Participating as a volunteer in a football club in the north of Dublin is among the most gruelling endeavours I’ve ever undertaken, but nonetheless, I adore it. My initial encounter with a football game dates back to the turn of the millennium when I accompanied Kirsty, a friend, as she waited outside Lansdowne Road in eager anticipation of the players’ bus; her motive, a deep admiration for Damien Duff whom she yearned to see in person.
I’m uncertain as to whether she ever managed to acquire his autograph, but the memory of a young girl’s shrill and incessant cry for “Kinsella, spit on me!” as the disheartened players emerged from the stadium, still lingers in my mind.
Nothing remarkable happened during the game, the audience was unwaveringly harsh, and the disheartened players lacked the composure to engage courteously with the few supporters who refrained from hurling insults. This experience wasn’t persuasive enough for me to revisit.
My admiration for the inclusivity of football runs deep and long. I’ve spent roughly half of my life in various parts of Africa and Asia where, even in the remotest, barren, disadvantaged regions, I observed children creating footballs out of plastic bags knotted together to form a playable sphere, demonstrating their enduring spirit in regions devoid of grassland for miles on end.
Football remains accessible even to the disadvantaged.
In 2012, while living in Lusaka, we witnessed Zambia clinch the African Cup of Nations. As the final moments of the match unfolded, a power outage occurred, but the city-wide euphoria and elation that ensued confirmed the victory. For an entire hour and far into the night, the air was filled with ululation, celebratory singing, and exultant cries, so loud that it almost felt akin to being inside the stadium, despite being distant from the densely inhabited areas.
Several years on, I found myself once again intertwined with anything related to football, but this time I feel I am embedded for life in the metaphorical quicksand of the football world.
“My first experience at a Bohs game was truly exhilarating – as advised by my mate, Brian, I shouted out to the referee, fully immersing myself in the thrill of the match. The lively crowd, the playful miniature Dublin Bus toy zipping around delivering the ball, and club icon Barry eliciting raucous cheers, contributed immensely to the spectacle. The players fiercely expressed their skill on the pitch, making it a thoroughly satisfying experience.
The adventure left me feeling content and I realised that attending a football match, any match for that matter, symbolises both unity and mindfulness.
I found a new perspective on the sport when I volunteered at my neighbourhood club. I had an encounter with a rarely met inspirational individual at an unfamiliar kitchen table who shared an engaging vision of the club’s future – a vision I was eager to participate in. He shared the club’s achievements and future plans, asserting that it was destined for great things.
In those days, my children had been attending the academy every Friday night for a while, though I hadn’t fully understood the potential transformative power of sport combined with a coach’s dedicated attention, and the camaraderie of teammates. I hadn’t anticipated the resilience that can stem from enduring small knocks during tackles, or the personal growth that being encouraged to pass the ball could spark.
The sight of a coach, undeterred by unpleasant weather or muddy conditions, bending down to fasten a young player’s football boots became one of my cherished images. The child might be distracted or looking elsewhere, but the commitment of the coach remains unwavering, persisting tirelessly to help them achieve their best.
I wanted to be part of that community.”
My initial encounter with the committee was close to being a fiery one, and since then the tension has simmered for years, while the club flourishes beyond all projections. It’s a common knowledge to anyone who has ever been a member of a committee, that it’s an uphill battle. What is seen as advancement by some could be viewed as unneeded alteration by others. What one person perceives as establishing rules may be deemed a surplus of officialdom by another. Some points may appear crucial to someone but may result in others sitting late into Monday night grey-faced under harsh lighting.
It’s akin to the fable of the blindfolded ones feeling an elephant, a comparison someone made once as a committee was disbanded amidst friction. I was confused and asked what it meant. We’re all in the dark and only aware of a portion of the elephant. When we touch the body, one of us might say it’s similar to a wall, while the other may touch the tail and believe it’s a rope. But those fleeting moments when we come together, usually after a major disaster, are truly magnificent. It’s an exhilarating feeling.
We foster unity in order to construct something sturdy and trustful for our community.
We are serving approximately 500 players, 100 volunteers and also the neighbourhood. There’s always a task at hand every day. Plenty of astonishing events have taken place. But when something astounding occurs, that warrants a meeting in the changing rooms, not in the club house – and I’ve attended quite a few such meetings.
At times, it seems like the entire world is in opposition to us and football itself.
Operating a football club in Ireland is certainly not an easy task. We often feel like we’re off the course with little to anchor onto. Thus, we need to be strong independently, meanwhile causing frustration to each other and breaking each other’s hearts. Despite that, we are here, trying, and give each other the due acknowledgement. In those moments of feeling overwhelmed, there might be a simple act such as a bag full of chocolates hanging on my door, a call with a good laugh at some ridiculous incident or a text expressing gratitude or appreciating a job well done.
In spite of any disagreements, I’m confident that we can rely on each other when we need support, and they can rely on me the same way.
What I find most appealing is how being involved with the football club connects me directly to the heart of the community. I’ve led a nomadic existence, registering 26 different addresses on my Garda vetting application, and I’ve always longed for a sense of belonging. On Sunday mornings, I can bundle up and stroll down to an octogenarian stationed at the gate who has been a fixture here all his life. He’s a living history book, a monument of past injuries, and teems with love for the club and the sport. He welcomes me warmly and casually brushes a loose lock of hair from my face as we converse. When I reach the pitch, I am greeted by a crowd of familiar faces, whose warm hugs and light-hearted banter I eagerly anticipate. The duration and depth of our chats depend on the vibe and match outcome. From mild to profound self-analysis, our conversations deviate.
During the game, someone could struggle to keep their tears at bay or stifle a riotous laughter as we converse while watching side by side. Should someone become too aggressive, I’ll quietly retreat further down the barrier and observe. I watch the players, the ball, the referee, the linesmen, the spectators, the managers, and even the clouds. I refrain from yelling, “What’s the matter, ref?” as I am not entirely sure I comprehend the offside rule. Actually, I’m uncertain about understanding any of the rules, but I contemplate the interconnectedness of all those present, on and off the field. We are all here for this match, for our teams, clubs, communities and most importantly, each other. This solidarity is what makes football so dear to me.