MATCH-DAY

I remember hefting the small
television over the ditch, brambles
catching on the plug and my father
following behind with the video
recorder, bringing images of the
outside world to them. Into the
turf fug and heat and a welcome
as warmly as the blazing fire.

The sky was clear that night, with
the stars pronounced and prominent.
Inside in the kitchen they seemed to
be hanging from the rafters of the old
house. Inside and out meshing together.

The contraptions were fired up, the
buttons pressed and the images flickered
until they settled down. The five of
us, three whiskies, a bottle of stout
and a red Nash’s. Watching figures
to match the sounds they had heard
on the wireless. Sound: noise, loud,
visceral, sharp and defined. The ball
thrown in. The All-Ireland under way.
We all knew the final score – the match
was over two weeks old. But in that
house that night, we watched as if we
were in the Hogan itself.