Almanac (Irish) Life: My day at Páirc MacUílín, Ballycastle

 

 

My day at Páirc MacUílín, Ballycastle

Part 1 – Community

My recent two-week road trip across Ireland and Northern Ireland reminded me why I love sport. A club-level hurling final in Ballycastle, Northern Ireland, at my journey’s end, was the catalyst.

Hurling at Ballycastle reminded me how community-based games can bring immense joy and heartfelt belonging. How it can express local identity—binding people and families through shared commitment, stories, and traditions.

 

  A weathered program cover from Ballycastle.

  

That’s hardly a revelation. But what I experienced at Ballycastle and other sporting events in Ireland and Northern Ireland was something special. Family, community, tradition, even politics—woven with something almost spiritual—played out in ways that struck at the essence of sport. Less glitz, more substance.

These experiences—hurling in Ballycastle in particular—also prompted some reflection on what Australian sport might learn from the Irish—their games, traditions and sports governance—and their generally affable, lovable nature.

On top of that, I discovered that hurling is an amazing sport. A hidden treasure.

While neither Ireland’s Gaelic games nor Australia’s native football have global followings, both remain remarkably resilient. They’ve endured the era of increasingly globalised sport by nurturing deep, inter-generational loyalty. That endurance speaks to both the quality of the games and their capacity to evolve.

Ireland’s own games—hurling, camogie (the women’s version of hurling), and Gaelic football—should have fascinated me far sooner, given my deep interest in Australian football and its history. The similarities and differences between Australian football and Gaelic football are reasonably well known, at least to those who remember the International Rules series between Ireland and Australia, last played by men in 2017 and women in 2006. Hurling and camogie on the other hand are, to my eye, unique when lined up with other sports from around the world.

The international layer of Gaelic football and Australian football do not appear to be top of mind for their governing bodies—the Gaelic Athletic Association (GAA) and the Australian Football League (AFL). That makes sense, but as a fan it would be good to see its return.

The amateur status of the GAA, however, is a global anomaly, enshrined in its charter from the top down to the grassroots. It is truly remarkable that this ethos has been maintained throughout the last four decades or so—a period dominated by the widespread commodification and rise of professionalism in sport. What I observed clearly demonstrated that Gaelic games are deeply interwoven into the fabric and culture of the communities where they are played.

In Australia, fierce inter-code rivalry makes professionalism inevitable. Few begrudge full-time players being well paid. At the top level, the AFL still fosters a sense of community, even as it commercialises tradition. But beneath the national competition, those community layers have frayed.

Governance and support for the clubs and leagues beneath the professional level are where peak bodies like the AFL could learn a thing or two from the GAA and Irish sports. In the twenty-first century, the approaches to game and community development adopted by the national sporting bodies of Ireland and Australia appear markedly different. The GAA—with its 2,500-plus clubs worldwide—has maintained and enhanced the importance of grassroots clubs.

The socio-political, geographical and cultural contexts are, of course, different—but not so different that we can’t pause to consider how the GAA and its regional affiliates and clubs conduct their affairs. From the games I witnessed, and the communities I travelled through, the outcomes for the GAA are clear: vibrant local clubs, committed volunteers, loyal players and supporters, and deeply connected communities.

Across my travel by road and rail through numerous counties, I kept seeing flags in club colours flying from shops, houses and public buildings. Roundabouts and school fences carried hand-painted signs for ‘big games’ on the horizon. In bars and cafés, the talk confirmed what the flags declared: local teams matter—county or parish—and in many Catholic communities that means the GAA. Rugby and soccer were present, but the fervour belonged to the Gaelic games.

My rambling Irish journey was a blur of random encounters and spontaneous impressions; not just at sporting events. Amid ancient castles, crumbling abbeys, grand old churches, ‘political’ walking tours, breathtaking landscapes, and the sweeping, craggy coastlines, I wandered through quaint villages and towns, navigated dreary urban backstreets and impossibly narrow rural roads (with alarming speed limits) brushed with autumnal colour. I endured bleak weather (and near-hypothermia), black pudding, several hangovers, loud and occasionally offensive American tourists, and some truly dreadful coffee. Yet the true essence of Ireland shone through—in its hilarious, serious, and endlessly kind locals; in its rich layers of history; and in the heartbeat of traditional music. For me, this was poured out across pubs, ample Guinness, whiskey glasses, and, inevitably, more bars.

Along the way, I found myself drawn to sporting fields and a few racetracks—each offering its own window into Irish life. One rainy, windswept afternoon at Páirc MacUílín (McQuillan Park), Ballycastle would become the moment that tied it all together.

Before that Ballycastle epiphany, though, I needed to understand another Irish obsession—the horse. And where better to start than County Kildare, the thoroughbred heart of Ireland.

 

Part 2 – From the Bool to the Bog

Prior to leaving Australia, I promised my old umpiring and punting colleague, Nils ‘The Swine’ Collins, that I would attend some jumps racing in Ireland and report back. After a quick perusal of the racing calendar, I landed on a midweek meeting an hour’s drive south-west of Dublin at Punchestown in County Kildare.

Kildare has been associated with horses and racing for centuries—the plain of The Curragh was once the site of ancient chariot races and equestrian games. Today, the county is known as ‘The Thoroughbred County.’ With the Curragh plain, the Irish National Stud, and courses at Punchestown and Naas all within a short drive, Kildare seemed the perfect place to start my equine education.

My horse-racing experience in County Kildare got off to a slow start with a peaceful trip to the Irish National Stud. The setting and gardens, typical of Ireland, were beautiful. However, besides a small, interactive museum, there wasn’t much going on mid-autumn.

While wandering the stud, I made sure to greet Phoenix of Spain, one of its flagship stallions. His son, Soul of Spain, had started as the $4 favourite in a major Sydney race while I was in Ireland. My brother, Randal, and his punt-savvy mate had backed him early at $51 after a few promising runs in Brisbane. As so often happens, Soul of Spain looked the winner at the 200-metre mark, only to be nabbed near the line and beaten a length. As The Swine likes to remind me: “The punt giveth, and the punt taketh away.”

Before raceday at Punchestown, I also visited courses at The Curragh and Naas. The Curragh—Ireland’s premier flat-racing venue—hosts all the Irish Classics. Near the main gate stands a fine bronze statue of Vintage Crop, Dermot Weld’s legendary stayer who became the first Northern Hemisphere-trained horse to win the Melbourne Cup, in 1993. That victory changed the Cup forever, opening the floodgates to the ‘international raiders.’ Ireland has since added to its Cup legacy with Media Puzzle (Weld, 2002), Rekindling (Joseph O’Brien, 2017) and Twilight Payment (Joseph O’Brien, 2020).

As I traveled, buying local and national newspapers was a routine. My timing meant that coverage included the Melbourne Cup, particularly the performance of Irish and English-trained horses competing in Australia. Specifically, horses and trainers with Irish links—Al Riffa, Goodie Two Shoes, Absurde, and Vauban—featured prominently in the news.

I’ve always had a soft spot for the legendary Irish trainer, Willie Mullins, and his gentle, humble, practical, and understated way. Although his training base is an hour to the south-west in County Carlow, he is revered in Kildare. Mullins’ runners have placed second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth and seventh in Melbourne Cups, and he keeps coming back.

When I arrived at Punchestown, about 40 kilometres south of Dublin and 20 minutes from The Curragh, there were roughly 1,500 in attendance; all eager for the midweek meeting; a mix of young and old, parishioners and punters.

Aside from the relatively healthy midweek crowd, what struck me was the number of groups of young thoroughbred owners who were clearly bonded by their small shares in a racehorse. The interested and engaged crowd, laughter and joviality were a far cry from a recent midweek meeting I attended at Royal Bundamba, Ipswich in Queensland.

I tried to capture the day on my battered old phone. The results were terrible. Trust me instead: Punchestown, framed by the Wicklow Hills and rolling emerald paddocks, is the most beautiful racecourse I’ve seen. Willie Mullins calls it “the greatest course in the world”. There are no towering grandstands like those at Flemington or Randwick, but I still think Willie is probably right.

The course’s legendary five-day Punchestown Festival each April rivals Warrnambool’s May carnival back home. If you love The `Bool, you’d love Punchestown—same spirit, same love of horses, bigger crowds, bigger fields, better Guinness.

After backing the first winner but finishing slightly down overall, I drove north in search of greener punting pastures. As it turned out, they were also much muddier.

 

Punchestown — the “greatest course in the world”, according to champion Irish trainer Willie Mullins.

Part 3 – Templepatrick: Racing in the Raw

Finding a race meeting in Northern Ireland the following Saturday proved tricky. I’d landed in Belfast between major fixtures. After some inept Googling, I finally unearthed a listing for an amateur point-to-point steeplechase meeting at Loughanmore Farm, near Templepatrick, about 25 kilometres north-east of Belfast.

If Punchestown showed me Irish racing at its polished best, Loughanmore showed me its muddy heart.

I drove aimlessly through the backroads, talking to the cows and cursing the lack of signage (and my sense of direction), until I stumbled upon a secret wonder. Hidden deep in the Six Mile Water Valley, the Loughanmore “course” sat right in the middle of Wilson Dennison’s working farm. I’d missed “The First”, the racebooks (called racecards) had sold out, and about 700 locals were already ankle-deep in their farm boots and muck.

The night before, I’d done my “research”. Point-to-point racing—or P2P—is Ireland’s grassroots steeplechasing: amateur, rural, and run on farmland. It’s the nursery of the Irish jumps scene, where most great horses, jockeys and trainers begin. The term dates back to the 18th century, when riders literally raced from one church steeple to the next—hence point-to-point and steeplechase.

 

Back straight

 

Dennison’s farm had been transformed: farm hedges were complemented by temporary rails made of orange plastic bunting, rustic and rudimentary steeples, a bookmaker’s ring in a real paddock, a canteen, a bar, a parade enclosure, and a stewards’ room inside the back of a horse float. It was, quite literally, a pop-up racetrack—built and staffed by volunteers.

 

Stewards’ Room

 

 Grandstand

 

The day belonged to the locals—farmers, stablehands, and families who work the land and live the sport. The whole scene reeked of rural Ireland: laughter, accents, mud, horse-shite and wet grass.

In spite of highway-robbery odds from the dozen bookmakers, I cleaned up on the punt, walking away with a tidy £250 profit. Bookmaker “Danny Boy” O’Sullivan looked as stunned as I was after my third straight winner.

 

 

 Betting Ring

 

Driving away through the mist, I reflected on how the day had been similar but different from an Australian picnic meeting. I couldn’t put my finger on it. But the differences were more than the grey skies and greenest of grasses; it had something to do with an authentic sense of community, but I wasn’t sure.

 

 

One lap to go

Part 4 – Gaelic Games and Family Names

Before Punchestown and Templepatrick, my first Irish sporting encounter was in Galway: a club-based County Senior Football semi-final double-header at Pearse Stadium—26,000 capacity and the sense that when County Galway wears maroon, the tired old grandstand and the terraces rock.

 

 

View from Pearse Stadium Grandstand

 

The evening was shared with Sarah, my best mate and travel companion for the first leg of the trip. We were both a bit dusty after the previous night in Ennis, the largest town in County Clare and twice winner of the Irish Tidy Towns competition.

By that stage we’d made two cultural discoveries rarely mentioned in travel guides: (1) rural Ireland, like rural Australia, is obsessed with tidy-town signs; and (2) many country homes feature grand, ornate gateways leading to decidedly more modest houses.

County Clare, however—and Ennis in particular—is also the beating heart of traditional Irish music. We didn’t know that when we pulled into town; we were just looking for a meal, bed and an authentic bar. Instead, we found ourselves swept into a spontaneous Trad music session that felt like stepping into Ireland’s bloodstream.

Bar stools were pushed aside, strangers danced, violins fought with laughter, a bodhrán (Irish hand drum) kept time like a heartbeat, and a young bloke on a harp tried to hold it all together. Players came and went—men, women, old, young—no stage, no spotlight, just a circle of sound. Between gulps of Guinness and sips of whiskey, we felt embedded in something much older than sport. It was culture, living and breathing.

The next day we drove north to Galway, a little weary but determined to watch some Gaelic football. At Pearse Stadium, we paid €20 each and joined about 3,000 fans to watch the first semi-final: Maigh Cuilinn (Moycullen) versus Tuam Stars.

 

 

 

      Ready for the game in Galway

 

No alcohol was sold—I think that might be a GAA edict—but the punters were able to access a few food vans. There was no fanfare, just 3,000 local fans, waiting patiently in red (Tuam) and green (Maigh Cuilinn).

The Maigh Cuilinn team list caught my eye. While the other three sides featured familiar Anglicised names—Rory, Darragh, Conor, Ciarán—Maigh Cuilinn’s list read like poetry: Eoin Mac Uidhir (John Maguire), Eoghan Ó Ceallaigh (Owen Kelly), Deasún Ó Conghaile (Desmond Connolly), Conchúbhar Ó Longáin Mhanacháin (Conor Longan-Monaghan), Pádraig Ó Flaithearta (Patrick Flaherty).

Maigh Cuilinn (population 2,200) sits just west of Galway, on the edge of the Connemara Gaeltacht, one of Ireland’s Irish-speaking regions. There, Gaeilge isn’t just a compulsory school subject—it’s community identity, conversation, and pride. Since its founding in 1884, the GAA has seen itself not only as a sporting body but as a guardian of Irish language and culture. Many clubs, especially in the west, use Irish names on jerseys and crests by default.

A good friend of mine, Anne Marie, grew up in Belfast during The Troubles. Many of her childhood friends and family, including her neighbour—Rory McIlroy’s uncle—were killed during the conflict. Anne Marie, who holds a master’s degree in linguistics, once told me that using Irish names isn’t just about language; it’s a declaration of belonging. “We’re from here, we speak our own tongue, we play our own games.”

For Anne Marie’s generation, that pride was survival; for younger Northern Irish audiences, it sounds different but carries the same pulse—in the bilingual rhymes of Kneecap, the hip-hop trio turning Irish identity and humour into a form of resistance all its own.

 

 

Pearse Stadium — Maigh Cuilinn (green) v Tuam Stars (red)

 

That sentiment hit home. My ex-wife and mother of our three girls—Tracey Flaherty (Ó Flaithearta)—can trace her roots back to Connemara. This was confirmed recently by our youngest daughter Phoebe, who indulged in some DNA testing. Perhaps Tracey and our girls are related to Maigh Cuilinn’s Patrick Flaherty.

On my side, I’ve traced my grandfather Redmond D’Evlin’s (Ó Doibhilín) lineage to the west bank of Lough Neagh in County Tyrone. My “research” indicates the apostrophe may have been added in the 1860s on arrival in Australia, as some sort of affectation or attempt to hide Irish identity.

In nearby cemeteries on the banks of Lough Neagh, among gravestones of Devlins, I found echoes of Irish identity—and inscriptions that spoke of defiance, struggle, and pride. Several mentioned their dedication to the Republican cause, with one pointing out that the 39-year-old deceased had been: “Murdered by agents of British Imperialism”.

Surely my granddaughter, Ella, with her potential mix of Ó Doibhilín and Ó Flaithearta bloodlines, has the pedigree to represent Australia in an International Rules series before I finish up in a cemetery.

 

 

Footy Record — County Galway Gaelic football semi-finals

 

Back to football. Maigh Cuilinn 0–18 (18) defeated Tuam Stars 1–14 (17) in a nail-biter. Kids and supporters streamed onto the field at the final whistle. We didn’t stay for the celebrations. Sarah and I were exhausted after our Ennis adventure, so we skipped the second semi-final and found a pub in east Galway for dinner.

Inside, the big screens showed a World Cup qualifier between Ireland and Portugal. Most patrons were politely disengaged—until Cristiano Ronaldo won a late penalty. The collective groan when he stepped up turned to euphoria when the Irish keeper saved it spectacularly. Moments later, Portugal scored anyway. More groans. More Guinness.

In a back corner, a smaller screen was being watched far more intently by a large group of middle-aged men. It was showing the second GAA semi-final live from Pearse Stadium: Salthill-Knocknacarra 1–17 (20) defeated Corofin 1–15 (18). Two weeks later, Maigh Cuilinn would beat Salthill-Knocknacarra in the Galway County final, 1–17 (20) to 1–15 (18), in front of 7,000 fans.

Maigh Cuilinn (at the time of writing) now progresses to the Connacht Senior Club Football Championship. They will enter a knockout phase with county champions of Mayo, Leitrim, Roscommon and Sligo, plus a team from a London-based (London GAA) team—a nod to the GAA’s global diaspora. Teams from New York and other regions of the United States are somehow also woven into the finals as well. I couldn’t work out how, but trust me, they fly over and compete at county and club levels.

Back to Galway. I will be following the fortunes of Maigh Cuilinn. They will now navigate a series of knockout matches within the All-Ireland Club Championship, potentially culminating in another much bigger final at Croke Park, Dublin, in late January or early February.

In Ireland, that’s the dream: the club All-Ireland—a parish conquering the nation. In Galway, Corofin (1988, 2015, 2018, 2019, 2020) and Salthill-Knocknacarra (2006) have done it.

All-Ireland club finals attract up to 35,000 fans to Croke Park, which compares favourably with the 80,000 that attend inter-county finals.

Another club with Australian connections remains in the mix for All-Ireland glory. South of Galway, in County Kerry, the Dingle club have just won their first county title in 77 years.

Geelong AFL star, and 2022 premiership player, Mark O’Connor (Marc Ó Conchúir) returned home to play with his old school mates and family members at Dingle. O’Connor was black-carded in the Kerry final (10 minutes in the sin-bin) for an AFL-style tackle early in the match. After Dingle carried the day for the first time in 77 years, an emotional post-match interview from O’Connor spoke to how much this win, in front of a few thousand fans, meant.

With Dingle (Kerry, Munster) and Maigh Cuilinn (Galway, Connacht) coming from different provinces it is possible that they will meet in the 2025 All-Ireland Club Final.

And the GAA dream doesn’t stop at senior level. Even the smallest parish side can aim high through the Intermediate and Junior Championships—what we’d call Division 2 and 3 in Australia. Together, they form a pyramid where a farmer from Kerry or a carpenter from Clare can one day stand on the same Croke Park turf as the county’s greats.

It might just be the purest expression of what community sport can be.

 

Part 5 – A Dublin Diversion

My decision to end up in Ballycastle began, fittingly, by getting lost. After dropping Sarah at Dublin Airport, I drifted into the backstreets of Dublin with “data-roaming issues”. Looking for a signal and a decent coffee, I stumbled instead onto a schoolboy hurling match—and stayed for an hour, completely absorbed.

The community ground in Dublin was buzzing: a hurling clinic on one pitch, a Gaelic football talent camp on another, and a game in front of me featuring what looked like fifteen-year-olds—some 185-centimetre giants, others 150-centimetre whippets. I found a seat beside Aileen, an elderly woman whose eyes were glued to the play. On hearing my accent she brightened; her grandson, she said, was a key man for the home side. Between clenched hands and sharp intakes of breath, she gave me a crash course in hurling.

 

Schoolboy hurling – Dublin

 

“See them yokes? Like yer rugby posts—two tall ones and a crossbar. Over the bar’s one, in the net under the bar is a goal—three. The ball’s the sliotar. Ye can catch it for a few steps, but then ye’ve to play it—hand-pass or whack it with the hurley (the stick). No throwing; that’s a sin. Fifteen a side; fair shoulder’s grand. Clatter someone in the head and you’ll get a free.

And we play in any weather,” she added, with a look that suggested this was not negotiable. “Sure if we waited for the sun, we’d never play at all.”

It was everything I needed to follow. The game moved like quicksilver—skilled, fierce, and the players were utterly fearless. Long balls whistled on the wind, then were plucked out of the grey and green by one hand and balanced on the hurley as if by sleight of hand. Runners burst into space; forwards cut angles to shake defenders. Body contact was frequent—more frequent than Gaelic football, by the look of it—no short steps were taken. When tempers flared near the boundary line, the referee—a portly man who must have been well into his sixties—halted things to calm a parent who’d over-invested in a decision.

The noise around me felt local and serious, but warm. Parents yelped names, encouragement and instructions. Everyone wore thick jackets—every player wore a helmet—sensible, I thought, after one tall boy rose to take a 40-metre pass one-handed and an opponent’s hurley flashed within centimetres of his face. In the contested congestion—“dirty ball,” Aileen called it—hurleys threshed at ankle height; nobody flinched.

Hurling looked, at times, like it contained some of the best threads of other sports—lacrosse hands, hockey stick-work, baseball strikes, golf timing, cricket’s sweet sound off the middle—without ever being anything but itself. The weaving runs felt like rugby; the patient probing like soccer; the chains of hand-passes and leads into space like Australian football. And then there were the uniquely Irish moments: a player at top speed scooping the sliotar in a single motion without changing stride, and soloing it on the hurley for 50 metres; a point thumped from distance to sail over the bar on a curving trajectory only the wind and the player seemed to understand.

By the time the final whistle sounded, I’d made a decision: I needed to see senior hurling—or camogie—before I left Ireland.

Back in my hire car, I searched for a game the following weekend. The GAA websites are difficult to navigate. I searched for camogie and hurling and eventually found a game. And it was a final! The County Antrim Senior Hurling Championship: Naomh Eoin (St John’s) vs Na Seamróga (Loughgiel Shamrocks) at Páirc MacUílín, Ballycastle.

 

Part 6 – The Greatest Game of All

With data and Google Maps finally behaving as I left the schoolboy match, another memory surfaced: the only other hurling I’d ever seen—nearly fifty years earlier, in the mid-1970s—when I was thirteen or fourteen. Back then a group of Irishmen in Australia ran an annual National Gaelic Carnival. That carnival has been conducted annually since the early 1970s.  Our family club, Coorparoo, hosted one of the first.

Two of my teachers, Sean and Joe—both Irish—cobbled together a makeshift Queensland under-14s Gaelic football team to play New South Wales as a “junior exhibition” match. I don’t recall much beyond coming off the bench. That may well have been all I did. It was my lone “appearance in maroon”, though we probably wore borrowed green-and-gold rugby jumpers from Villanova College in Brisbane.

Sean and Joe were more than promoters of Irish games; hopeless rugby and cricket coaches but superb English teachers. Through them (and a few others) I met Yeats, Beckett, Heaney, Patrick White and Les Murray.

My father, Garnet “Garny” Bird, came along too, bemused by the whole Gaelic spectacle. He was not an avid follower of any particular winter code and his reading interests did not venture past the form guide. Dad’s interests—before those of his four children took over—were sailing eighteen-footers, shooting—feral pigs and kangaroos—fishing and punting, including a stint as an illegal Starting Price bookie.

Our family was always at Coorparoo footy club. I vaguely remember Garny enjoying those Irish games, and drinking post-match beers with Sean and Joe and other Irishmen in the clubhouse. Decades later he would recall a scene of “mad Irishmen” playing hurling, one poor bloke stumbling towards the boundary with a mangled ear after a strike from an errant hurley. Helmets must have come later.

According to Garny, the injured player said to his mate: “I t’ink I’ve lost me feckin’ ear, Paddy—can ya have a look for me, will ya?” Dad reckoned Paddy was reassured that all of his body parts were still intact. According to Dad’s story, his head was quickly bandaged so he could resume playing.

Garny was rarely effusive. He was a man of few words, who preferred to do, not talk. The line Dad always delivered—grinning—has stayed with me: “I think hurling is the greatest game of all.” Sean phoned me in tears six months after Dad died, apologising for having missed the funeral.

It’s funny what lingers—voices, phrases, a half-remembered game from decades ago. They’d all come rushing back to me on my drive to Ballycastle.

 

Part 7 – Brisbane Rugby League

Thinking of Dad took me back to where my sporting life began.

Brisbane is unusually ecumenical in winter codes. Rugby league is the city’s heartbeat, but Australian football, soccer and rugby union all have their patch. In summer, cricket once ruled; these days it feels less central than it used to.

The Brisbane Lions and Brisbane Broncos both lifted trophies in 2025, and the city celebrated them equally. Beyond the south-east, the Broncos, Cowboys and “rug-bee leeg” still rule Queensland—whatever the AFL’s more hopeful press lines might say.

My entry point to sport was radio and newspapers. In the late 1960s and early ’70s, television was still feeling its way. The Telegraph and The Courier-Mail hit the doorstep each day. The transistor was always tuned to 4BC (races) or 4BH (sport). For cricket, ABC radio and television. As for newspapers, I devoured the results pages—domestic codes, and soccer scores from England and Scotland. Irish sport never rated a mention.

Because TV coverage was thin, radio did the heavy lifting. After Mass on winter Sundays, if we weren’t at a game (of local rugby league or Australian football), we’d listen to the Brisbane Rugby League Match of the Day. You needed callers with personality. George Lovejoy—what a name—was the best of them: loud, brash, a little combustible. He bookended every call with his catchcry: “Rugby league—the greatest game of all.” It was theatre for the ears. Lovejoy and Vince Curry (on the races) were the weekend soundtrack in our house.

The phrase “Greatest Game of All” still gets an airing in Queensland—especially during State of Origin or a Broncos/Cowboys grand final run. Origin, in particular, has a way of uniting Queenslanders across class and geography that few events manage.

What has any of that to do with Ballycastle? Maybe not much—except that catchcry lingered. Dad used it, too, for hurling. And as I stood on a wet hill in north Antrim, I realised both claims can be true in their own places. The “greatest” is the game that binds a community most tightly. That was the case in Brisbane back then. It’s the case in Ballycastle now.

 

Part 8 – Golf and Other Lessons

Ballycastle itself—predominantly Catholic, perched on the island’s north-east tip—sits about 90 km from Belfast. On a clear day you can pick out the Mull of Kintyre in Scotland. Portrush, the heart of linksland golfers speak of like a sacrament, is 30 km to the west. America’s Scottie Scheffler won the British Open at Royal Portrush this year.

Earlier in my trip I took the train from Portrush to the walled city of Derry/Londonderry, the sea on my right and fairways flowing like green corduroy to my left. In Derry, the “political walking tour” through the Bogside hit hard—art, grief, pride; the weight of history. Listening to first-hand accounts of Bloody Sunday, 1972, was something I will never forget.

It felt odd, then, to be back among immaculate fairways later that day. By the time I returned to Portrush, I finally understood what Sarah (and her golf-mad partner Bruce) meant by “links”: wind, turf, craggy headlands, and courses that looked impossibly difficult to play. Golf isn’t my go, but I get the reverence—the same reverence I’d soon see expressed in mud, wind and hurleys.

 

Part 9 – The Road to Ballycastle

Although Punchestown, Templepatrick and Galway were each memorable, Ballycastle moved me in a way I couldn’t quite name. “Spiritual sporting epiphany” might be overcooking it—or maybe it was hypothermia and the residue of a Belfast pub crawl the previous evening.

Either way, Páirc MacUílín got under my skin.

Only a few weeks earlier I’d been at the MCG with 100,022 others, watching the Brisbane Lions win another flag—two of my daughters, Hannah and Caitlin, were nearby, and my mates of 45 years, Donny and Tempo, next to me. Ballycastle was the opposite of that day; solo, smaller, colder. But the feeling was just as real.

I was thinking about Dad, Sean and Joe as I drove to Ballycastle on the morning of the game. My journey took me north from Belfast along the Causeway Coastal Route, through several of the Glens of Antrim and more stunning seaside townships and villages such as Larne, Glenarm, Cushendall, and Cushendun. All of these towns boasted hurling clubs, which I was to learn in Ballycastle was not the norm. Hurling was dominant in the smaller, predominantly Catholic villages of rural Northern Ireland. The legacy of sectarianism runs deep. In some larger Unionist towns in the north—like Coleraine, just 30 minutes from Ballycastle—the GAA footprint is smaller and more contested than in the rural Catholic villages nearby.

The top division of hurling in County Antrim boasts five clubs from the middle and north of Northern Ireland (Carey Faughs, Dunloy, Loughgiel, McQuillan Ballycastle, Ruairí Óg—Cushendall) and three from in-and-around Belfast in the south (O’Donovan Rossa, St John’s and St Enda’s). Clubs like Larne, Glenarm and Cushendun compete in lower divisions—Intermediate and Junior.

In Antrim, Gaelic games are stronger in the bush than they are in the city. When I relayed my Ballycastle experience to my Belfast friend, Anne Marie, she was suitably impressed. She was amazed with news that St Johns had won a county title in 1973—at the height of The Troubles. As a young Catholic of that time she often needed to hide her identity.

After turning inland from Cushendun, the final 20 kilometres slowed to a crawl as heavy rain and fog settled in. I half-wondered if the match might be abandoned, then remembered Aileen’s maxim: if we waited for the sun, we’d never play at all. Surely there’d be some shelter somewhere. I consoled myself with thoughts of my thin spray-jacket and Brisbane Lions beanie.

Before the game, I ducked into a small, crowded pub for a pre-match Guinness. About 40 St John’s supporters had arrived by bus from West Belfast—a lively mix of men, women and kids in royal-blue and white. They sang in bursts, talked of tactics between verses, and hoped aloud for history. One fellow, balanced on a chair, punched the air and shouted, “We need tay buh-leev! C’mon Jawnnies, bring it hame!” It had been 31 years since St John’s last county-final appearance, 53 since their last title.

I wedged myself into a corner and fell into conversation with three men my age—Seán, Paddy and Mick—yes, really—again, I thought of Dad, Sean, and Joe sinking pots at Coorparoo. One of my new Irish friends wore St John’s colours, another Loughgiel Shamrocks’ red-and-white, the third Dunloy Cúchullains’ green-and-gold. Two weeks earlier, the Shamrocks had edged out the Cúchullains by a point in a semi-final; St John’s defeated Cushendall by four in the other semi. The trio advised that Dunloy (five) and Cushendall (three) had shared the Antrim title between themselves since 2016. The day carried extra meaning: two clubs long starved of titles, both hungry for success. Between my fading hearing and their Guinness-thick accents I caught every second word, but the warmth needed no translation.

They’d all played “back in the day”. One told me hurling demanded not only skill but a touch of madness. Another agreed: “Aye, ye need tae be a wee bit cracked an’ hae plenty o’ courage tae play Hurlin’. A clatter ’roun’ the calf or the ear wi’ a hurley’ll sting ye for days, so it will.”

All three preferred hurling to Gaelic football—it was, they said, “a man’s game”.

When I mentioned my affection for Australian football their faces lit up. They loved the International Rules clashes. “Aye, you lads went tae the biff,” one laughed, “an’ our boys sez, ‘haud on a minute,’ an’ gave back every bit they got!”

Our chat ended with one of them raising his pint: “Ach now, Hurlin’s the greatest game in the world—always was, an’ always will be.” His companions nodded. I wished Dad had been there. Sean and Joe too.

Outside, the rain swept down the narrow streets in gusts. Umbrellas bent backward. When I finally reached Páirc MacUílín, I briefly wondered about the sanity of driving two hours to a sporting event in another country where I knew no one and barely understood the rules. I gave myself a swift talking-to, reminding myself they were the exact reasons I was there.

Fans and cars streamed into the ground, which sat perched on an exposed hillside atop the town, next to a farm with grazing cows.

Entry was swift. It was an all-ticket affair: £15 for adults; kids were free. Many children, some as young as five, carried their hurley, while balancing and bouncing a sliotar on it as they walked. Several parents pushing prams sheltered behind a large lorry that was the vantage point for live-stream cameras and commentators. A handful of smokers joined them.

The ground was of course rectangular, but with a surface area similar to a small Australian football ground. It was open to the elements, ringed by three grassy mounds and a strip of concrete terrace. The only refuge from wind and rain was the small clubhouse—off-limits to all but players and officials. Ten degrees, 25 knots off the North Channel, my teeth already chattering.

Initially I stood on the terraced side of the crowd, among the Loughgiel faithful.

A supporter beside me muttered, “Jaysus, it’s feckin’ cauld.” I turned to him and cursed through clenched teeth: “You’re not fuckin’ wrong, mate,” as I wiped the rain from my glasses for the first time. My spray jacket and Lions beanie were not going to do the trick.

 

Loughgiel fans on the terraces 

 

Part 10 – The Warm-Up

The pitch was an emerald sponge. A few young bucks, clearly hurling-savvy, reckoned the sliotar wouldn’t run much on the heavy surface.

As both teams warmed up, I scanned the glossy 24-page program. They were playing for the aptly named Volunteer Cup. The print on the front cover was all in Gaeilge—Naomh Eoin (St John’s) versus Na Seamróga (Loughgiel Shamrocks). The welcome address from the Antrim GAA Chairman, Séamus Mac Mhaoláin (Séamus McMullan), summarised the importance of the day:

“County hurling final day is always something special—a celebration of our games, our communities and the uniqueness of our Association. Today though carries an extra sense of occasion. For St John’s this is a long-awaited return—their first hurling final appearance in 31 years. Their journey back to this stage is a credit to the club’s resilience, vision and deep-rooted belief.

Standing in their way are Loughgiel Shamrocks, one of Antrim’s most successful clubs, with a proud tradition of competing for the Volunteer Cup on county-final day.”

A review of St John’s semi-final comeback quoted an American self-help line—“Storms make people stronger, and never last forever.” Fair enough, I thought, but fifty-three years is a bloody long storm.

The program tallied the honours: Loughgiel twenty Antrim titles (first 1922, most recent 2016); St John’s seven (first 1934, last 1973). In camogie, St John’s modest; Loughgiel legendary—24 Antrim senior titles, seven Ulster crowns, and an All-Ireland final appearance.

With the soft tones of an Irish harp wafting across the ground from an inadequate public-address system, both teams went through their pre-match warm-up routines. It was all very structured and professional. There were some serious faces among the players and staff, with others nervously joking and kidding their way through the interminable countdown to start time.

 

 

St John’s pre-match with fans in the background

 

Referring to my increasingly sodden program, I checked the players’ names and numbers and cross-referenced with what I saw on the field. Most looked and moved like real athletes, as you would expect. Like the schoolboy teams in Dublin, there was a mix of the tall, the skinny, the muscular, the short, and the stocky. All looked in peak fitness, except for the St John’s goalkeeper, number one—Domhnall Nugent; a beefy beast in the mould of 1970s St Kilda fullback Kevin ‘Cowboy’ Neale.

Five minutes to start, the teams assembled for the anthem. Behind each goal a hundred or so children finally lowered air horns and vuvuzelas—some, as young as eight or nine, had already set off club-coloured flares. No one but me seemed fussed about health-and-safety.

With the children quietened, a respectful silence descended, punctuated by one or two naughty boys who kept blowing their horns. I looked around the ground as the rain continued to pour down, with the watery wind lashing the players, coaching staff and match officials. I remember thinking this could be 1925 or 1955. I doubt much has changed—save for the air horns, vuvuzelas, flares and a television camera.

After a young female voice quavered through the national anthem in Gaeilge, the crowd roared and players went to their positions. Six forwards, six backs, two midfielders and a goalkeeper.

Four goal umpires (two for each end), all dressed in longish white lab coats, jogged down to their respective goal posts. It reminded me of those theatrical goal umpires of Australian football fame from the 20th century; their long white coats shortening each decade, like women’s skirts across those years.

 

Part 11 – First Half

The game began promptly at two and was over within eighty minutes—two thirty-minute halves, a brief interval, and a few minutes added for stoppages. The start bristled with intensity and it remained so for the entire match. There wasn’t a moment when my interest—or that of the 2,500 others—waned.

All of the skills and speed I witnessed in the Dublin schoolboy game had gone up several notches. The sliotar moved from one end to the other; swiftly and with purpose. Turnovers were rare, and when they came the crowd came alive. The importance of strength and balance over the ball was something I had missed in Dublin.

With every intention to write a story about the game, I produced my small notebook to scribble some observations. My efforts here were wasted, as the ink ran with the rain and my words of wisdom disappeared in seconds.

The wind and rain were blowing directly across the ground, straight into our faces. There were about 800 from Loughgiel wearing red: not bad for a village of only 2,000. The St John’s supporters on the other side, with their backs to the wind, numbered about 1,200. That left perhaps 500 neutral onlookers, uncommitted but curious.

Steam rose from damp jackets as they cursed the weather robbing the day of a bumper crowd. Some had stayed away to watch the GAA live-stream in front of a fireplace.

Heavy body clashes and plenty of “dirty ball” marked the opening minutes. St John’s were clearly winning what an Australian football fan would call the “contested possessions”.

The Johnnies were quickly on the board and soon up 4–0, with Loughgiel forward thrusts resulting in shots that went wide, many caught in the ever-present strong breeze. It was at this stage that the electronic scoreboard went on the blink. That was alright by me, as it provided more opportunities to interact with the fans by asking them if they knew what the score was.

 

 

Loughgiel on the defensive

 

Fifteen minutes in—and the score at 6–1 in favour of the underdogs—the title favourites Loughgiel were looking decidedly shaky. One tall, older Loughgiel gentleman, standing close by, became decidedly animated, urging on Loughgiel in a booming voice that was carried away in the wind. He was offering technical information on positioning that I didn’t understand. Other supporters were coming to him with comments and questions that I couldn’t hear—with my auditory challenges, and an inadequate spray jacket and beanie pulled tight around my ears.

The tall man was yelling specific advice to the number 14, Paul Boyle, who was playing a role as a “key forward”. The other Loughgiel forward who looked dangerous was James McNaughton—as I was to learn, a county-level representative for Antrim.

Whatever the tall man was saying seemed to work: Boyle and the more-mature McNaughton sprang to life, bringing Loughgiel back into the game within minutes; a flurry of points had it 7–7, maybe 8–8.

With the scores perhaps level—I wasn’t sure—McNaughton slapped a sweet shot on target only to see “Cowboy” Nugent defy his bulk to make a miraculous diving save. Seconds later the ball was whipped to the other end and the Johnnies took a decisive lead just before half-time when Donal Carson finally forced the sliotar through a tangle of hurleys, feet and arms.

After the half-time whistle blew, I was able to confirm the score: St John’s 1–8 (11) to Loughgiel 0–8 (8).

 

Part 12 – Half-Time

Eager to learn more about what I was witnessing, I sidled up to Tall Man and asked if he would mind explaining a few things.

His name was Martin Coyle—father of Loughgiel’s captain and defender, Tiernan. Like everyone I’d met in Ireland, he was generous with his time and stories. After clarifying a few rules I’d missed from Aileen’s Dublin tutorial, I asked about one player who impressed me—Loughgiel’s number ten, Rian McMullan. He had made some decisive runs through the midfield and other deft touches to teammates in better positions. I asked Martin if he played at county level.

Martin informed me that the county team trained three times a week and played out of Belfast, more than an hour’s drive to the south. He said that many players like McMullan chose their club over their county for a variety of reasons—travel and time commitments among them. He gave me the sense that loyalty to club and community often outweighed the lure of county colours.

As both of us shivered through a ten-minute chat, the conversation shifted to what happens next, should the Shamrocks win the county final. He explained the process of progressing through the Ulster provincial series, similar to Maigh Cuilinn’s and Dingle’s potential Gaelic football path in Connacht—with the ultimate prize Croke Park and an All-Ireland final.

Then Martin modestly surprised me with an exceptional piece of club and family history. County Antrim had only ever produced two All-Ireland club hurling championships: both won by the Loughgiel Shamrocks, in 1983 and 2012. Martin played in the first; his son Tiernan was a member of the second. Some post-match Googling revealed that Tiernan’s grandfather, Johnny Coyle, had been the club’s goalkeeper through the 1950s and ’60s. The Coyles, it seemed, were hurling royalty in Antrim.

More Googling revealed that James McNaughton’s father, Seamus “Crow” McNaughton, also lined up in that 1983 side, and his grandmother, Mary McGarry, won an All-Ireland Senior camogie medal back in 1947.

Standing there in the rain, listening to Martin, I realised hurling here wasn’t just a pastime—it was a lineage, a birthright passed from each generation. That sometimes occurs in Australia—in rural Australia at least—but it seems to me that it might just be commonplace in Gaelic games.

Between shivers, Martin explained the realities of hurling’s amateur code. Paying players is strictly forbidden, even at elite level, though expenses and meals are covered. Loughgiel’s men, he said, had trained eight times in the previous fourteen days—all for pride, not for pay.

“You play for the jersey,” he said. “Not for money.”

Finally, I asked him about the song sung before the game started. It was a leading question—I knew that “God Save the King” was the official national anthem of Northern Ireland, but that was not the song the young girl had sung.

Martin gave me a sharp look. “That, Murray,” he said, “was Amhrán na bhFiann—our national anthem.” The programme printed the words in Irish. It’s sung before every major final in hurling, camogie, and Gaelic football. The English translation reads:

The Soldier’s Song

We’ll sing a song, a soldier’s song,
With cheering, rousing chorus,
As round our blazing fires we throng,
The starry heavens o’er us;
Impatient for the coming fight,
And as we wait the morning’s light,
Here in the silence of the night,
We’ll chant a soldier’s song.

Soldiers are we,

Whose lives are pledged to Ireland;
Some have come
From a land beyond the wave.
Sworn to be free,
No more our ancient sireland
Shall shelter the despot or the slave.
Tonight we man the bearna baoil—
In Erin’s cause, come woe or weal,
’Mid cannon’s roar and rifles’ peal,
We’ll chant a soldier’s song.

Stirring stuff—a reminder that in Ireland, and particularly Northern Ireland, sport and politics are often threads of the same cloth.

 

Part 13 – Breaking the Drought

Soaked through, I left Martin and the Shamrocks to join the Johnnies on the far side. The wind eased as the teams reset; my legs didn’t—I was starting to seize.

The blue-and-whites got the early second-half break: Oisín McManus drove the sliotar under the bar. St John’s by six.

The Shamrocks responded immediately: Shan McGrath found the net for Loughgiel. You could feel the momentum turn. Some of the St John’s fans were covering their faces; they couldn’t look. With what must have been about five minutes of play remaining, another Loughgiel shot at goal was brilliantly saved on the line. The fans in blue-and-white screamed their delight.

Loughgiel pressed again—several times—but McNaughton’s accuracy deserted him with two shots slewing wide, failing to trouble the goal umpires.

The thirty minutes of the second half was drawing to a close. St John’s supporters started questioning how much stoppage time would be required—they were only three points up, and anything could happen.

It had been thirty minutes of glorious chaos: sliding tackles, colliding bodies and the echo of hurleys clashing in mid-air. It had been fifty-three years of waiting for St John’s. You could feel that tension in those around me. Most of them were not born when the West Belfast club last lifted the Volunteer Cup.

There had been several substitutions and play was stopped on three or four occasions for minor injuries. The Johnnies groaned when the ground announcer declared there would be seven minutes added for stoppage time.

At that point I made the fateful decision to move in order to watch the closing minutes from a different vantage point. Perched at the top of the embankment, my stiff left leg slipped and I landed hard on my arse and tumbled down the slippery ten-metre embankment.

Sodden, muddied, and acutely aware of my sixty-two years, I was helped to my feet by a couple of the Johnnies’ lads, my embarrassment complete. I could only laugh and shake my head.

Eventually positioned behind the goals, I stood near a half-dozen clearly distraught St John’s fans who were in their thirties. One of them was watching the live-stream on his phone, counting down the minutes and seconds to his mates.

Every clearance and turnover was cheered as if it were a goal. Loughgiel continued to press in the latter stages and managed to point twice in stoppage time to reduce the deficit to the minimum. I was absorbed in the game, it was pulsating with energy. The tension reminded me of another game—West Coast versus Sydney Swans, 2005 AFL Grand Final; Leo Barry you star!

The St John’s fans near me were urging their mate to update them on the time remaining from the live-feed. When he declared that the seven minutes was up, the bloke beside me started screaming in his thick Belfast accent: “It’s time, ref—it’s fackin’ time! Blow the fackin’ whistle, ye big eejit!”

And then he did, seconds later. St John’s had won the Volunteer Cup by a solitary point.

Scorers for St John’s: Shea Shannon 0-5; Oisín McManus 1-2; Conor Johnston 0-4; Aaron Bradley 0-2; Domhnall Nugent 0-1; Conall Bohill 0-1; Donal Carson 1-0; Michael Dudley 0-1.

Scorers for Loughgiel Shamrocks: James McNaughton 0-10; Shan McGrath 1-1; Charley O’Hagan 0-2; Ruairí McCormick 0-1; Rian McMullan 0-1.

 

Part 14 – After the Whistle

The joy was overwhelming. I’ve seen plenty of grand finals; this felt different.

I stood there, drenched and grinning, happy for a team I barely knew—and for what the game had made of this place: 2,500 people stitched together by wind, rain and pride.

Kids flooded the field, chasing stray sliotars and mimicking heroes. The PA sputtered thanks to sponsors; no one listened. Umbrellas became embracing tents.

Loughgiel players lay spread-eagled, as beaten finalists do. As their supporters filed out, I thought of Martin and the post-mortems at the kitchen table. Nothing ends here: the Loughgiel camogie side had just claimed an 11th straight Antrim title and were chasing the All-Ireland again.

St John’s captain Ciarán Johnston’s speech was something else—no summary could do it justice, so here’s a clip: Ciaran Johnston post-match. The unbridled joy was something I had never witnessed before. St John’s were “the kings of Antrim”.

I changed into dry clothes and drove south-east to Enniskillen, chasing Samuel Beckett’s shadows. Somewhere on the moorland near the Glenelly Valley, I managed to get lost again on a back road. I stepped out into a cold, clean sunset. A carload of fans whistled past—the only vehicle I’d seen for a while—green-and-gold flags banged against the windows—another final, another county, another potential date with St John’s, Dingle or Maigh Cuilinn.

Next day, the papers ran with it: Belfast hurling is back. St John’s had snapped a half-century drought in a storm at Ballycastle.

Dad again: “I think hurling is the greatest game of all.” He was right. So were Seán, Paddy and Mick. Aileen and Martin too.

Hurling might be the sporting world’s best-kept secret.

Match highlights (commentary in Gaeilage): Here.

Post-match celebrations: Here.

Part 15 – Grassroots and Governance

Greg de Moore once said that what’s uniquely Australian is 60,000 years of Aboriginal culture and language, our native flora and fauna, and our native game — Australian football. That line rings true; it sharpens my sense of what I’d just seen in Ireland: a people carrying contested history yet still finding common joy in their own games.

Why are the Irish so quickly likeable, so ready with humour and hospitality, even with all that history? I don’t know — but I felt it: in pubs, on terraces, under rain.

The lesson was clear: strong, connected grassroots clubs are the essence and foundation of meaningful sport.

In Ireland, even the smallest club feels linked to the GAA; parish identity flows upward to county and country. The All-Ireland idea brings the whole island — Republic and North — together. People seem proud of the GAA — invested in its direction and purpose.

 

 

A Ballycastle match-program message from the GAA.

 

By contrast, the AFL has drifted from its base. Brand, image and “fan development” too often crowd out what happens on a Saturday in Euroa or Kununurra, or a Sunday at Coorparoo or Bunbury. With all that broadcast cash, there’s room — there should be room — to double down on the base that built the game.

Before leaving Ireland, I kept thinking about the contrasts — and the echoes — between their world and ours. The GAA still feels owned by its people: parish before province, volunteer before profit. In Australia, our great game has travelled further into commerce and spectacle, yet it still carries that same ember of belonging.

The AFL’s achievements are undeniable: a truly national competition; the rise of a semi-professional women’s league; recognition of Indigenous culture; and broadcast deals that secure the game’s future. In Queensland, community facilities once tired and weathered have slowly improved, and that matters.

But the recent exclusion of Preston — ending 143 years of tradition in the Victorian Football League — and budget cuts in Western Australia that triggered redundancies and program losses highlight a widening divide between corporate excess and community need. So too does the decline in Indigenous representation at elite level — a troubling signal for a game that once prided itself on that connection.

Community clubs and leagues around Australia battle on, mostly without fanfare. They do their best. But most are not enamoured of the AFL.

Financially, the AFL’s model has become the envy of most codes. Broadcast deals culminating in a record A$4.5 billion agreement (2025–2031) guarantee stability and expansion well into the next decade. Some of that revenue does reach the grassroots, but beyond a few upgraded facilities, I struggle to see it easing the burden on volunteers, nor connecting the country in the way the GAA does.

Amid all the professionalism and polish, one question remains — the same one the GAA seems to answer instinctively: how do you grow bigger without losing the reason you began?

The AFL’s success story is remarkable, but I genuinely fear that it has lost the balance between corporate and community; between the billion-dollar broadcast deal and the Saturday-afternoon heartbeat of community sport.

At AFL Commission level, balance feels absent. Corporate finance dominates, and I’m not sure there’s either the care or capacity to see what’s happening at the grassroots. Recent manoeuvrings over the chairperson’s replacement reek of nepotism — and of the growing influence wielded by the eighteen, soon-to-be-nineteen professional clubs. Where are the voices for Euroa, Kununurra, Coorparoo, Bunbury and Preston?

 

The term “keeper of the code” is sometimes used in media and commentary to describe the AFL commission, suggesting it is responsible for safeguarding the sport’s integrity and identity. Although the AFL itself referred to this role in the 1990s, the phrase is less common today, and I am unsure if it is formally included in the AFL’s charter documents. It should be — and it should mean something.

There are countless ways the AFL could provide both leadership and meaningful financial assistance. Some of those endless ‘fan development’ projects could begin by asking the punters in community-clubland what they actually need.

Investigations on how community clubs might control spiralling costs, including player payments could be another project. Surely the GAA could help there.

It’s not too late. A fact-finding mission to the GAA by the AFL’s game-development gurus would not go astray.

In the meantime, I will be keeping an eye on the progress to the All-Ireland finals, hoping to see Maigh Cuilinn and Naomh Eoin (St John’s) there on the big day.

And while I’m at it, I’ll add three more wishes: first, an All-Australian concept, where Coorparoo can beat Euroa at the MCG —second, state-league premiers like Sturt and Claremont to be rewarded with trips to Ireland to play All-Ireland county champions in hybrid rules—and third, the swift return of International Rules, so I can stand at Croke Park and watch Australia play Ireland, before I’m too old.

 

All photos courtesy of Murray Bird.

 

Read Murray Bird’s story about The Swine HERE

 

Read more from Murray Bird HERE

 

Murray Bird is part of Rookie Me Central. Check out the Rookie Me Central 2025 AFL Draft Guide HERE

 

 

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