We Can Be Heroes

They say that you should never meet your heroes because you’ll find that they are human like everyone else. I don’t hold to this belief. I want to see my heroes as real people. It makes me realise that anything is possible. You don’t have to be superman to become a writer or a football star.

I had the pleasure of meeting two of my heroes recently. Martin Flanagan writes about sport and culture in the Melbourne Age. I noticed him shortly after arriving in this fine city when an article about the aboriginal contribution to Australian Rules Football appeared in the paper. He seeks out the spirituality of sport and delves into its emotions. His book “Southern sky, Western Oval” was almost enough to make me give up my new found love of Carlton and pledge my allegiance to the Bulldogs.

He is the first person I look for in the Saturday newspaper and I was delighted when I found out last month that he was booked to speak in our local, at an event called “Spirituality in the Pub”. This is aimed at what might be charitably described as cafeteria Catholics. There were about 300 hundred people there, but it felt like he was making the speech directly to me. Like many Australians he has an Irish surname and through his writing I know that he is proud of his heritage and has visited the old country on many occasions.

His story that night began in 1977 when as a troubled Tasmanian teenager; he made his first journey to Roscommon where the Flanagans originate from. He found himself at a Mass rock in the wild countryside and felt a homecoming. It wasn’t to the land of his forefathers however. Instead, he finally felt a connection to the aboriginal people of his homeland and he had to travel to the other side of the world to discover it.

He went on to explain that Irish and Australian indigenous spirituality is basically the same. I could tell that this was shocking most of the audience, who being Catholic, were largely comprised of third and fourth generation Paddies who had risen to the middle class ranks of Melbourne society. While many would have a strong social conscience, there is an undercurrent of racism in Australian society and they would not like to think that the Irish culture to which they cling to so proudly could be connected to the black fellas of Australia that they spend so much of their lives avoiding.

But I was fascinated. I suddenly saw that the things we did as children were similar if not the same as that done by aboriginals. They walk many miles to a particular tree in the desert to sing a song and eat a meal that reminds them of their ancestors. They treasure rocks such as Uluru and hold them sacred and they have a connection and affinity to the land and sky.

In Ireland, we climb Croagh Patrick in our bare feet. We leave fairy mounds untouched while ploughing large fields. When we were kids we would regularly climb into the car on a Sunday and travel to a place called Faughart. The back door would open and the five of us would pour out and make our way to a stone in the centre of an ancient graveyard that had a strange indentation.

We would touch this indentation and then climb back into the car. At other times of year we would visit a holy well and wait for a spring to miraculously appear. Luckily the rainfall in Ireland means that you can justify a puddle as a spring and we were always satisfied that a miracle had occurred.

It suddenly all made sense. We are an indigenous people and we share a spiritual connection to our brothers across the world. When I shook his hand at the end of the lecture, I realised that he was a humble man who was happy to chat about his possible cousin, Ming Flanagan, part time pot smoker and full time politician.

I still search for his stories first each Saturday and, if anything, meeting him in person has increased my fascination with the man.

Last week I met another hero. On my second day in Melbourne I went to an AFL game. Carlton was playing Melbourne at the MCG in front of a bored crowd. It later transpired that the Blues were bottom of the league and Melbourne weren’t much higher. I had pinned my colours to the Blues mast before landing on these shores because they contained among their playing list a guy who had thrilled me on the hurling pitches of Ireland. His name is Setanta O’hailpin and he plays AFL like nobody else. Which is why he regularly gets dropped from the team.

I met him at a local footy oval where Ireland was playing New Zealand in the semi finals of the International Cup, a sort of World Cup for Aussie Rules without the inclusion of Aussies. I built up the courage to approach him and planned to say something erudite and witty. In the end I gushed in a high pitched voice “you’re my hero”.

He had the good grace to ignore my teenage fan club impersonation and we ended up speaking for ten minutes on diverse issues such as whether Jim Corr is gay and the obvious mutual dislike that exists between Setanta and the Carlton coach.

I came away feeling that my hero worship had been justified and I’ll be screaming support for him on Saturday night when he plays against St Kilda.

Ireland went on to win that International Cup in a come from behind victory against Papua New Guinea. It was a day when a group of ordinary Irishmen became heroes on the majestic open spaces of the MCG. It showed me in the most spectacular way that we can all be heroes and if not, we can at least talk to a hero every now and again.