Home is the exiled Dub, home to the Hill

Sideline Cut: Not to jump the gun or anything but this could be the Year of the Dub. You have to hand it to the Dub. His eviction from Croke Park caused so great a stir the GAA felt it necessary to move Ulster, lock, stock and barrel, down to the big smoke for the weekend.

The Dub didn't mind, gallantly holding the doors of his hostelries and B&Bs open to his winking, cheerful cousin from up above, who knew his way around Drumcondra and O'Connell Street very well anyway, and thanks for asking.

The Dub had plenty to be getting on with. He loyally queued up in Easons to buy such indispensable pamphlets as The Condensed History of London GAA, The Rough Guide to Aughawillan and All You Ever Wanted to Know About Longford Women But Were Afraid to Ask. The Dub did his penance and took some photographs on the way. He even discovered that his atonement could be fun.

Traditionally, the Dub liked to rise at his leisure on the day his beloved team were playing. He might have wandered along to the chapel to pray that Dessie's peg might hold up for another hour at least. He then perused his Sunday papers, perhaps snoozed for an hour and partook of his Sunday roast, nobly forgoing his apple tart and tea because he had promised to meet the lads in the Fairview at three, latest.

He preferred to walk but if it was threatening rain, the Dub might take his local bus along to Croker, smiling indulgently at the sight of the poor muckers up for the day and causing mayhem at the pedestrian crossing.

The Dub would then sip his pint or two, reminisce about the days of Bobby, Jimmy and the great Hanahoe and noting that it was 3.28 p.m., he would head off to take his rightful place on the Hill. He was sometimes a bit late but sure what odds: the Dub was always late.

Such were the rites of passage the Dub had come to adopt over the years.

This year, it has been different. The Dub has been forced to rise early and to submit himself to the rigours of the Irish travel system. His experiences have made him inclined to see his muddier, slower cousins from unpronounceable places in a new light.

For now the Dub, too, has shared the feeling of grim dread at hearing the words "All change at Swanlinbar" droning over the loudspeaker at Busarus. The Dub knows how lonely such a command can make a man feel. Like the rest of society, the Dub had no wish to change or to do anything else at Swanlinbar. The Dub has come to know how inhumane and torturous a device is the coffee cup favoured by Iarnród Éireann.

He has bought endless cups of coffee just to see if it is possible to open one without scalding his hand on the f****r. The Dub has come to cross the mighty Shannon, its water caught in a silvery, breathtaking dusk and found himself inclined to scribble a few lines of a poem to post off to the mot.

The Dub has discovered that no matter how varied the breakfast menu, there is no avoiding the full Irish in a country B&B.

The Dub has stocked up on Dairy Milk and Cidona for the long walk to the ground and has held perfectly amicable conversations with men from Kiltyclogher or Dowra without ever understanding a word said to him. He has felt a little pleased and embarrassed at receiving a hearty slap on the back from his rural friend and not a little proud when some local lads, upon seeing his ample girth filling the famous pale blue jersey, shouting: "Up the Dubs".

The Dub has endured rainstorms not seen since Noah was young down in Leitrim but he sung his heart out that day. And he sung all the harder when the King of the Dubs turned up to watch the boys in blue. Bertie drank tea in the back kitchen that day and gave the Taoiseach's mmmmhh of approval to the buns baked freshly for the occasion.

Like all the other Dubs, the Leader watched apprehensively as their team discovered what kind of football team they ought to be out there on a soaking field in the west of Ireland. And he probably knew that day the fortunes of the Dubs had undergone a small but significant turn.

And now the Dub is back in the city, lean and buff (dangerous word to use around the Dub, buff) and ready to take on the world again. The Dub has tried decentralisation and has nothing against it in principle but if this summer has shown him anything, it is that Croker is pointless without him. The Dub has kept a travelogue and has recorded the many bad things that happened to him this year. The Dub remembers that the low point, the very worst, happened in Mayo. The Dub wondered if there was any point at all, at all that afternoon. The Dub probed the whites of Tommy Lyons's eyes for some sign but could find no light.

But he survived. And now it is the August bank holiday weekend, the temperatures are beginning to soar and the lesser-spotted Dub is back in the city. All is right with world again. The Dub quietly fancies himself against Roscommon, and probably with good reason. He has actually travelled through parts of Roscommon this summer and found it agreeable enough. He will be slightly queasy over the sight of Tom Carr, a former Dub and a smart and good man, walking the sideline and pumping his fist at the strong and extraordinarily red-faced lumps of lads playing for the country team. Tom Carr lives in the country these days and the Dub admires him for that.

But if the Dub gets through this game, then he is in the last eight against all expectation and the season has been salvaged. And the Dub mood will be high and blowsy and Tom Lyons will be smiling again. And the thing is the Dub will know his boys are only beginning to play well. The Dub will know his team has a great full back, a promising centre back, an improving midfield and a natural home at centre forward for his matinee idol. The Dub will know his boys are big boned and strong and athletic and that can take you a fair old way in football. He will know Jayo and Brogan have the smarts to upset any defence and with Robbo on the team, their collective mindset is unlikely to go AWOL.

Also, the Dub knows nothing is expected. The Dub understands if right is right, his team should not be able to entertain the boys from Armagh or Tyrone. He knows they seem to play a deeper, harder game and make it look so simple that it touches the mysterious. The Dub knows all this but he also knows he has this gut feeling that because he has suffered so much, good things may well be around the corner.

The Dub has been to the country and sent the postcard but he is a city boy at heart and is glad that at last he can walk around again like he owns the place.