In the dark days of the early 1980s, Croke Park was a different kind of stadium. The sleek modern edifice people know today was but a twinkle in Paddy Buggy's eye. It pains me to say it but the place was more pigsty than Hawkeye. Candidly, it was a kip.
As an Artane Boys' Band trumpeter I visited this national treasure on many a Sunday. We lads - there were no girls in the band back then - would be corralled on the Hogan Stand near the Canal End during the minor games. The ground was only starting to fill up so we always got seats. In this waiting period we were proffered sandwiches of rubber ham on damp white bread, and a bitter apple.
Chatting and paying scant attention to the GAA goings-on, we waited to take the field. A smoke was out of the question, as you would definitely get caught. When our moment came to shine, we would assemble with the drum major beneath the stand and march out onto the sacred turf to lead the teams, play some county tunes, and top off the performance with Amhrán na bhFiann.
Now as any trumpeter knows, if you don't have a mouthpiece you can't play. It would be akin to a fiddler without a bow, or, indeed, a hurler without a sliotar.
I remember it was a big game, a final or a semi-final. As we emerged from the tunnel, the RTÉ cameras swung on their pivots to film the band. My nerves got the better of me. Raising my instrument to my lips I fumbled the procedure and my trumpet's mouthpiece fell to the ground, rolling away beneath the marching feet of my band mates. Maybe it was nervousness at seeing the cameras that caused me to fumble, not wanting to end up on The Sunday Game (then in its infancy) like some hapless extra in a soap opera tripping over the props. Maybe it was just the sheer clumsiness of the gangly youth I was back then. Either way I would not be blowing any tunes on the Croke Park pitch that afternoon.
There was no question of halting and retrieving the mouthpiece. The march to the field was inexorable. The sons of Ulster heading for the Somme had nothing on us, and besides, in the immortal words of Freddie Mercury, the show must go on.
I can't remember the tunes I was forced to "mime". Maybe The Rose of Mooncoin or The Kerry Dances, perhaps dear old Molly Malone got an airing, but the minutes felt like hours and my time on the pitch was excruciating. We did a couple of laps as my cheeks turned redder by the minute. Self-conscious, like most teenagers, I was sure some camera would zoom in on my awkward state and I would be rendered a laughing stock for doing air trumpet. It felt more like despair trumpet.
Of course, the truth of the matter is that probably nobody noticed my predicament at all. I've always been mildly egocentric. Still, I never felt so relieved to hear the closing strains of the national anthem. Joe Lynch, our sometimes stern musical director, approached as we marched off the field and, saying nothing, simply handed me back the mouthpiece. He had obviously seen what had happened and pocketed the offending article for safekeeping. To my relief, I escaped any sort of reprimand. I guess he understood that accidents can happen, especially on the biggest day in the GAA calendar.
©
Brian Ahern 2015
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