Oh My Word!

Ronan O’Flaherty

The magnitude of the occasion was reinforced by the sight of the Ireland manager manoeuvring his car into a spot 15 minutes before kickoff. He did well to get one; parking spaces are like hens’ teeth at that stage of the evening.

The sold-out signs had been on display for the best part of a week. On the approach to the ground, it was easy to separate the match-goers from the evening strollers. Many wore red, others green, with the odd speckle of white on show here and there.

The roads, streets and alleyways within shouting distance of Richmond Park weren't planned with spectator events in mind. Rows of houses flew up in the age of black-andwhite when car ownership was out of reach for the majority. It was never a consideration that grey paths would be mounted with vehicles of varying colours as far as the eye could see.

Yet that is the reality. On Southern Cross Avenue and Connolly Avenue, the narrow roads are squeezed thinner as each motorist with a match ticket shimmies into a space. It’s the same on Bulfin Road and Anner Road, just as it is on Goldenbridge Avenue and further back to Devoy Road.

"He’s here to watch Jack Byrne," said a member of our group, acknowledging the sighting of Stephen Kenny. His tone was non-committal; it wasn't clear if he was asking a question or announcing a statement of fact. So we humoured him before quickly humouring ourselves.

"You could be right; maybe he's here to watch Jack Byrne. But he'll also be curious to see how Sam Curtis gets on. Even Pep is aware of young Curtis. And if Joe Redmond was playing, Kenny would probably watch out for him too."

Some sights and sounds are visible on every match night, no matter the opponent. The five red flags dance in the wind from their position on the forehead of Richmond House. Stewards in high-visibility jackets instruct spectators where to go. On occasion, they slip into autopilot, barking out an instruction when no-one appears to be listening. Their spiel is well worn. It exits the larynx swiftly, without need for a breath: “Away-fans-throughthe-archway-and-home-fansdown-the-ramp-TANG-Q!”

A local stands in the porch of the public house with a half-full pint in his hand, gazing out on to Emmet Road as if it were his own front garden. He’s in his early sixties, sporting a bushy grey mane and a couple of days’ stubble growth that you could strike a match against. People shuffle past, keen to get into the ground before the teams emerge. He’s watched these scenes of bustle 100 times before. Perhaps he’ll join them some day and watch a game. But not this day.

He takes a long pull of his fag before dabbing it out against the wall, like an artist caressing his brush onto the canvas. The second half of the cigarette goes back in the box.

Some sights on match night are less common. We happened upon one such rarity the last time we were here, ten days ago.

It was a perfect evening to watch a game of ball. The late sun pierced through the railings of St Michael's Church, sending shards of light into our line of vision. We turned the corner and there it was. Or, more accurately, there they were: five equine gardaí carrying their human colleagues. The sight of mounted police will always be greeted with a double-take. They are out of place on Emmet Road.

These stunning beasts are deployed to send a firm message. On most occasions, it is received loud and clear, in the process reducing their workload to the simple act of looking magnificent.

We take a moment to appreciate their majesty. They could be waiting at the start line in Prestbury Park, anticipating a signal to bolt. God help us if they have to bolt at any stage on this night; it will mean something has taken a turn for the worse.

Two are a rich-brown shade with chalky white markings running down their long regal faces. The pair of white horses are almost mythical in appearance, like Tír na nÓg from Into The West. Onehundred years after the whitehorse final at Wembley, this is our white-horse match, without the chaos and overcrowding.

The quintet is completed by a black mare. She stands tall and strong, intensity in her eyes but calmness in her aura. A warhorse on a peace-keeping assignment.

They stand in line, facing Richmond Park, attracting