A Guide to The Groundball World Cup for Real GAA People
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In one bar we visited at the weekend in West Kerry four elderly gentlemen sat nursing half’uns of Jameson and semi drunk pints of stout as they sat silently watching footage of Argentina against Canada that the publican had somehow managed to beam onto a black and white television.
“Yerra” one oul hoor pointed a nicotine stained finger at that fella Lionel Messi: “Galvin would flatten him ten seconds.”
‘Musha Dan Óg,’ declared another old scrote after three or four minutes contemplation, “You know, I would drop Mike Mac back to pick him up.”
Another oul bollix of the name Seamus Bán Leithreas started suddenly as asked “Whisht, why in name of bejaysus won’t these fellas lift the ball and kick it. Is this the latest to come from those bastard West Brits in Ulster?”
At that point we sloughed down the last of our bottle of designer Smithwicks Ale and bade a hasty retreat lest the locals discover that not only were we from Ulster,but that we knew a bit about these foreign games. As we drove northwards through Gaeltacht after Gaeltacht, each one breathtaking in its gealdom, isolation, poverty and the glowing happiness of the native people, we were asked repeatedly ‘who is this Terry Henry. . .?
So, for all you people out there used with the GAA, here is a brief guide to the World Cup.
It is a groundball competition played by national teams made up from the best players from their clubs. It is a bit like the Railway Cup used to be when you cycled to it on your bicycle, before Christy Cooney abolished it.
The matches are played in a different country every four years. It’s a bit like the time the All Ireland Final was played in the Polo Grounds in America and it took your uncle Micheal a month to get there on the coffin ship and fifty two years to come home, five times heavier, a million times wealthier and nowhere near as likeable.
Some teams are good at the World Cup, some aren’t. Them English hoors are a bit like Armagh, they only won it the once but never shut up about it and everyone hopes they never win it again because bit they’re hard to listen to. To put it mildly.
Uruguay are a bit like the Dubs, they wear the same colours, share a ruthless streak earned years back. Yes they are a bit dirty but for all of that, they haven’t won it in ages either. They still live in hope.
The Germans would be a bit like Cork circa Larry Tompkins vintage – ultra-strong, well-organised, hard to break down and hard to listen to as well. They have East and West too, they have the confidence that every time they turn up they’ll win. Once they get the wind in their back they’re kinda irresistable and they have the arrogance to think everyone else should bow down before them.
Italy would be a bit like Meath, they’re fierce dirty altogether and know all the tricks to win games. They’re usually managed by a wizened fella looks like Sean Boylan except about fifty years older. They would have more fashion sense than yer average Meath person though, but then that wouldn’t be hard. the Burkina Faso team would beat Meath on that account too.
Argentina would be a bit like Tyrone, anti-British over the Malvinas in the same way Tyrone hates everyone else. Both teams are managed by a small former player with a beard. They combine flair with the dirt and you either love them or hate them. With ArgenTyrone you’ll get forwards slaloming through defences crashing the ball into the goal spectacular style. You’ll have opposition forwards hitting the decks in agony as an angelic but unshaven ArgenTyrone player looks on, the picture of innocence arms outstretched like a cherub. You will see diving, players sent off. The old guard in ArgenTyrone are like a military junta, humourless, impassive, set in their ways. But you can’t argue with their football when they get going.
And then you have the Brazilians? (That’s not what sme of you oul fellas are thinking, just you stick to cutting the turf.) Brazil are the artisans of the game breathtaking in their skill, expecting to win, usually winning. They sometimes try to mix physical strength, cutehoorism and pure ignorance with their traditional skill but they believe they have a God given right to win. Who else but the Kingdom themselves. The yellow and gold influence is obvious.
What of the rest? Holland are like Derry, skilful but riven with internal division and over inflated egos; Spain like Galway, skilful cerebral, some great footballers but again question marks remain on the biggest stage, some recent success but can they recreate that?; United States are like Antrim, brash outspoken, uber confident but for no good reason; Wicklow and the Ivory Coast share similarities, a blow in outside manager that can engineer the odd good result.
And you may hear chat of WAGS, they aren’t something the dog does, but something you might meet round the back of the parish hall after a hefty jorum of jameson, knees a trembling and fingers crossed.
That’s the World Cup for ye!
