Series a catalyst for strange phenomena

Sideline Cut: Wish we knew why Martin Sheen was in the crowd for the International Rules in Galway last Saturday night. The great actor is spending a year studying in NUIG and has spent a month hoofing around in jeans and anoraks like any other student as he adjusted to the notoriously sodden Galway autumn.

Among the many outstanding films Sheen graced in the 1970s and 1980s was, of course, Apocalypse Now, the unwieldy, frightening epic for which director Francis Coppola would batter out the next scene on a typewriter just hours before shooting it.

As the International Rules rattles crazily along to its God-knows-what conclusion, it seems eminently plausible that the GAA and the AFL have hired the skills of some screenplay hotshot, with a big Cuban beard and a head full of ideas, locked him into the Artane Boys Band room in Croke Park and tasked him with banging out a series of plot lines to keep this strange and inexplicably popular farrago boiling away like a classic Aussie soap opera.

Forget about the actual game. As the first Test proved, the players are only part of the attraction. There is something about this convergence of Australian and Irish sporting culture that has brought forth the "wacky" side in us Gaels.

Despite the damp, cold evening in Salthill, a number of punters had come attired in "fun" costumes so they could entertain the masses during one of many breaks the athletes take. Rather than four quarters, the creators of the Rules should have gone for the unashamed pathos of five acts - by running around the field and waving.

It was, of course, only a matter of time before some lad, a hitherto well-mannered teacher from north Clare or a prosperous auctioneer from the Midlands or a frustrated footballer from Roscommon - came to the conclusion that the evening would not really fire unless he were to disrobe and indulge in a bit of buck-leaping around Pearse Stadium. Of the three gentlemen who treated us to a show of prime Irish beef, only one opted for the European-style full streak.

For a second of astonishment I actually thought a good friend had executed the streak and, bizarre though the sight was, it was like the missing jigsaw piece in a life that had, until that second, never made full sense. But, as the exhibitionist ventured bravely into no-man's land under the unforgiving glare of the floodlights, it became clear this was just another lost soul.

He made several mistakes, the most critical being timing. Had he made a run for it at the end of the first quarter, he would have been greeted as though he were Steve McQueen on the bike in The Great Escape. But this was half-time. People were cranky and a little spent after two quarters of preposterously boring fare.

There were a few half-hearted witticisms: "Wo-ho, the first tackle of the night" and (in Crocodile Dundee accent) "Call that a kno-ife. This is a kno-ife."

But mainly, the reaction was of mild, collective embarrassment for the lad who had clearly started something he could not finish. Sitting a few rows down from us was a statuesque lady who would definitely have been around in the days of John Charles McQuaid, and after tolerating several minutes of watching the entertainer's aimless trot around the pitch, she cried out: "Oh, give it up, you dirty thing."

The problem was that there was nowhere left for him to go and so the crowd drank tea and munched snacks as they pondered the naked man's predicament.

"It must be a powerful feeling all the same," mused one young man as he munched on a punnet of chips. "The rush would be something else."

"D'ya think so?" his friend said, giving him a worried look.

The most anarchic moment came later on, when the final streaker, clad in grey briefs, hung around until the players returned to the field and then lingered some more, making it clear he was determined to get face value for his ticket.

The previous pitch invasions had been treated with utter indifference by stewards and law-keepers alike. But it seemed as if the appearance of this worryingly pale and slender youth - as one prominent GAA official put it, "that man needs a few Sunday dinners" - coincided with the deployment of some kind of crack Garda streaker-control unit and soon the last of the exhibitionists was being strong-armed away from the field in a manner that suggested a major miscarriage of justice was about to be visited upon him.

Not, of course, that this series was about to let the Garda have a slack week. No sooner had the quality of the game been analysed than visiting player Brendan Favola was accused of tangling with a local barman and was sent home alone for his sins. A day later, Meath's Graham Geraghty was hauled into the administrative dock to answer charges of clattering Lindsay Gilbee. The Irish team accused the Australians of using the hearing to try to upset their preparation. The Australians shrugged and claimed that Lindsey had just been giving an interview, answering questions.

The hearing took place in the evening, which added to the drama and was - unbelievably for the GAA - held in open session, with the dreaded media, whose fault it was in the first place, invited in to listen.

That development alone must be leaving GAA rulebook wizards like Frank Murphy in an absolute cold sweat this week. The old adage of "whatever you tell them, tell them nothing" is a cornerstone of the GAA philosophy. If the GAA legal procedures are thrown open to the dogs of the newspapers, then the whole kingdom will surely crumble.

And so onwards the great series rumbles, back to a sell-out crowd in Croke Park and the biggest ever attendance at a sporting fixture in this country. The only way to explain this phenomenon is to remember about a decade ago, Irish people were unashamedly addicted to line dancing. Tens and possibly hundreds of thousands of normal folk went in for this "craze".

And I dare you find anyone to now admit that yes, they did wear the beaded shirts and strut their stuff to Cotton-Eye Joe back in the day. The point is because a lot of people do like something doesn't make it good.

The Australian players have made it clear that while they have been subject to a bit of banter or taunting on the streets, none of it has been racially motivated. But among the other odd developments of this series seems to be a loudening jingoistic voice in the home crowd, an uncharacteristic in-your-face show of national pride and an inexplicably intense need to remind the visitors of the Irish superiority at this game.

Australian coach Kevin Sheedy answered a lot of questions with good humour throughout the week, all of which seemed to carry the one subtext: Do you reckon there might be a fight on Sunday? The possibility of an old John Wayne-type brawl is still the main intrigue of this game as far as the public are concerned. As a Railway Cup hurler complained to me before last week's first Test, "Sure this'll be a pile of shite now that they've banned the fighting."

The question is just how long the nations can maintain the mood of civility. While both camps have alluded to the "great spirit" that exists, there has been precious little evidence of that. It has all been rather curmudgeonly and hostile and mutually suspicious, phenomenally boring for long periods and, now and again, tremendously brave and skilful. But the script is delivering. As Sheedy noted of Croke Park, the house is full so there is no need to ramp it up.

The raging success of International Rules all comes down to the fundamental law of the entertainment racket: there is a sucker born every minute.