them. Being a pragmatic kind, I removed them carefully and placed them in a drawer, ready for reinstatement once my chagrin faded. My flirtation with Everton had fizzled out by the mid-nineties. Today, I feel no residual affection for the club.
As for the League of Ireland, it simply didn’t register on my radar. For a whole chunk of the nineties, Derek Swan was the only LoI player whose name I would have recognised, and only because a classmate of mine was related to him. My father, a regular visitor to Richmond Park in the late fifties/early sixties, never made any reference to the LoI, except to comment mournfully that “Shamrock Rovers would beat this lot” as we watched some hapless bunch of Slovakians or Greeks get taken apart by ManU.
Actually, rewind a bit to the early nineties, because I’ve just remembered an incident which might have changed the entire course of my football-supporting life. My dad had a friend who was involved, in some capacity, with Home Farm FC. He said that my brother and I could drop over to his house any time and pick up season tickets. We duly headed over one afternoon, but he was out; for some reason, we never went back. Ten years later, I finally got my season ticket for Whitehall. Fate is strangely unimaginative sometimes, isn’t it?
Secondary school presented me with another missed opportunity; a group of kids in my technology and science classes were keen Bohs fans, but their tales of real-life football failed to capture my imagination. I remember one of them asking our technology teacher which Irish club he supported; his response (In Irish, of course) was “I don’t bother with that league.” (Ní bhacaim leis an líg sin?)
Things gradually changed as the nineties drew to a close. I’d always watched (with a certain amount of detached bemusement, admittedly) the FAI Cup finals broadcast on TV. Gradually, the occasional league match crept into RTÉ’s schedules, and these I viewed conscientiously without ever really being inspired to get off my backside and go to a game.
But the proximity of Whitehall began to create a nagging sense of guilt that ate away at me until finally I succumbed. Reasoning that a newly-created club (Dublin City) was appropriate for a newly-created fan (me), I finally began making the short journey to Whitehall. And, as if to confirm that there’s hope for us all, my father (now 63) came to the St. Pat’s-Dublin City cup game with me recently. It was his first visit to Richmond Park in around forty years, and he was disappointed to find trees obstructing the view of the Camac, but otherwise enjoyed the experience.
Anyway, that’s my story. What’s yours?
My own excuse for ignoring the League of Ireland as a football-mad kid can be expressed in three words: lack of exposure. Football never really gripped me until 1990, when I was nine years old. Strangely enough, my sudden conversion occurred just before the World Cup but had nothing today with the imminent tournament (Italia ’90 did, however, seal my fate.)
My interest was primarily in the national team, and since Charlton’s squad idled away the time between internationals by playing for English Football League teams, this was the league I followed on TV. Having tentatively adopted Everton as “my” team (I think I felt sorry for them after reading about their 1989 FA Cup final defeat) I was fully-equipped to wade into the schoolyard slanging matches with all guns blazing (sadly, as I was soon to discover, Everton’s decade-long slump left me firing blanks.)
But the club versus country debate was always a “no contest” for me. Infuriated by Kevin Sheedy’s release on a free transfer, the announcement of which was humiliatingly relegated to the small print of the sports pages, I tore all my Everton posters from the bedroom wall. Well no, I didn’t tear them. Being a pragmatic kind, I removed them carefully and placed them in a drawer, ready for reinstatement once my chagrin faded. My flirtation with Everton had fizzled out by the mid-nineties. Today, I feel no residual affection for the club.
As for the League of Ireland, it simply didn’t register on my radar. For a whole chunk of the nineties, Derek Swan was the only LoI player whose name I would have recognised, and only because a classmate of mine was related to him. My father, a regular visitor to Richmond Park in the late fifties/early sixties, never made any reference to the LoI, except to comment mournfully that “Shamrock Rovers would beat this lot” as we watched some hapless bunch of Slovakians or Greeks get taken apart by ManU.
Actually, rewind a bit to the early nineties, because I’ve just remembered an incident which might have changed the entire course of my football-supporting life. My dad had a friend who was involved, in some capacity, with Home Farm FC. He said that my brother and I could drop over to his house any time and pick up season tickets. We duly headed over one afternoon, but he was out; for some reason, we never went back. Ten years later, I finally got my season ticket for Whitehall. Fate is strangely unimaginative sometimes, isn’t it?
Secondary school presented me with another missed opportunity; a group of kids in my technology and science classes were keen Bohs fans, but their tales of real-life football failed to capture my imagination. I remember one of them asking our technology teacher which Irish club he supported; his response (In Irish, of course) was “I don’t bother with that league.” (Ní bhacaim leis an líg sin?)
Things gradually changed as the nineties drew to a close. I’d always watched (with a certain amount of detached bemusement, admittedly) the FAI Cup finals broadcast on TV. Gradually, the occasional league match crept into RTÉ’s schedules, and these I viewed conscientiously without ever really being inspired to get off my backside and go to a game.
But the proximity of Whitehall began to create a nagging sense of guilt that ate away at me until finally I succumbed. Reasoning that a newly-created club (Dublin City) was appropriate for a newly-created fan (me), I finally began making the short journey to Whitehall. And, as if to confirm that there’s hope for us all, my father (now 63) came to the St. Pat’s-Dublin City cup game with me recently. It was his first visit to Richmond Park in around forty years, and he was disappointed to find trees obstructing the view of the Camac, but otherwise enjoyed the experience.
Anyway, that’s my story. What’s yours?