As the Summer begins . . . Things you love ‘bout the GAA.

The way Michael O’Muircheartaigh pronounces Colm O’Rourke.

The noise in Croke Park when the teams come out.

The few pints in Quinn’s before the game.

The anticipation filled days coming up to a big game.

Banter between supporters.

The stories about players from a bygone age.

Every player, no matter how good, always has a younger brother that would have been better but for the booze/women/emigration/job/incarceration etc (delete as appropriate).

On any one summer Sunday more people would attend club and county fixtures across the country than would attend soccer and rugby combined all year long.

Old blokes with transistor radios who are always more interested in the radio telling you about u-21 hurling down in Limerick than the game they’re watching in Croker.

Ringing up people you haven’t spoken to in twelve months telling them to keep you in mind for a ticket, then getting a complete shock when they come up with the goods. Then telling everyone that asks you for a ticket to feck off – do you not know how hard it is to get tickets.

The crack in the pub after a big win.

The OOOOOOOO of the crowd when there is a bone crunching shoulder.

Those days when you’re playing out of your skin and you can do no wrong, you just know before the keeper kicks the ball out, you’re going to catch it clean.

Championship football on a warm summers evening, the hard sod, quick ball and the roar of the crowd.

Pints in the town after winning a club championship match.

John 3:16.

Beaches in July when all the fathers are inside their cars listening to the news from Clones or Thurles.

Interviews with the players and you hear the real accents of the places they come from.

Bringing the cup around to schools in the months after the All-Ireland.

Pubs with All-Star posters on the wall.

Johno’s car or van filled to the roof with under 12’s on the way to a match. Then, on the way home he stops at a shop and buys them all ice-cream, all from his own pocket.

The one line comment from some wit in the crowd that gets both sets of supporters laughing the cheering.

The last bars of Amhran Na bhFiann lost in the mighty roar.

Cars parked in every gap in the hedge and every farm yard at local championship matches.

Not caring about the splatters of cowshite caked on the ankle of your trousers because of the day that’s in it.

Young wans playing their own championship behind the goals at the county final.

“Anyone buying or selling a ticket?”

The anticipation of the first club challenge match of the year.

Wee Mickey on the school team being the first player from the club to get a provincial medal – boys but he’s going to be some footballer.

The same wee Mickey getting caught by his Da taking a pint after he scores 1-6 on his championship debut at 15 – bought for him by the club captain – who’s Da caught him in a similar situation 15 years earlier.

You shake hands with the guy you’re marking before the match, then proceed to kick seven sorts of s**t out of him and abuse his mother for 60 minutes, and shake hands with him again after.

Being lifted over the turnstiles by your Da when you were a kid.

Having something to talk to your Da about.

Gives you a sense of identity, where you come from, something you will have till the day you die.

When you’re a young lad after coming home from Croker, you, cousins and neighbours play out match again until The Sunday Game (your Mick Lyons and your cousin’s Colm O’Rourke).

The pure heart and love for the game that makes a lad want to die going for the ball as opposed to the pros in soccer that show no emotion.

The local newspaper supplements in the week of a big match.

Straw hats (why are they confined almost exclusively to Galway and Mayo supporters?)

The combination of professionalism and naivete – Larry Tompkins, one of the best prepared and most professional footballers ever, missed a Munster final because he got sun burned on his feet! The most professional sports organization in the country runs one of the few truly amateur sports left – and sends out Danny Lynch to deal with the world’s media!

The consolation that no matter how bad things go . . . there’s always next year.

Saying that DJ wasn’t really that good . . . just that he was given too much space!!!!

Wearing your county jersey because you love it, not because it is a fashion item.

Hearing people in the crowd going on about will so-and-so start? I heard he’s on the beer, I heard he crashed the car during the week, I heard he’s too busy chasing skirt to be bothered his arse training etc. Giving out about him for the whole game and then he ends up being the hero by scoring the last minute winner and they turn around and say I knew he’d do it, what did I tell ye?

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