THE WARRIOR'S CODE - Into the West...

Into the West… “Under bare Ben Bulben's head In Drumcliff churchyard Yeats is laid. An ancestor was rector there Long years ago, a church stands near, By the road an ancient cross. No marble, no conventional phrase; On limestone quarried near the spot By his command these words are cut: Cast a cold eye On life, on death. Horseman, pass by!” WB Yeats FIVE hours can be a long time in a car with a crowd of Glack men, especially if there’s a strictly ‘no farting’ policy. Supporting Derry’s gaelic football team, as we have done all our lives, doesn’t come with any guarantees. My earliest memories go back as far as the 1980s when Dungiven’s Plunket Murphy ruled the airways, but in truth we didn’t experience too many days in the sun back then. As the 80’s slipped into the 90’s things changed dramatically. The memory can play a thousand tricks but all I can recall is victories, the biggest of all occurring on that famous third Sunday in September 1993 when Henry Downey lifted the Sam Maguire. We followed Derry home and away and although the Oak Leaf county could not repeat that ‘one in a row’ All Ireland title, it was still a halcyon time to be a Derry man as we regularly supped at the top table of county football. However, since the fin de siècle supporting Derry has generally been a thankless experience. But that’s to miss the point totally. Fair weather fans come and go but we continue to stay true to the course. Hope springs eternal, but sometime it’s the hope that kills you. For the sake of your team you pray for a home draw in the All Ireland Senior Football Championship. But at the same time it’s hard to beat a wee road trip with some like-minded eejits. A win over Wexford in the previous round took us back on our travels, this time into the West and away to Galway. No matter where you are going, no matter what time the game is at, my father insists we set off at the crack of dawn. He also ensures we only listen to Jonny Cash or Highland Radio. The early start afforded us more than enough time to pull into Henry’s in Sligo, at the foot of the magnificent Ben Bulben mountain, for greasy fries apiece. The youngest of the Doherty men – David - was travelling with a mild to moderate hangover and insisted his stomach couldn’t quite handle the ‘full Irish’. The Doherty cub perused the menu, desperately looking for some sustenance that he might be able to keep down. We all sat there wondering what he’d finally settle on. However, none of us expected the words “aye, I’ll take the chicken Maryland” to be spoken to the startled young waitress. At 10 o’clock in the morning too. God loves a trier. Well played that man. And wouldn’t you know he never left a crumb. That’s how we roll on these road trips. Although Galway is quite a jaunt away, we still arrived at Pearse Stadium a good three hours before throw-in. Tommy Doherty wouldn’t have it any other way. A brief discussion led us out of the unseasonably hostile wind and rain and into the bosom of the Atlantic Bar to enjoy a couple of pre-match pints of stout. Indeed we were kings, as we swigged the creamy pints and discussed the impending game and Derry’s chances of a win. Cautious optimism was the order of the day. And whilst we could have clocked by the fireside and supped the night away, we had a team that needed our support, and when the allotted time arrived we bid our farewells to the Atlantic Bar and made our way to Pearse Stadium like men readying themselves for war. Unfortunately for Derry and the Doherty men, Galway prevailed, aided and abetted by an awful display of refereeing and a below par Derry performance. Even at 42 years of age, a Derry defeat still hurts like hell. Not even Claire Doherty’s world famous egg and onion sandwiches could lift our spirits. Beaten and bowed, we shuffled out of the stadium into the rain-sodden car park with the smell of K Burgers thick in the air - the walk of shame for every beaten Gael. We couldn’t get out of Dodge quick enough. The incessant rain, the Derry defeat, the traffic – it was time to cut our losses, get back up that N17 (stone walls and the grass is green) and live to fight another day. A little culture to lift the weary soul… The weather finally relented as we approached the little village of Drumcliffe in Sligo, and cuture vutures that we are we pulled into to pay homage at the grave of WB Yeats. As you do. The words ‘Cast a cold eye on life, on death. Horseman, pass by!’ are engraved on Yeats’ grave stone, and I suppose it gave me a more philosophical view on the day’s unhappy events. Football’s not a matter of life and death, although sometimes it can feel like that for a Derry man. With our souls henceforth fully nourished, it was time to replenish the bellies. Lang’s pub in Grange not only boasts a superb pint of creamy stout but it also has a fine restaurant which the Doherty men are no strangers to. Fed and watered, and with uncanny sports timing, the Carl Frampton came on the pub’s TV. And while we had been on the go for 12 hours and batteries were beginning to run low, we decided to sit on and give our fellow country man our vocal support, albeit a thousand miles away from making any affect on the fight. The wee man from Tiger’s Bay to the rescue… Frampton, reigning IBF Super-Bantamweight title, was defending his title in El Paso, Texas against the dangerous Alejandro Gonzalez Jr who was being roared on by a vocal and partisan Mexican support. When you get both a Mexican and a Belfast man in the same ring, you know you’re in for a tear up. What we hadn’t been expecting was for our own world champion Frampton to be knocked down twice in the opening round. When it rains, it really does pour. Sport can both loving wife and cruel mistress, and today we were feeling the wrath of the mistress’s acid tongue. Fearing the worst, we stayed the course and watched on as the Tiger’s Bay man gamely fought his way back into the contest against the teak tough Mexican. Few men enjoy a punch in the ballbag, but Frampton had to endure four such low blows from the Mexican throughout the contest. However, the 28 year old world champion took everything Gonzalez could throw at him and went on to retain his belt and fought back like a true champ. It was inspirational stuff and the well-imbibed Lang’s bar crowd hollered their approval. Two judges scored the fight 116-108 in the Belfast fighter's favour, with the other awarding him the contest 115-109. Gonzalez was twice deducted a point for persistent low punches. The two fighters, who had fought each other to a standstill for twelve gruelling rounds, embraced in the ring at the end of the fight in an act of true sportsmanship. Frampton’s heroics certainly lifted our crest-fallen souls and although it was well after midnight before we finally dragged our sorry asses home, the remainder of the journey was an altogether more upbeat affair. That’s what sport can do to you. It’s an emotional experience, chalk-full of highs and lows. It’s certainly what following Derry does to you. And boxing too. Sure if it was easy everybody would be at it… Doire Abu! Frampton abu!