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THE DAY THAT WAS

7th April 2002

Many of you want to kill NMLFS for one reason or another, I get several requests a day asking for his true identity but he managed to keep his persona somewhat unknown so he could enjoy the Cup final win over Bohs. Here is his summation of the day that was, 7th April 2002 - with plenty of references to me, just to keep it in the Oriel Web family.

PART 1 - CUP FINAL FEVER !

Wow !

What a day! What a night! What a morning! If that’s what winning the cup does to a nation of people (the Independent Free State of Dundalk nation) then maybe it’s just as well that we don’t win it every year. The day started as it continued. I was driving into town for my pre-match fry when I met an old guy (65/70) driving to the match. He was in his car on his own and had flags, scarves and bunting hanging out every window. This was 10.30am and my Cup Fever took full hold.

Eventually (but not quick enough for my Cup Fever inflicted body) we hit the road, the Black Beast flying it’s own flags. It seemed that every light was red, that every Sunday driver in the country was in front of me, that everything that could happen to delay me from getting to Tolka happened. I felt like a caged animal. The minute I got to my brothers’ house (in the shadow of Dalymount) I decided I was going to run all the way to the ground. But I didn’t. I ran to Fagan’s, all the way being shouted at by small Bohs unfortunates.

It’s just as well Bill Clinton didn’t decide to turn up today, he’d have had to queue for a pint like everyone else. The rival supporters had grouped off and luckily the toilet was in Dundalk ‘territory’. The chanting and singing started and as turned out to be the case at the match, Dundalk won hand’s down. Bohs chant ‘Who are you?’ has to be the worst in League of Ireland – easily reposted with ‘De-Dundalk’.

I tried to get an ecumenical ‘If you hate Shamrock Rovers clap your hands’ going, but the Bohs fans didn’t bite. We decided that the ‘There’s only one syllable in Bohs’ song was a bit sophisticated for the occasion. And then off to the ground. There were 8/10 of us and we made a pact that we were staying together no matter what the stewards said. We also went looking for a place in the heart of the action (a decision that we couldn’t possible have dreamed would have come true in the way it did).

We shouldn’t have worried. The 100 Muja standing in the aisles were of more concern to the teenage steward in charge of our area than a few seat stealers. As it happened the owners of seat FU1 never appeared. Luckily the owner of the appropriately named seat FU2 didn’t turn up either – it didn’t exist. So 45 minutes before the match we started singing – and we didn’t stop till well after it finished. Someone down the front stood on their seat causing everyone else to have to do the same for the whole match. I can’t believe I never fell of mine – despite the drunkard behind me falling forward every 30 seconds. Then Daniel turned up to take his position in the aisle. ‘Have you no regards for the Health & Safety act?’, I asked him, ‘And didn’t you have a main stand ticket?’. No, and Yes, were his replys. ‘I just had to come over’.

I have to say that Tolka, bathed in sunshine, full to the brim and rocking with excitement, seemed very professional. This was no ordinary match. My choice in taking the seat next to FU2 proved a master stroke as no-one else could stand on it with me. It amused me that my mate in front ‘Lucky Steve’ had paid 20 euro to stand on a seat with 2 other people – both of which needed him to hold them up. (Actually the one downside of the day was that so many Dundalk Muja/Shed Boys couldn’t hold their drink. What ever about racist chanting dragging the name of Dundalk through the mud, this made us look like amateurs, like Dubs even)

Before the game started we got texts from people watching on TV – your on the screen – a long lingering crowd shot I seen later on, the first of many. Is my head really that big though? So kick off came. If there was a national anthem played we never heard it. If there were any announcements throughout the match we never heard them. We went mad. Between balancing on my seat, singing, clapping, laughing and arseing about the match was passing me by. Please read the papers or watch the TV. I don’t know what was happening. 15 minutes into the first half the Derry fans arrived. One of the group had a snare drum, the other a bigger drum (I don’t know my drums!!!). Seat FU2 was the perfect place for the bigger drum, seat FU1, on my toes, was chosen as the spot for the snare. We wanted to be in the heart of the action but this was ridiculas – Prime TV spots and the centre of the orchestra. I still can’t hear. On more than one occasion, with a Derry nutter’s drum sticks flailing wildly I feared for my manhood. Those guys were brilliant though and made a great day even better.

The drunken midget (as described by Mr D. McD) then tried to muscle his way in on the act. He decided that the only way he could see the match was to stand on the backs of the seats. Some feat for a man who was getting it very hard to balance on good old terra firma. We managed to stick him in seat FU2 were he was at least 5 feet below seeing anything. He tapped on ‘Lucky Steve’s’ back a few times like a child might when they want a parent to pick them up. Stevo left him in no doubt that he would provide him with a knuckle sandwich if he didn’t stop. (Remember there were already 3 people on Stevo’s chair – he really didn’t need one on the back as well) So we sang and sang. Bohs scored and we decided we needed to sing even louder. And it worked. There’sonlyoneGaryHaylock did a bit of magic and brought us level. (I’ve since seen this goal on TV and would put good money on that we won’t see a better one in the World Cup – Bergkamp would have sold his soul for it).

Madness ensues. And that was before half time. Then madness really did ensue. Snare drum Derry fan entrusted me with the half time minding of his drum, and I decided to get a few songs going. For a local flavour “Forgiven, Not Forgotten” & “We are so young now, We are so young, So young now” were tried. Conor suggested ‘Sunday Bloody Sunday’ and I don’t know which of us was more amazed when I actually play the drum roll perfectly. A full rendition of ‘Teenage Kicks’ in tribute to our Derry friends support was the highlight of the break. We queued it up with “This is one you’ll be hearing at the Queen Mother’s funeral” and let rip.

So the second half started up again. And what happened then? I don’t know. Gary Haylock took a shot – I don’t know where it ended up but everyone went mad. All the seats in row E collapsed. All the people in row E ended up in row F. WE’RE WINNING. WE’RE WINNING. I can’t remember any more from the second half except drumming and random seat collapses. Having since seen the goal on television I’m convinced that the ‘handball’ was every bit as good as Maradona’s Hand of God. For a player to react as quick as Haylock did was amazing. I know it mightn’t be fair, but I think it was one of the most intelligent things I’ve ever seen on football pitch. Pure instinct.

The match went on, and on, and on, and on. I hadn’t a stopwatch so was very worried when I realised that the half was 10 minutes overtime. I couldn’t take the tension. It was sickening. Then I remembered the nets fiasco. Then the board went up for 4 minutes of extra time and the spirit drained from my body. I couldn’t sing, I couldn’t clap, I could only pray (to the God of Football Justice). Then Stephen McGuinness pulled a masterstroke. In an Oscar winning move he wasted 2 and a half minutes that won us the cup.

When the final whistle went I didn’t hear it. I went mad. I went mental. Then I realised that not only had we won the cup, we’d qualified for Europe. We could keep this team together. I nearly cried. The players went mad. Steven McGuinness jumped into the crowd. Crawley (who I thought excelled himself as captain all week) kissed the 3 pigeons with pride. Football doesn’t get better than this. Oh it does. They presented the trophy and the Ballybough reached a new level of hysteria.

The lap of honour was notable for the great reaction by the sizable Bohs crowd that remained after the end of the match (where were they during it???) and the sight of Daniel McD accompanying the players around!?!? As we left I noticed that most of the seats on the Ballybough end had disintegrated. And I don’t think that even one of them had done so out of any malicious intentions. The just couldn’t take the Black & White army. And so, you might think, a fantastic day came to an end. No! Not by a long shot. Things got very surreal later on. Very very surreal. I’ll spill the beans on that very soon. (There’s bound to be some nervious people out there).

PART 2 - AFTER THE MATCH, THE JOURNEY HOME

Now where was I.....

.So I left the ground and headed for the car. I met everybody I have ever known from Dundalk on that walk, and lost everyone I attended the game with. By the time I got to the Drumcondra Road I was on my own. As I crossed the bridge I met 'Streaker 01' and his mates. They aired the first rendition that I heard of the classic "Tell all the Bohs you know/Gary Haylock is better than Crowe....." An instant classic that I'm still singing today. They were singing it to a group of older (late 20's) Bohs fans across the road. These super witty Bohs supporters responded in the only way they knew how........they lobbed full cans through the back window of a Dundalk mini-bus parked in the forecourt of the garage beside them. I quickened my pace and do not know how the incident turned out, but from what I could see there was no retaliation on Dundalk's behalf.

The rest of the walk to the shadows of Dalymount was uneventful, I picked up my travelling companions, decked the Black Beast out in its black and white regalia for the journey through Phibsborough and Glasnevin and headed for home. Obviously we honked the horn at every Dundalk car or bus we passed. Obviously we gave a good loud account of ourselves through Drogheda. And the greeting party of 3 little knackers at the top of the hill with their many fingered salute got the best fanfare of all. Our trip was only enlivened by LMFM's rather dubious time-scale. "The team are on the Balbriggan bypass, they'll be at Hill Street bridge in 10 or 15 minutes" !???!! "They've stopped for a comfort break at the Europa Hotel, they'll be home in a half hour".

We knew that we'd have time for a bit of food and a few bevies before they did get there. And when they arrived, boy did they arrive. A Garda escort with sirens blaring appeared over the top of the bridge. Then the lorry carrying our victorious heroes. And what a welcome they got. If more people turn out for the Queen Mother's funeral I'll be very surprised. Everyone who's anyone to do with Dundalk was on the back of that lorry, and a good few who had nothing to do with Dundalk but a lot to do with good climbing abilities. As myself and Mr McD (and let's not forget my mate THC and his bird) followed the lorry around town I wondered how long it would be before he climbed aboard (especially after his pitch invasion earlier on). We decided to take a short cut to the square to meet up with the lorry a second time. Only when we got to the Jockeys did we realise that we'd taken the long way and the lorry was about to pass us out again. A sprint down Anne Street nearly killed me but we got in front and got into position on the flowerbeds outside Oscars.

Eventually the truck made it around the corner, how none of the 1,000 people following it weren't crushed I'll never know, especially as it's Garda out-walkers were mobbed and came out a number of hats lighter. At the front of the trailer was Stephen McGuinness. "Stevo, Stevo" we roared. A huge grin and a big thumbs up was our reward. "There's only one Martin Reilly", we sung at, you've guessed it, Martin Reilly, and we received an equally friendly response. So the truck passed by at 2mph and we headed past Xtravision to the square. At first I thought that there was a huge queue for the Lap Dancing club, then I wondered if Bill Clinton had made a surprise return. Then I saw two small boys and a Dundalk flag up a tree and I knew that the whole town had finally succumbed to CUP FEVER!

I don't know how many people were there all told. People were doubling back on themselves the whole time, but the papers said 8,000 and this was easily the case if you take into account the amount at the game and those that couldn't make it to Dublin. It's not the first time I've stood in the middle of the Market Square in Dundalk singing and dancing, but it's defiantly the most sober I've ever been when doing it. The lorry, now down to 1mph bounced past as the players, officials and miscellaneous persons tried to uncouple the trailer from the cab with their celebrations.

So off we headed again. Down towards the Court House. Martin Murray pointed at me, said something about me being the man from Monaghan to the person beside him (Martin had asked me who scored in that moment of confusion in Gortakeegan and I had joyously told him that St Pats were 1 - 0 up) and beckoned me over. I went over nervously, had he recognised me as one of his biggest critics from the middle of the season? Was he going to push me under the wheels of the trailer for a slow crushing death for that bit of misinformation?

"You have to be in work in the morning" he said.

Phew!!! "I've booked the day off" I shouted back "I knew this would happen!".

Then THC came over, "I've just shook hands with Gary Haylock and touched the FAI Cup". Screw this I said to Daniel, we want a piece of that action. So we headed off like two men on a mission. We raced over to the other side of the lorry only for there to be no sign of either Mr Haylock or the cup. So we weaved back again. By this stage we were walking past Dundalgan Press in front of the crowd when a blur raced past us. "Where's the nearest boozer?" Martin Reilly asked. It's Dundalk we thought, there's hundreds. We sent him on his way towards Earl Street and then another blur raced past. "Hey, I thought you were injured", was our confrontational line to James Keddy. A quick shrug in our direction and an enquiry about Reilly's whereabouts was all we got in response.

We turned our attentions back to the trailer after that and saw the object of our mission - Gary Haylock. We threw ourselves at him in an attempt to touch the hand of the master and I'm fairly sure that in our madness I actually shuck hands with Daniel and visa versa. I got a tip of the cup in as well. Next it was John Connolly's turn for our attention. "John Connolly, John Connolly - You're my man of the match" I shouted at him. By the look he gave me in return I think he must have thought I called him Sander Westerveld or something. It was about 3 o'clock the next morning until I persuaded him I meant it.

So the truck wound on and it was nearly time to part company. I reckoned one last person deserved a handshake from me, Des Denning. Now I've had firm handshakes in my time but if his hold on DFC is anything like his hold on my hand the future of the club is with the right man. So we got to the Windsor. The lorry headed down the road and we headed in the door. Wow. Magic. Could that be beaten? In a word, Yes.

PART 3 - INTO THE EARLY HOURS

Now there wasn’t a whole lot of Cup Fever™ in the Windsor when we went in – the odd Lillywhite scattered here and there, so we got a drink and started the singing. The Windsor not being the maddest place in the world at the best of times was unprepared for this and a few of the Sunday night regulars tut-tuted in our general direction as their idea of a quite drink was brutally ruined.

Who knows how long we were there (1 pint each actually) when we got a call from one of our party already ensconced in The Lillywhite Lounge. He told us to hi-tail it up there before it got too full. As if by magic it was now 11PM.

We stopped off at THC’s fridge and took a Bud each for the long journey to Oriel. As we approached the ground we met the Derry fans, who had so brightened up the day, leaving in their bus. “CITY, CITY” we sang as they drove past – it was the least we could do for all their support and friendship. As we saddled up to the entrance of the Lillywhite we were met by two stern faced guardians of the door.

“Sorry lads, we’re full up”.

“What”, I cried, “Is there some kind of event on tonight?”.

He laughed for 0.25 of a second and said, “I’ll let one person in for everyone who leaves”.

This didn’t seem like that good a system to me, considering the night that was in it, but within 3 minutes enough wasters and wasted had left to ensure we were all inside. You always know that a good night is in the offing when you have quality entertainment arranged. As I walked in the two man band were in the middle of their own inimitable version of Queen’s ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’. Now Queen couldn’t play this live themselves, even at their late 70’s best, so I was mightily impressed that they had even attempted the song, let alone pulled off a passable version. Oh yes, the night promised much.

A pint in hand we headed down the back to see what was going on and met up with the rest of the group that had been lost on the Richmond Road. Much hugs and spilling of beer took place. And then the singing. What the band played after Bo Rap I don’t know, as seventy five renditions of “Haylock is better that Crowe” pretty much drowned out everything else. Then we caught up with our good friend Daniel McD who was there with his parents. It was good of them to let him stay up so late, especially with college the next morning, but I suppose it was a special night. As the singing progressed “Stephen is an Alcoholic” metamorphosised into “Daniel runs a Pornographic Website”. A fine song I have to say, especially when 20 finefellows sing it in a confined space. I’ll have to get that going in the shed next season (if it’s still there).

“What’s this?” the man previously introduced as Daniel’s father asked.

“Didn’t you know” I asked him, “Oriel Web is just a front for Daniel’s pornographic empire”.

“Really” he exclaimed. “Close it down, Close it down”.

Daniel tried to change the conversation by cruelly bringing up my own failed pornographic venture ‘coxesgirls.ie’ but it was too late. “Are you the unfortunate chap that gave my son a lift home from Longford?” Mr McD asked. “I am Sir” I replied, “and he left crisp packets and twix wrappers all over the back seat”. [I don't eat crisps - Ed]

This sad tale must have hit a heartstring because his next question was to ask me what I was drinking. “Cider” I replied pointing to the full pint in my hand, “But you don’t have to buy me one, I’ve enough here”. Two minutes later I had a shiny new pint in my hand courtesy of Mr McD, and if he’s reading this thanks again. It started a trend and I never paid for another drink for the rest of the night. Presently I needed to go to the bathroom – for a bath obviously – and I joined the queue outside the one available toilet that I could find. Now I don’t know if any of you know this toilet, it’s in the main Oriel Park reception area, but it’s huge – the biggest I’ve ever seen. The seat must be at least four foot off the ground, a far cry for Bray’s facilities, where I had to hold a piece of my anatomy in my had to stop it hitting the cold cement floor. I remember asking Martin Reilly later on if he was proud to play for the team with the biggest toilet in league of Ireland. Apparently he was.

It was when I was out here that I made a very exciting discovery, a big sign on a door saying “DRESSING ROOMS – PLAYERS AND OFFICIALS ONLY”. If the sign had said “OPEN THIS DOOR” I probably wouldn’t have gone near it, but it didn’t, it said “DRESSING ROOMS – PLAYERS AND OFFICIALS ONLY”. So I opened it. I didn’t go inside, I only wanted to see if it was open. I needed an accomplice. So I set off and the first person I found was Mr Daniel McD. He was deep in conversation with someone, but I managed to persuade him that his conversation could wait, what I had for him was much more exciting.

I think I pulled him through the door by his arm but once inside the home dressing room his eyes lit up. We were away. Half eaten bananas everywhere, half drunken bottles of water. A Physio’s bench, a tactics board with only “SET PIECE ATHLETIC” written on it (Oh, and a reminder to buy more markers). Toilets, showers. We couldn’t take it all in. McD disappeared and came back 30 seconds later with about 25 people. “I’ve an idea” I announced in my drunken state “let’s all have a big bath together”. Fortunatly (or unfortunately) there wasn’t a big bath to be found, only showers (bloody League of Ireland). It didn’t stop one of our party from walking in to try them out –FULLY CLOTHED. Just in case he wasn’t wet enough I emptied the contents of a bottle of water in on him to make sure. Daniel signed his name on the tactics board and we were off to the away dressing room. Along the same lines as the home one but half the size and with no white board. Bananas, water everywhere (when is this place ever cleaned? The last home game was two weeks ago!).

The rampage continued. “Where does this door go” I ventured. “Open it and find our” everyone cried. NOOOOOO WAAAAY! THE PITCH We organised ourselves into a team (of sorts) and ran down the tunnel and onto the pitch (remember there was grown men amongst the party at this stage) Many dreams were realised that night, but I don’t know if getting lost in the dark on the pitch in Oriel is a real dream.

As Daniel and I sat on the bench, pints in hand, doing our Martin Murray / Ollie Ralph impressions we heard cries of FOOTBALL! coming from the goal area at the town end of the ground.

“HELP! I DON’T KNOW WHERE I AM”

After we guided THC back towards the tunnel, he and Daniel mused about going up to their season ticket seats and finishing their pints. They decided that it wouldn’t be the same without the prawn sandwiches and gave it a miss. We returned to the (relative) sanity of the Lillywhite Lounge as if nothing happened but I was already hatching plans for our next assault – The Trophy Room.