First Sunday in September

First Sunday in September

By Alan O'Dwyer

The first Sunday in September,
Always an occasion to remember,
Up at dawn to start the day,
Packing the ham sambos, the flashks of tae,
Someday we’re bound to go all the way,
Sure why not this year, the way that we play…

Headin’ down to early mass,
Outside men talk about “waiting in long grass”,
But then again, isn’t their half-back line pure class,
Praying to God; please a win for our men,
Promising you’ll never ask him for anything again…

Back home, a fry thrown up on the table,
You’re told to eat up but you’re not able,
to put another mouthful into your belly,
your stomach in knots , your legs are like jelly,
Mam says even she’ll watch it on the telly...

Up to the big smoke on the train,
The carriage so noisy it hurts your brain,
Did you just hear what your man was sayin’?
Great to get away from the ball & chain,
Staring out at the ever-changing terrain , nose pressed up against the window pane...

Suddenly thrust into a world of consternation,
It’s as if the whole nation just poured into Heuston station,
Somebody somewhere shouts “Hats, flags and headbands”,
You look up at your father, tighten your grip on his hand,
Tickets seem to be in great demand; “Would you do a swap for two in the Hogan stand?”
You struggle to understand this chaotic wonderland…

Overworked barmen covered in sweat,
Pour pint after pint – they all look bet,
More cash behind the till than the national debt,
Familiar faces on the TV set say their full-forward is a massive threat,
You’d struggle to find a hurler that is finer,
But our full-back is built like a freight liner,
We should probably head in and catch the second half of the minor…

Stooped old men with oily white hair,
Speak of hurlers you never heard of but you don’t care,
Because your county is finally there!
You catch a glimpse of Croker as you round Mountjoy Square,
Today at last, some silverware,
You look to the heavens & mutter one last prayer…

Ticket in hand, worth more than any legal tender,
You see Jones’ Road in all of its splendour,
Then you pause to remember,
That this year your county is a genuine contender,
And today is never a day for surrender,
Sure isn’t it the first Sunday in September


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