Sad Siro – The 9 Worst Sporting Events I’ve Ever Attended
The future ain’t what it used to be
Yogi Berra
As Coronavirus marauds the globe, it has become widely accepted that attending sporting events will be among the last things to return to ‘normal’. This is tremendously disappointing for many of us, but we will at least be spared from the depression and boredom that attending sporting events often brings. Below are 9 times they did so for me.
9. Panathinaikos 2 – 0 Larissa – Superleague Greece
Leoforos Alexandras Stadium, Athens – 30th April 2017
The creaking home ground of Panathinaikos FC threatens to crumble at any second and is nestled in the north east of the Greek capital. Given I can’t even spell the home team’s name, I naturally sat amidst the ultras at the infamous ‘Gate 13’ end of the ground. The club’s symbol, a sprightly green shamrock, is painted across the terrace and I was roused by the apparent Irish connection which I assumed would afford me tremendous respect. It did not.
The ultras themselves were a particularly capricious bunch having spent the first half violently and incessantly chanting, unfurling myriad banners and distributing flares with such abandon that I began frantically googling ‘how to light a flare and not lose an eye’. I need not have worried – about the flares at least.
Upon summoning my phone to capture their antics I quickly attracted unwanted attention as one of their number strode my direction. He slid down his mask, stared into my eyes and shouted ‘No faces, no faces or big trouble’ with special intensity befitting their prolonged histrionics.
It just so happens that ‘big trouble’ is my least favourite type of trouble. I quickly thrust my phone into my pocket and surreptitiously slid up the terrace and away from what I learned afterwards was actually a political protest. That became obvious in the second half when most of its instigators not only paid scant attention to the game but literally sat with their backs to the action. They lit fires to keep themselves warm and spawned spontaneous internecine fisticuffs to keep the stewards busy.
I kept my distance and shivered the game away as I tried to feign interest in the lacklustre football on show. Incidentally, Panathinaikos’ shamrock is not representative of any Irish connection whatsoever having simply been borrowed from a different Greek club back in 1918. This at least absolves an Irish person of any compulsion to seek out this dilapidated and decrepit corner of Athens.
8. Australia v Pakistan (No Result) – Gillette T20 Series
Sydney Cricket Ground – 3rd November 2019
One of an Irish childhood’s many gifts is a healthy ignorance of cricket. My first time attending an actual game confirmed that ignorance to be blissful.
A sport of which I was already suspicious (how can ‘tea breaks’ be a staple of any serious sporting contest?) managed to produce a result even more staid than a draw. No result. Nada. An official waste of time. A sanctioned sortie for suckers and simpletons. Rain did as rain does and so my afternoon was reduced to a befuddled two hours of sulking and drinking beer only slightly stronger than the liquid falling from the heavens.
The day’s only saving grace was the SCG itself, a delightful blend of old and new. The austere Pavilion End is a pleasant anachronism wedged between the more imposing Don Bradman and Brewongle Stands. I would return, AccuWeather App in tow.
7. Republic of Ireland 2 – 2 Italy: 2010 World Cup Qualifier
Croke Park, Dublin, – 10th October 2009
Ireland had done it. World champions vanquished and domination inevitable. Pirlo and Zambrotta were left dumbfounded after Ireland hit the front on 87 minutes and a genuine shot at automatic world cup qualification awaited. Croke Park was enraptured in joy and bliss. Paradise was ours. Croker bounced and boomed like a giant nightclub with everyone high on life and imminent sporting glory.
However, that relentless and perfidious enemy of Irish football waited in the wings. Reality was coming. Reality always comes.
As the fat lady cleared her throat, Italy leveled. Hopes dashed. Party over. Dreams broken and battered on the pitch before us. The excitement of 82k people had been extinguished as thoroughly and completely as Harvey Weinstein’s film career. My Dad and I sat numb, shocked that we had not won. And embarrassed that we ever thought we would.
6. Leinster 10- 20 Saracens – European Champions Cup Final
St. James’ Park, Newcastle – 11th May 2019
In his 1919 lecture ‘Politics as a Vocation’, Max Weber defined a state as ‘a human community that successfully claims a monopoly on the legitimate use of physical force within a given territory’. Such a description is equally befitting of this Saracens performance. A 10-0 lead for the Irish province always had a terse life expectancy as Saracens buffeted, bludgeoned and butchered Johnny Sexton and friends up front, off the bench and ultimately on the scoreboard too
Leinster would contest the Pro 14 final in a fortnight’s time. It is a peculiar hodge-podge league comprised of Irish provinces and Welsh regions, Scottish cities and Italian strongholds with two South African franchises appending the roster for good measure. And nobody gave a shit. Everyone knew that this season would forever be defined by 80 minutes in Newcastle.
And they blew it.
5. Inter Milan 1 -2 Sassuolo – Serie A
San Siro, Milan – 14th May 2017
Inter Milan were not in a good place. They had garnered just two points from their previous 8 games and had sacked Stefano Pioli as headcoach two days before this bizarre encounter. A skim of the Nerazzuri squad confirmed to me that, beyond Mauro Icardi and Ivan Perisic, there was little to get excited about. The Inter ultras clearly agreed.
25 minutes into the game they unfurled a huge banner which declared “You don’t deserve our support, we came to say hello, now we’re off to have lunch.” True to their world, they slowly filtered away to leave behind a crowd of puzzled tourists and Sassuolo fans. The frosty atmosphere chilled my espresso as the San Siro was rendered as vibrant and upbeat as a war crimes hearing.
Disaffection is concerning for any team but the anger among the ultras was far more nefarious and wounding. The disaffected stay at home but the angry descend with their banners and chants and leave an indelible impression on anyone that witnesses.
I wouldn’t be writing about it three years later otherwise.
4. New York Mets 4 -1 Atlanta Braves, Major League Baseball
Citi Field, New York, 9th July 2014
The obscene amount of advertising festooned on US sports is bewildering but I didn’t mind it at Citi Field. It gave me something to watch.
Truly and completely, I detest baseball. I can’t name a single player, I don’t know the rules and the jerseys are tawdry rags as bereft of excitement as the game itself. An average game lasts 3 hours although 6 years later I am yet to recover from the drudgery I was subjected to at Citi Field. To this day I have nightmares about it. The ghastly pretzels. The pathetic 4th inning kiss-cam. Swing and a miss. The callous din of a half empty stadium. The fact said stadium is called ‘Citi Field’. Swing and a miss. The soggy, disgusting hot-dogs. The comically slow pace of play. The nonsensical scoring system. Swing and a miss. Aaaaand you’re out. Lucky bugger.
The beer was $9. Per bottle. Of Bud Lite. I reluctantly wrenched my credit card from my wallet only to be told to “Please wait, Sir”. The national anthem was playing and the staff are not allowed serve customers while eulogizing the “Land of the Free”. Day light robbery is no longer enough to keep corporate America happy. The process must be as elongated as possible and, of course, adorned by a tip. Mine was less than generous.
But more than all that, it’s the manufactured fun. It’s the tacit acceptance that the fans can’t create their own atmosphere and so suits from Madison Avenue had better create one. For fun just add water. Or Bud Light. Or a pathetic 7th Inning Stretch that was so demeaning I assumed it to be some form of mass candid camera prank. But it wasn’t. It was Major League baseball. And it was shite.
3. Ireland 22 -24 New Zealand – Autumn Internationals
Aviva Stadium, Dublin – 24th November 2013
I’m not prone to dramatic displays of public affection, but I made an allowance 18 minutes into this remarkable game. Ireland were 19-0 up against the All Blacks, cruising towards a Nirvana as yet bereft of men in green jerseys. And I was there for the ride.
As my heart-rate returned to double-digits I consulted Paddy Power for his thoughts. At half-time Ireland led 22-7, at home, and I was naive enough to confidently assert that there was ‘something in the air’ (perhaps LSD, a far less embarrassing way of explaining my delusion). The bookies were nonplussed. By their estimation, Ireland’s chances of leaving the Aviva with a win remained no better than 50:50. A pang of reality jolted my stomach and writhed around my body like Richie McCaw’s hands at a breakdown. Deep down, in recesses of my being to which I rarely venture, I knew they were right. Steve Hansen’s All Blacks had lost just once in their previous 27 Tests. In 108 years Ireland had never beaten them.
It took a last minute try and re-taken conversation to confirm Ireland’s defeat, but such footnotes are of no concern to winners. I remained rooted to my chair far beyond the final whistle, through the sickening post-match platitudes and comically vacuous pitch-side assertions that Ireland had done the nation proud. What is pride in a forfeited 19-0 lead? The train home that evening was a veritable morgue and green was our hue of hurt. Our pigment of pain. Our tint of trauma.
Again, Irish rugby had been turned All Black.
2. St. Patrick’s Athletic 0 – 4 Chelsea – Chelsea Pre-Season Tour
Richmond Park, Dublin – 13th July 2019
Richmond Park on a sunny afternoon is tremendous. The pitch is wedged into the intricate housing estates of Inchicore, where ample fans can watch proceedings from their bedroom window and those that stump up sit so tight to the pitch that they could commandeer a corner flag to wipe sweat from their brow.
My Dad and I were perched in the West Stand. Both Dublin born, both Chelsea fans our entire lives. I proudly donned my Chelsea jersey. Life was bliss.
A fellow Chelsea fan of Dublin extraction sat in the row ahead of us. He was barely older than 10, clad in a profusion of Chelsea paraphernalia and was obscenely well versed in the names and nationalities of the nether regions of the club’s roster. He knew what colour Timoue Bakayoko’s boots were and what car Michy Batshuayi drives. He knew what Fikayo Tomoris’ favourite Guy Ritchie film was and could declaim Mason Mount’s Starbucks order. He was infuriating but in an important way, identical to me. We were both from Dublin, both football fans but both siding with the Russian owned London club fielding globally sourced mercenaries. About 80% of the crowd was the same.
Jake Walker was up front for St. Pat’s and played into our stand in the first half. Not till the 35th minute did any of us take notice of his toil, when he was nut-megged by Chelsea’s €28m full back Davide Zappacosta and a ripple of applause coursed through the stand. Walker didn’t return for the second half. Our 10 year old friend, and most of the crowd, didn’t notice. Or care.
In his book ‘Who Stole Our Game?’, Daire Whelan laments the collapse of Irish domestic soccer, a crime with many authors. The rise of Dublin GAA in the ’70s, the formation of the Premier League in the ’90s and more recently the relentless media blitzkrieg launched primarily by Sky Sports upon an impressionable Irish youth.
However, that afternoon was the day I realised that I was part of the problem too. My Chelsea fandom felt ludicrous and nonsensical and I spent much of the 2nd half trying to cover my Chelsea jersey. The St. Pat’s squad was Irish to a man, some from just up the road, and all game they were embarrassed, flummoxed and toyed with by multi-millionaires. And, thanks in part to me, they couldn’t even rely on the partisan support of Irish football fans.
1. Kerry 1-24 – 1-07 Dublin: All Ireland Football Championship Quarter-Final
Croke Park, Dublin – 2nd August 2009
40 seconds. It’s not a lot of time. The 400m world record clocks in at 43 seconds and I routinely take far longer to open beetroot jars or tie my laces. 40 seconds is 1/105th of a Gaelic Football match but Colm Cooper needed no more than that to net the goal that put Kerry 3 points up and thrust the first and last nail into Dublin’s 2009 Championship.
To that point, Dublin’s season had been an exercise in artificially inflating expectations. A rollicking 27 point win over Westmeath several weeks previously had been clinical, brutal and joyous viewing. The Brogan brothers were flamboyant but fierce, jinking and striking with robotic precision and Jason Sherlock marshaled his comrades as they mercifully lay siege to defenders, scoreboards and the dreams of those before them. An All-Ireland felt inevitable. Their due. The Jacks had not known All Ireland Final Sunday since 1995. 2009 would be different.
Cusack Stand Upper was my perch for the day, wedged between my parents. A playlist of past pastings from Kerry had played on loop all week. My Mum still mourned their 1997 win over her native Cavan while my Dad’s grievances were myriad as a Dub with a mother from Kerry and a childhood rooted in the late 70s. 2009 would be different.
Yeats put it best. Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold. Kerry were destructive and demonic as they loosed anarchy upon the Dublin defense. The Jacks floundered and it became obvious that the second coming was not at hand. Dublin boss Pat Gilroy referred to his charges as ‘startled earwigs’ in the game’s aftermath, a pithy but accurate epithet. How could 2009 be any different?
Jim McGuinness has since asserted that a Championship loss ‘lodges itself in your soul’. He’s right, of course. It is my oldest memory on this list, but is number one for good reason.
