I was at the European Athletics Championships in Birmingham just for the first two days. Me, my cousin and a sizeable proportion of the Irish population. Irish supporters had bought 12 per cent of all tickets sold.
I know this because I read it in The Irish Times, as had most Irish people there, and it ended up being quoted at every juncture, turning us all into statisticians on the spot. In reality, of course, it meant that every time an Irish person was introduced before an event, the place went mad.
We had tickets for the morning of day one and got to watch a number of heats and to see how an athletics meet works – the marshalling of competitors here and there and the meticulously positioning of hurdles.
We also got to see: Jack Raftery make it through to the semi-final of the 400m; a clearly off-form and, as it turned out, virus-laden Cian McPhillips lose out in his heat of the 800m; and Mark English win his in the most unfazed way. Calmly. Unhurriedly. Lacking the merest semblance of drama.
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We chatted to the man in front whose daughter was representing Estonia in the 400m hurdles. We said we’d shout for her when her name was introduced as a little bit of guilt had kicked in at the reaction the Irish competitors were getting, compared to their, in the majority of cases, EU neighbours.
And so we yoo-hooed as best we could when the time came. The man was clearly grateful and high-fived us on his way out.
Athletics is a strange kind of sport. Strange as in people tend to dip into and out of it on an irregular basis. It’s not like the rugby, soccer or GAA.
People smile and nod when you say you’ve got tickets to events such as Birmingham or even the Olympics as happened when my cousin and I went to Paris. They find it interesting or niche, but once these events take over the television those texts start coming in about races witnessed and stars spotted.
To be honest, I used to very much subscribe to this way of thinking. It was the Olympics that turned me into a convert and one event in particular: the mixed relay final. We’d purchased tickets anticipating the involvement of the Irish team, but, as it turned out, this wasn’t to be.
On the night, the US team were deemed a shoo-in for the title and led the race comfortably enough until the final leg. Until Femke Bol took over for the Dutch team, who were fourth at that point.
Fourth. Off the pace and well out of the medals.
But, then, unbelievably Bol somehow managed to pass the woman in front to be in with a chance of bronze. The spectators in the stadium, myself, included began to notice this runner in orange.
I’ve looked at the race many times since and what happens next still takes my breath away. Bol stormed into silver, accelerating all the way.
The stadium exploded. We were willing her to win now. But she didn’t need our help. She glided past the top runner and dipped to the line with a clear gap between herself and the US athlete. She had, in effect, won a team race on her own. It was live sport at its best.
Back in Birmingham, at the evening session we got talking to a high jumper from Ireland who was over to witness his more senior contemporaries plying their trade. He was there with his mother and, in that Irish way, she and I discovered early on that we’d both been to the same secondary school. Within minutes, we were going through lists of pupils and teachers.
Her high-jumper son was eloquent about all matters athletic. Did he like it when the crowd clapped in unison before a jump? No, he replied. It was too much pressure. My cousin referenced a middle-distance runner who, she said, had a good kick in the home straight. The young man smiled and calmly said all distance runners thought that way.
The following day we sat beside two Irish women, one with her Tricolour out on her knee. I was busy devouring a 99 at the time, but let it be known that my flag would be out of my bag just as soon as I’d finished it off. “Priorities,” she said with an understanding nod.
Later on, she received a text and photo from her husband. We’d been caught on camera as it scanned the crowds between events. We’d never have known as this wasn’t an Aviva or Croke Park situation with our faces making it up on to the big screen. But, as it turned out, we were always going to find out because within minutes both my phone and my cousin’s one lit up.
Clearly, athletics fans at home, newly minted and long established, were all sitting in front of their televisions.
