I read somewhere that football is the new religion. So when the Diocese of Clogher scheduled my goddaughter's confirmation ceremony in direct opposition to last weekend's Ulster Championship first-round game between Monaghan and Armagh, it was fairly clear where my loyalties lay. One of these events was a holy day of obligation; the other was only a confirmation ceremony. Even so, I hoped the church might remove any dilemma for Monaghan supporters by rescheduling, writes Frank McNally
When it became clear that the old religion was standing its ground, a second loophole opened. Apparently you don't need the full set of godparents at a confirmation. Only one person accompanies the confirmee to the altar, placing a hand on his or her shoulder and silently vouching continued spiritual guidance on the child's journey through life.
I knew that selection would be based strictly on form. And sure enough, shortly beforehand, Aisling's parents had taken me aside and explained gently that the godmother would be getting the nod on this occasion. I'd be on the bench. Did that mean I could go to Clones? No, it didn't. It was made clear that I was still a valued squad member. My absence might have an adverse effect on team morale.
So I did what I had to do and made certain arrangements. When the church proceedings began on Sunday, I switched my mobile phone to silent and waited for the regular text messages promised by a fellow sect member at the game. The first scene-setting dispatch arrived promptly: "Pitch in good condition, huge crowd". With that I turned my full attention to the church ceremony. Let us play, I said.
It's all right for people from Kerry and Tyrone and such places. But when you come from a success-starved county, the first round of the All-Ireland championship is one of those rituals by which you measure out your life. It used to be an annual outing, in more ways than one. Before the back-door system, it was like the summer solstice: the day on which the year turned, when the rising hopes of spring gave way to the resigned wisdom of autumn, and the belief that there was always next year.
Even so, checking the phone furtively every few minutes, I felt as guilty as another godfather, Michael Corleone. You know that famous scene where the baptism of his sister's child is crosscut with the assassinations of the heads of the five New York families, arranged by him for the same time so that he'll have an alibi? As he stands at the font, we see his henchmen preparing the ambushes, and the unknowing targets living out their final moments. Then, even as Corleone vows to renounce Satan and all his pomps, the henchmen go to work: gunning down Barzini, and Tattaglia, and Moe Greene, and the rest.
You might think it's a big stretch to be comparing Sicilian vendettas and mob violence with a football match. But then maybe you're not familiar with the Ulster Championship. The key difference is that I had no involvement in events at Clones, other than an emotional one. In common with many Monaghan supporters, I had succumbed to the annual triumph of optimism over experience. By nightfall, I knew, Armagh would sleep with the fishes.
For a while the scenario unfolded as planned. The congregation had already rejected Satan "and all his empty promises" and we were being asked if we believed in the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body and life everlasting, when another update came through from Clones. The team had already started well. Now the deadly Freeman brothers had combined to make it four points to one and we were "all over them". The church ritual was crosscut with images of startled Armagh defenders biting the dust, set beautifully to organ music.
Then, sometime around the "laying of hands" part of the ceremony, a worrying note crept into the text messages. We were still all over them, my contact assured me, but "not showing it on scoreboard". It sounded like the dreaded Armagh defence had caught up with our flying forwards. There was probably some laying of hands in Clones too, I reflected ruefully. Another message confirmed the turnaround: it was half-time, and Armagh were 5-4 up.
When they went 9-5 ahead in the middle of the second half, the recessional hymn was playing in both venues. We were beginning to think about the qualifiers and looking forward to resurrection and the life to come, ideally in a series of games against soft Leinster teams who prefer hurling. And then - Lo! - the comeback started. The lead was three. The lead was two. Then one.
Usually as remorseless as old age, Armagh are acknowledged masters at closing out games. But when the epic confirmation ceremony finally ended (and I noticed several other members of the congregation checking phone messages), we tuned into the radio to find the teams level and heading for a replay. We would see the first round after all! It was the perfect result, everyone agreed afterwards. And from my viewpoint, the only downside was a niggling fear that, next time out, Armagh would have God on their side.