World Footy News

The following article is by Irishman Ian McCourt. "Wicklow to be exact - where they play bad GAA but in beautiful surroundings". He came to Melbourne in the hope of sunshine and gold, of which he has only found one. He was delighted to see Ireland beat the Aussies in the International Rules series.

Despite the fears of the GAA, the first match of the 2008 International Rules series went off without a hitch in Perth, with Ireland winning by the slimmest of margins. With the series being judged on aggregate scores, Australia's fight back in the final quarter and Ireland's one point lead ensured that the next game would be a closely fought affair. For the second match, the series moved to Melbourne and the International Rules road show rolled into town leaving me with two stark choices. Either swing it with the real fans. Feel the passion; hear the noise; join forces with the fan on my left; swill beer with the fan on my right; and scream in unison with indignation as the umpire gets another decision wrong. Or, get tickets that would allow me to hob-nob it with the bigwigs in the members’ section of the ground. I thought about it for a second and jumped aboard the Good Ship Prawn Sandwich.

This ticket was procured through friend of a friend of a friend who is a member of the Melbourne Cricket Ground (MCG). Being a member of a ground is not something that we have in Ireland but it is a common enough practice here in Australia. As an MCG member, you are guaranteed tickets to all the big sporting events being held there as well as being able to get passes for friends and drink in the only place in the MCG where they serve you your drink in a glass and not festival styled plastic cups. It costs AUS$500 a year and takes on average about 17 years to become a member as someone has to die for you to move up the list. Most members have their names out down from when they are a child or, as in the case of my friend of a friend of a friend, on the day they are born.

The members’ section was lavish to say the least. You are greeted by possibly the most stylish turnstiles known to man. Wide, roomy, and electronic, they are the BMW of turnstiles. A far cry from squeezing through the non-oiled ones at Lansdowne Road that you invariably get stuck in halfway through. Wood panelled walls and polished floors greet you as you saunter up the escalators - no hiking up stairs and steps for members. Various paintings of past teams and glass cabinets filled with paraphernalia from the history of the ground adorned the walls.

Feeling richer than I really am in these settings, I swaggered towards the velvet ropes and carpet that welcome you to the bar. "Sorry, would you do up your button on your shirt please? Just so we don't have keep stopping you and asking you". The doorman had stopped me. I mumbled an apology and hastily did as ordered. Swagger lost. I'd forgotten about the dress code - a neat collar and shoes. The bar, like the rest of the members’ section, was plush. It was packed with well-heeled women and well suited men. From here, there was a window running the length of the bar and a rail on which you could comfortably lean and watch the match with a spectacular view of goings on. And if you missed any of the action, don't worry. You can just watch the replay on one of the many TVs. provided. The warm, snug surroundings clashed nicely with the cool beer and despite a strong showing from the Aussies in the first quarter, Ireland are up by 15 points by half time. I could get used to this.

Then all of a sudden, without warning, the guilt kicked in. I saw the fans outside. Screaming. Shouting. Mexican waves. It looked like fun. So for the second half, I decided to leave the safe, heated environs of the bar and to sample the live game. The notoriously changeable Melbourne weather had brought a real Irish feel to the game. The wind whipped and the rain fell in fits and starts. Cold and wet. This is what it feels like to be a real fan. Into the third quarter and Australia are starting to make a bit of comeback. My Australian friends have swapped their earlier nonchalance for pure patriotism now and are screaming on their team. I endeavour to encourage with a "Come on Ireland" shout that is swapped by the Australian noise around me. I quickly realise that I am one of few Irish supporters in this section when Coulter scores and I stand aloft with arms raised only to be greeted by harsh stares from those around me. What they're saying is clear: 'When in our section, quietly support your team, or get the bloody hell out’. I retake my seat and continue my support less vocally than before.

By the fourth quarter, Ireland are scoring at will and Australia have lost their grip on the ball and the match. A young fan behind me gets restless. "Why do they call it Gaelic?" he muses with a heavy emphasis on the first syllable, before he questions the masculinity of the Irish players. Eventually, despite the Australians being professional; despite them having three exercise bikes on the touchlines; and despite home advantage; Ireland emerged victorious. With bragging rights gained, I retire to the members’ bar where warmed I watched a gleeful Irish team being presented with the trophy. Good game bit of fun. But maybe next time, maybe more prawn sandwiches than cold rain please.