The wonder that resides in Croke Park

LockerRoom: So what in the name of all that is guacamole is going on? The Herald carried two Croke Park residents stories on the same day last week, leaving regular readers with the distinct impression that there is something about the water in the Croker area which leaves its consumers in a dishevelled, physical and mental state known as "up in arms".

Croke Park residents are forever up in arms. So would you be, of course, if you'd bought a house and failed to notice that there was a great big national stadium right beside it, but that's beside the point. The residents are up in arms over Saturday matches, and they are up in arms all over again because the GAA apparently has a plan to evacuate Croker in the event of a major disaster (Frank Murphy comes to the microphone and begins a speech, a soccer ball rolls onto the pitch, that sort of thing), but has revealed no plans for evacuating the streets in which the residents who are up in arms are living.

To all of which we can only say, relax. Chill. Be cool. It's a lovely summer, filled with novelty. Life's too short not to be enjoying the show. If you're worried about how to evacuate your house, do one of two things: check that the front door opens, or ring the police, the fire brigade, the civil defence forces and just ask them what the major disaster plan is. Reassure yourself that when disaster strikes there won't be maors grumpily supervising your evacuation as Gaeilge.

And while you're on to the police, tell them to keep an eye out for those Saturday afternoons when you are made a prisoner in your home. There is no need for GAA fans to to get involved in hostage situations on the days of big games, and it is a development which all Gaels surely regret.

Personally, I feel your pain. I recently waited in for two days for a plumber who never showed. He's doing two years porridge now for falsely imprisoning me beside a leaky radiator.

Get it all off your chest, and then take your deckchair and sit in the garden and have a long cool drink and a bit of craic with the fans and maybe listen to Micheál Ó M's commentary on the radio and wonder to yourself if you ever suspected there were so many Westmeath people in all the world.

Are there not times when even a Croke Park resident smiles? Even a Croke Park resident who is up in arms and frequently imprisoned and generally discombobulated must look out the window occasionally and see the great general carnival of hopeful tribes which pass through Croke Park each summer; they must see it all and gaze up and say, it's not all bad living here beside such a wonderful natural resource, beside such a place of celebration. This is the heart. Everything passes through it.

There must be some days when a Croke Park resident, despite himself, catches a little bit of the spirit of the occasion, a smidgin of banter, a swirl of colour, a kid tugging his Daddy's sleeve on a first trip; there must be little moments like that when a Croke Park resident says, okay, okay, it's not actually like living under the shadow of the Taliban.

I mean, if you didn't have even a little smile on your face on Saturday evening after Páidí and Westmeath changed the whole history of the world, well, perhaps you should speak to your GP about going on medication. Let him see you up in arms. Be sure to drop the words "happy" and "pills" and "please" into the conversation.

Before you go, though, test yourself. Perform a self-diagnosis. Does the whole Páidí story, jilted by his Kerry loves, rushing headlong into the arms of the Westmeath floozies and then finding happiness and bringing happiness there, well, does that not make you grin? Did the sight of his silver head bobbing through that sea of midlands mania not bring even a little smile to your vinegar chops?

Well, what about Dessie Dolan? I've often thought that if I were ever found guilty of High Treason, or even Middle Treason, my last request would be that, instead of a firing squad, Dessie be given the job. Supervised by Charlie Redmond. Fine men, but put them under pressure and you have a fighting chance that they'd miss from point blank range with a couple of machine guns.

The thing is this. They won't act all prima donna about it. They won't sulk or hide or pack it in. They'll gabble on about perspective and make some good jokes about their misfortune, and you'll root for them the next day and the day after and you'll keep on rooting for them until they have their hour in the sun. Surely seeing Dessie on the steps made you punch the air and think that life is short but life is beautiful?

And what about the whole wonderful, regenerative structure of the GAA? How the good days keep everyone going, how they sustain every teacher and mentor and club secretary and mini-league supervisor and daydreaming child, etc. Even sitting there up in arms and imprisoned by priapic rednecks, you must have noticed a little of it?

It must have struck you that even if the GAA do come around to an open draw structure the basic provincial structure needs maintaining, because over a period of time it offers something for everyone in the audience.

If you've been a Croke Park resident since, say, 1990, you'll have noticed this. There have been big days for Munster counties apart from Cork, Tipp and Kerry. Limerick have been up. Waterford have too. And in Connacht everyone has had a big day out, not just Galway and Mayo. Leitrim and Roscommon and Sligo have all come to the big place with hope in their hearts.

The North, of course, has been in a state of perpetual GAA revolution, a revolution which finally reached the parts that other revolutions couldn't reach with Fermanagh daringly making do without most of their best players and progressing this weekend to an All-Ireland quarter-final. Preposterous.

And the Kerry evangelists have busted Leinster wide open. Micko brought Leinsters to Kildare and Laois. Páidí has trumped that and given one to Westmeath. Only in Leinster do we have sorrowful mysteries like Wicklow, Louth and Carlow who, despite burgeoning populations, shun big-time success.

Even in Meath, as the footballers wane, the county board have brought joy to the Royal with its enlightened plantation policy. By bringing three elderly but sprightly St Vincent's hurlers to the county and bestowing on them great plots of fine land and free Range Rovers with which to roam their estates, the Royal have seized a Leinster junior hurling title.

C'mon, there's no statute against smiling. Sure, it's good to be alive when every weekend day is a red-letter day, when you get to feel the pulse of the nation as it flows past the door, when you can hear the great guttural roars of joy from people having a rare, happy afternoon together.

We have the winter to be miserable. Come the rainy season we can all be up in arms together bemoaning the poxy state of our mouldy little island nation.

For now, there's too few summer Sundays left.

And, if you have to evacuate, walk to your nearest GAA club and look at the kids out on the grass dreaming of getting to the big place. You won't be up in arms for long. Promise.