IT’S AROUND THIS time of year in particular that people like me start to feel somewhat guilty.
Like many Irish people, I am a big fan of the Premier League. I have spent small fortunes travelling over to England to watch the odd game — the kind of money that probably amounts to the equivalent of attending a season’s worth of League of Ireland matches or more.
But I love domestic football too. I grew up supporting UCD and can remember the days when Belfield Park was regularly packed on a Sunday. Yet it has admittedly been a while since I’ve ventured down to the Belfield Bowl (which UCD moved into after the 2007 season). My main excuse is that I’m invariably working on a Friday night, helping to edit the stream of League of Ireland match reports coming in on The42 sports desk among other tasks, though it’s still regrettable that I can’t see the Students more frequently in the flesh.
I am therefore not what you would call a hardcore League of Ireland supporter and consequently feel a little uneasy at the guilt-shaming that usually reaches its height at the start of each new season, when the inevitable conversations emerge about the dwindling fanbase and financial support for our domestic league.
Many of the more militant League of Ireland fans tend to lambast followers of the ‘foreign league’. Premier League fans are “barstoolers” and apparently largely to blame for Irish football’s plight and the general trend of discouraging attendances at games in recent years.
There is no doubt that people should support the League of Ireland. The more popular the league becomes, the greater the chances this country has of producing other players of the ilk of Seamus Coleman, James McClean and Daryl Horgan.
Kids should not grow up believing football is a TV show, as Bohemians among others have pointed out. It is a living, breathing, integral part of the community in Ireland and elsewhere. I grew up watching Irish football games on TV for the most part, though no goal has felt anywhere near as special as seeing Robbie’s Brady’s winner against the Italians in the flesh in Lille last summer.
But does it really have to be a case of ‘us v them,’ the League of Ireland v the Premier League? Is the best way to encourage support for the league to castigate those who enjoy watching English, Spanish or Italian football?
Judging by some people’s claims, by supporting a Premier League team or paying a monthly fee for Sky Sports, you are somehow betraying the domestic game.
I could not help but feel uncomfortable, for instance, at former Shelbourne manager Dermot Keely turning his nose up at “42,000 morons” who went to watch the Liverpool-Shamrock Rovers friendly at the Aviva Stadium in 2014.
When I was seven, I saw Jurgen Klinsmann score his first-ever Tottenham goal against Shelbourne at Tolka Park. It may have been a meaningless pre-season friendly, but it remains one of my most cherished childhood memories. I can remember even small details from that day, such as exactly who was playing for each team and the exciting build-up to the match and the Shelbourne fan who insisted to me that Klinsmann “belonged in the circus” as we were walking to the stadium.
Many seven-year-old Liverpool fans will probably feel the same about the Aviva game, even though Joe Allen and Lucas Leiva were the most notable names on the teamsheet that day.
The overriding point is that loving football is about so much more than just the League of Ireland, or indeed the Premier League, and neither should be viewed as barometers of fans’ authenticity.
Looking back on my childhood, the abiding footballing memories that spring to mind are not of my two teams winning big matches — although to be fair, neither Tottenham nor UCD were much help on that front.
And I don’t think I’m alone. Ask any Liverpool fan about the famous 2005 3-3 Champions League final and the first thing they’ll say probably won’t be anything relating to the brilliance of Steven Gerrard that day or the incredible tactical ineptitude of that richly talented Milan side. Instead, they’ll probably tell you about how many pints they drank that night, or whether they turned off the TV at half-time, or how all their Man United-supporting friends were ripping it out of them initially, only to gradually grow increasingly quiet as the game wore on.
Instead of football itself, it’s the memories around football that tend to stand out. Waking up on a Sunday at a ludicrously early hour after a sleepover at my cousin’s house and putting on Match of the Day (recorded from the previous night) while simultaneously using two small couches as football posts. Balancing your competitive instincts with trying really hard not to wake the sleeping adults upstairs, or break anything of value with the miniature football, was a fine art.
Taking the piss out of the comically bad computerised commentary while playing Fifa or International Superstar Soccer (or Pro Evo as it was later known), or devoting late nights/early mornings to guiding Brighton to Champions League glory in Championship Manager when I should have been studying for my Junior Cert.
Getting to take part in a penalty shootout involving my local team at half-time of a UCD game and scoring the second to my considerable relief, after missing the first.
Being a ballboy for the Ireland-Andorra game and getting caught on TV throwing my hands up in the air disconsolately when the visitors took a shock lead.
Somehow managing to arrange tickets for the 2004 FA Cup semi-final through a convenient connection, only to spend several hours before the game navigating Old Trafford in search of the drop-off point (and celebrating more fervently than at any stage during the actual game upon finally finding the tickets just 15 minutes before kick-off).
Playing Jobstown and getting kicked to bits but still persevering during a particularly ill-tempered Dublin and District Schoolboys League match.
I also remember going to the pub to watch the thrilling conclusion of the 1994-95 title race, when Blackburn lost the battle but won the war at Anfield, or listening to Radio Five Live, when a 10-man Manchester United somehow kept their treble dreams alive after Denis Bergkamp’s penalty miss, thanks largely to the brilliance of Ryan Giggs.
Equally, I vividly recall watching in astonishment as a young Shelbourne player by the name of Wesley Hoolahan terrorised the Deportivo La Coruna defence. Or being part of a sold-out Belfield crowd when UCD earned a creditable 3-3 draw with Bulgarian side Velbazhd Kyustendil in the Intertoto Cup.
All of these memories resonate. None were necessarily better than others. And as the years pass, the identity of the winners and losers on each specific gameday become effectively irrelevant. Watching football is a personal and communal experience that shouldn’t be defined by a narrow set of rules, such as which league or team you support.
Yes, watching live football in the flesh is a unique, incomparable experience that should not be overlooked. For many on these shores, that means going to a League of Ireland game. So take the opportunity if at all possible to watch your local team, of course, but don’t be afraid of expanding your horizons either, and embrace all types of football, no matter how grand or low-key the occasion. Those who act accordingly are not morons, regardless of what Dermot Keely thinks.
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