After all the hype that accompanied the Dundalk match, it was very much back to normality in the world of the Cork City fan this week. People who previously believed that football started and ended in Holyhead lost their once in a green moon interest in all things City and to be fair , the rest of us who live in our own planet inhabited by Dave Barry, Johnny C and that night in November, we didn’t seem overly enthusiastic either.
I didn’t write about the Dundalk game due to a hangover, both drink induced and result induced, depression(unrelated to the first two, though they hardly helped) and the fact that everyone in Cork was there to see it themselves. It makes more sense to write about the past two fixtures anyway, seeing as around four and a half thousand dedicated City fans were unfortunately otherwise occupied for them.
Those of us who did show up were hardly partizan in our support or even Red Star. I think I sat for the entire Sligo game, I think I have only previously sat at a City match due to being legless and I was hardly the sole impassive supporter, in fact at times in both matches, it felt like there was quite a few of them on the pitch.
The outside observer might think I am being unnecessarily harsh here, a fine example of the stereotype that Cork people are awkward and difficult to please. I mean, 2 games, six points, seven goals and I am still not happy and it would be churlish to suggest that I would be anything but ecstatic had we achieved this had we beaten Dundalk, but we didn’t. Losing for a fourth time in succession, to a team we want to see as rivals, left many of us staring at a harsh realisation,one that many of us that turn up loyally to the ‘box’ out of a sense of loyal duty seem to have accepted, though few have admitted.
At times this seemed to have filtered down to the players at various stages. We couldn’t have asked for a better start against Sligo, a goal up inside a minute as the Sligo defence decided to turn up a couple of minutes late and let Karl Sheppard stroll in for the opener. When City were awarded a penalty for a foul on the industrious Gavin Holohan after just 12 minutes, it felt like game over. Unfortunately Shep walked to the spot reminiscent of a man who was about to be shot from 12 yards and his kick was hardly a bullet, Richard Brush saving easily. (I really wanted to make a good pun here so I could go boom!boom!. I failed).
After that the unease set in. Even when Shep reacted quickest to Miller’s shot hitting the post to make it two nil, it just didn’t feel comfortable. When the Rovers pulled one back before half time, it seemed inevitable they would equalise. When Holohan’s header came back off the bar, there seemed an unusual acceptance that this wasn’t going to be our night and when Sligo’s pressing led to that inevitable equaliser, there was a fear we might lose to a team managed by Owen Heary. Again.
But then a hero comes along and like so often before it was him of the cult variety, our very own Marky Sull. There are times when City can be harder to follow than dreams (I will stop the Mariah Carey references now, promise) but if everyone tried as hard as this man, it would be so much easier. Three points rescued in dramatic fashion, yet despite the thirty second euphoric release, I left the ground feeling underwhelmed.
And I entered it three days later in a similar mood. Firstly because I don’t think I had every been in the ground so early, an early tea depriving myself of a second Dino’s in a week and not drinking meant being in the ground forty five minutes before the game started and about 90 before City started. I spent most of the first half thinking of places I would rather be than watching footballers who obviously felt the same, trying to feel my feet (summer football my arse!), punny names for anarchist businesses (the plumber’s firm called ‘cistern of a down’ being my favourite) and the most accurate word to describe city’s performance. Louche was what I came up with as the whole first half evoked memories of Monty Python’s philosophy football sketch;everybody thinking deeply, nothing happening and if you were a neutral probably quite amusing. I was definitely under the impression there was more than one Kant on the pitch though.
To make matters worse, all round bad boy and City reject Daryl Kavanagh was making a better fist of being a footballer than any of his other previous appearances at the cross. This is a man who got six days for armed robbery with a fake gun but escaped scott free from Cork after six months robbing a living. He was involved in the opening goal that came from a City corner that was cleared down field, a missed header from John Kavanagh and there suddenly appeared to be several claret shirts and very few City defenders. It was the sort of goal you would normally see conceded by a team chasing the game in injury time, not midway through the first half. While there was a few half chances and an improvement of effort before the break, I would have gladly swapped every player bar Nults and him with the strength to carry on. As it turned out, Caulfield felt the same and replaced the imposters that were strolling about like Jean Paul Sartre in the first half with the more regular footballers. There was an immediate change in attitude as City penned Drogheda back in their own half.
Billy Dennehy equalised with an excellent free kick, curling the ball, over a wall that appeared to be playing ‘statues’ with the ref. No fancy shaving foam in the league of Ireland! The pressure continued and an outswinging corner from Dennehy saw the otherwise anonymous Sheppard stab home. Ten minutes later saw the games first red card for an awful tackle on John Kavanagh by S. Dunne. The player himself started walking before being shown the card, then realised he didn’t know where he was going before finally remembering what colour he was shown and began to see red. More Monty Python, Dunne’s antics more of an homage to the Ministry of Silly Walks. Then all to predictably, complacency set in and Drogheda had a couple of half chances before the night’s finest comic performance. Gavin Holohan’s shot was charged down by C. Brady in a style more suited to the game played at Musgrave park. In a bizarre attempt at pleading innocence, he rolled around the ground in a dance style I would describe as the ‘dying mackerel, before getting up to see a yellow card for the second time. His response to this was to show everyone in Turner’s Cross a seemingly non existent mark on his chest before waddling off, still pointing at himself. Dennehy slotted home his second dead ball of the evening and spent the remaining ten minutes looking like a man willing to shoot from anywhere to claim his first senior hat trick. After a couple of long range efforts, the chance he craved fell his way in injury time and he seemed rather happy about it! To add to the enjoyment, pantomime villain Daryl Kavanagh become the third man to be shown a red card for something he said after the final whistle .
Again all this would point to leaving the cross content and I suppose I did. Just that it was the kind of contentment you get from listening to a Smiths song. You know it was good and you know why you should be happy but you wanted to know why it was good and why you should be happy. More questions than answers. I think we, the fans, had become comfortable with our position. That position being second. The position seemed to eternally finish as I grew up following the club, sandwiched between our two league titles, always just missing out. It is like a relief that we know early this year, a sense of order being restored. We know it will be the same two and a half thousand there every second week. We know we won’t be bothered by people feigning interest, at least until Europe and we know that we will carry on regardless, comfortable in the knowledge that we will have none of the baggage that comes with hope. That is what kills all football fans is hope. Without hope and fear we are left comfortably numb. So you can imagine the excitement of this weekends trip to Jackman Park!
No Greater Love 