Croke Park experience is just that bit bigger

The last weekend of another Six Nations looms large, as does the end of Ireland's romantic liaison with the GAA and the magic of Croke Park, writes  RISTEARD COOPER

IT’S SIMPLE. Tackle, disengage then re-engage. There’s been a lot of talk about this law, or to paraphrase your man who wears the indoor purple shades and thinks he’s Jesus, maybe too much talk. The laws of this already complex game are probably a mystery to most people anyway, but surely a game which has the players scratching their heads needs to take a proper look at itself?

Just when I thought I’d explained the rules of the breakdown to my young inquisitor and fellow sofa-dweller, they go and mess with my head. This law will never work. It’s akin to telling motor-bike couriers that they can only stop their vehicle if they dismount prior to engaging the breaks. Or that you now have to take off your helmet every time you overtake a car and put it on only when you’ve cleared its path. The IRB’s logic would seem to be, “Well, it might result in carnage, but sure at least it’s entertaining.”

Anyway, despite ranting and raving about the inevitable demise of a game that rids itself of one its most basic facets, ie, defending, last Saturday I managed to get sidetracked by the siren-voiced stadium announcer in Croke Park.

Is it just me or does this man behind the mic sound like he needs to see someone? A vocal coach, primarily, but perhaps then a therapist. Everything is delivered with such volume and manic intensity you feel certain that he must be inflicting some kind of pain on himself while simultaneously roaring into the stadium tannoy “PLEASE WELCOME . . . IRELAND!!!” He’d probably like to add “CAUSE IF YOU DON’T I MIGHT DO SOMETHING WE’D ALL REGRET”.

Poor old Geordan Murphy. Having just made a comeback after a long lay-off, 20-odd minutes into the match, announcer man told us he was being replaced. I was always brought up to believe if you’re not certain what you’re saying, say it quietly and hope that nobody hears you. Not “Loudman”. On Saturday, as Gordon D’Arcy hobbled off, he screamed “NUMBER 22 ROB KEARNEY REPLACING NO 15 GEORDAN MURPHY”. Murphy looked around as if to say, “Jaysus, give us a chance”.

Then he corrected himself – even more loudly, “IN FACT IT’S NO 12 GORDON D’ARCY”.

Maybe he’s doing the announcements while listening to his iPod. I wonder what he’s like when he gets home. The family must grab the ear-muffs every time they hear the key in the front door. “HI, I’M HOME. I WAS JUST AT WORK IN CROKE PARK.”

Of course, nowadays, as in Croke Park, nearly every international stadium is also equipped with enormous screens at each end. This allows the players to have a good goo at themselves in action replay, which is all well and dandy if it’s a nice bit of skill they’re showing, but if it’s a bad kick or a dropped ball the camera stays on him for about 10 seconds as if he’s just shot someone. So not only does he hear the 80,000 crowd groan, he then has to endure the sight of a close-up of himself on two gigantic screens. He spends this time raising his eyes intermittently checking the screen, hoping to hell they cut to something else. Maybe the next rule change will be that from now on the stadium announcer will commentate over the close-up. “THERE’S THE PLAYER THAT JUST MADE THAT DREADFUL MISTAKE.”

Over the last few years many people in this country have been caught with their pants down, but on Saturday a special moment was captured on screen in what you could only describe as the opposite of a full-frontal. As a Welsh hand grappled with a pair of shorts, a couple of large, white Irish cheeks came out to see who was knocking on the door. It was either that, or The Bull’s and O’Connell’s heads were in a place even they’ve never been. There was no replay of that particular maul.

With the kilt brigade on their way to us this weekend such a vista may well be commonplace, though it’s more likely to be indoors in a maul of an entirely different nature. Indeed, whatever about the Scots’ tradition of living offside, if this fixture has proved anything over the years it’s that they are as likely to go off their feet on the pitch, as we both are off it.

Overall, if this year’s Six Nations has proved anything, it’s that teams start to mirror their coaches.

France: Lievremont; flamboyant, sharp, but disciplined.

Italy: Mallett; defensive, aggressive and eccentric.

Scotland: Robinson; rudderless, dreary and drowsy.

Wales: Gatland; daft in both a dull and rash way.

Ireland: Kidney; steady as she goes, but willing to experiment.

England: Johnson, eh . . . big?

Yes, the last weekend of another Six Nations looms large, as does the end of Ireland’s romantic liaison with the GAA and the magic of Croke Park. Over the last O’Dricade the Irish team have provided so many memorable moments it’s hard to believe the good times will ever come to an end.

With a coach who’s developed not just a strong playing squad, but also a strong squad ethic, and with a bunch of talented young guns waiting in the wings, maybe the trend is set to continue. Either way, despite the state this island is in, this is a special era, we should appreciate it while we’re in it.