Come on the Town

The 23^rd April 1995 is a day I’ll never forget, even if I did have to look up the Internet to find that date. There was no internet back then of course, at least not to the unwashed masses like me and smartphones were ones with push buttons rather than a dial.
 

So it was the lack of instant communication that made that day memorable. I was in the middle of my last year in Luxembourg, recovering from a breakup the previous year and living on my own in a lonely apartment on Rue De Vianden. I was starting to think about moving back to Ireland as I’d been living abroad for eight years at that point. There was a vibrant Irish community in Luxembourg in which I was immersed, playing football every Tuesday night and acting with the Round Tower Players. I also frequented “The Black Stuff” pub on more occasions than my liver would like. This probably explains how I came away from three years in Luxembourg with an inability to speak French or German but with a stronger Irish accent than the one I arrived with.

In the course of this interaction I discovered that it was possible to source “The Irish Times” every Monday for a modest fee (which was actually greater than the cost of the paper). I subscribed and suddenly found that I had access to all the weekend’s sports results. I now get these on Score.ie or numerous other websites, but back then you had to wait until Monday lunchtime and the arrival of that week’s papers. I can’t help feeling that kids today are missing out on that thrill. Anticipation is often better than gratification.

Throughout the winter of 1994/1995 I followed one story with particular interest. My hometown team of Dundalk were making a charge for the League of Ireland title. That in itself wasn’t unusual. We were regular visitors to the top table in the two decades before 1995 but I had been there for all those wins. I wouldn’t be able to make it in 1995 if we made it to the last day so I needed a way to stay in touch.

As it turned out we were rank outsiders. We sat in third place and needed to win and to see the two teams above us screw up. I contacted a mate in the lead up to the last game and arranged for him to call me from the phone box outside the ground after the game was over. That’s how we did things back in 1995. You had to be organised and plan ahead.

I waited silently by my phone in Luxembourg on that faithful Sunday. Unbeknownst to me, the last game of the season turned out to be more exciting than anyone could have predicted. My team accounted for their opposition early and the crowd turned their attention to the two games going on elsewhere in the country.

News came through that one of the challengers had lost and that meant that our league win depended on Derry City failing to win their match. Due to a long injury break, their match still had seven minutes to play when our game finished. My friends were part of a large crowd waiting in Oriel Park for the result. The club sensibly tuned the tannoy system into the national radio station so the crowd (who had gathered on the pitch) could listen to the commentary. The Derry match was tied going into extra time, which would mean that we would leap frog them to the league title. Then word came across the tannoy that Derry had been awarded a penalty. The crowd in Dundalk groaned and held their breath until “It’s saved” was shouted across the tannoy. People hugged strangers, kids were thrown in the air and a rousing chorus of “Come on you lilywhites’” was struck up. The final whistle in the Derry game followed shortly afterwards and the real celebration began.

And of course, I knew none of this, marooned as I was in a distant land where the result of a football match in Ireland was of insignificant importance.

I waited and waited for my phone call until I started to believe it would never come. Then a sharp ring woke me from my slumber. My mate was at the other end trying to shout at me through a cacophony of sound. The phone outside the ground had a massive queue he said. 1995 was pre Celtic Tiger Ireland and pretty much everyone at that game would have had a friend or relative living abroad who they would want to contact with the good news.

So my mates made it to the local pub where they imbibed several celebration beers before they remembered that they were supposed to call me. “We’ve only bloody won the league” he said before recounting the highlights of the day. I left him to a night of merriment and returned to my silent living room. I was determined to party, to find somebody in that God forsaken land in middle Europe who could share my joy.

I headed out to “The Black Stuff” which was quiet, it being a Sunday. “What brings you out tonight”, Joe the Belfast barman asked. “Dundalk won the League today” I said. “What League is that?” he replied.

I finished my beer and returned to my hermitic lifestyle. I moved back to Ireland the following year and lived there for twelve years, most of which Dundalk spent in the second division and were rubbish.

It’s now 18 years since that faithful day in 1995 and for the first time since, Dundalk have a chance of grabbing the title. These days I can listen to commentary live on the internet and text my friends during the game. I may even be able to stream live video. But if we win, I’ll still feel that emigrant’s pang that I’d not there to share the joy with my friends. That and many other things are the price you pay for starting a new life.

Come on the Town!