Maurice was my Sunday matinee idol

In 1997 the 17-year old SEAN O’SULLIVAN was already consumed by Kerry football, but watching his first All-Ireland Final in Croke Park made him more determined than ever to emulate his heroes on that pitch

Ican remember it like it was yesterday and not almost thirty years ago. I had been bitten by the Kerry football bug at a young age, you see. Every now and then we pull out the old photographs and scrapbooks at our house and in almost every shot of me I’m decked out head to toe in the green and gold strip of the time. And before you ask, yes the socks were pulled up to the knees!

There would be a ball as well, of course, either under my arm or I would be recreating my own team pose for the camera. I was always the captain, hunched down in the front row with the ball between my legs ready to play a Munster or All-Ireland final. My parents’ back garden turned into Fitzgerald Stadium or Croke Park for as long as it took Kerry to come out on top, or until a stray kick hit our neighbours, the Shaughnessys, window and, believe me, that happened quite a bit!

But the day I was truly swept away by our wonderful game and the great Kerry men who played it was September 21, 1986. It was All-Ireland Final day and saw Kerry, all conquering champions, playing first time finalists Tyrone. My parents had gone to Dublin and my attempts at trying to sneak along for the trip had all been in vain. I had to make do with watching it on TV.

Our grandmother, my father’s mother, Julia (or Jul as she was known to everyone) was tasked with looking after us. I was a six-year old bundle of excitement and nerves. I had been looking forward to it for days and here it was. I remember the colour and the crowds. The RTE camera panned around the stadium and it seemed like Tyrone supporters had invaded the place. I recall thinking ‘I hope Mom and Dad are alright up there!’

I watched most of the first half peering out from behind the couch. Tyrone hadn’t read the script and had Kerry in serious trouble. I couldn’t take it anymore so I dived in behind the sofa hoping that things would get better if I didn’t watch for a while. At half-time I went one better. In my six-year old brain I thought that if I went outside and played the second half in my own Croke Park that Kerry would triumph and all would be okay. It seemed to do the trick. I had hardly kicked a ball in anger when Jul roared out the window that Pat Spillane had got a goal. I ran in just in time to catch the replay. Spillane flying through the air to fist home a goal at the Hill 16 end was just magical for me. I was hooked.

It would be easy to say here let’s fast forward eleven years to September 28, 1997 but that would be doing an injustice to any Kerry football fan who soldiered with our senior team during those tough times. I rarely missed a game thanks to my father, Danny, and his brother, our late uncle Patrick. There were trips up the old Cork road and over the county bounds to Pairc Ui Chaoimh only to see our Kerry team beaten time and time again by Cork.

Then when we did make the breakthrough in 1991 Down turned us over in the semi-final. 1992 was the hardest one of all. I was recently in a bar in Doonbeg and there it was on a poster up on the wall. Clare 2-10 Kerry 0-12.

Cork took over again until 1996 arrived and with a new man at the helm our team would finally make history a year later. Were those eleven years tough in terms of success? Of course they were. But those trips in cars and trains with my dad and my uncle will never leave me. Flasks of tea and sandwiches out of the boot of the car in Cork and the buzz as a young man going into stadiums around the country is something I will never forget. It sparked something inside me that I wanted a piece of the action, but on the field not off it.

The ’97 final was a fantastic experience from start to finish. I had a friend in college in Dublin at the time so my bed for the weekend was sorted. I got the train up on the Saturday, checking every so often to make sure my coveted match ticket was in my pocket. The Kerry fans were mainly in the Cusack Stand and it was a brilliant atmosphere.

I remember being anxious to get in early to see the Minor final. My mates weren’t too pushed as they wanted to mix with the supporters down in the city before making the walk up to Croke Park but I had a reason behind it. I was 17 now and had been called in for one or two Minor trials earlier that spring. I hadn’t made the cut but was hell bent on doing so the following year. Laois played Tyrone in that Minor decider of ’97 and I wanted to soak it up and learn from those guys who were out there where I wanted to be. Again it stoked the fires inside me to push on and become a Kerry minor, which I did.

The senior final I must admit was a bit of a blur. When you are young and so wrapped up in it emotions take over and it’s hard to keep calm and watch a game unfold. Looking back I always felt Kerry were the better side. They had been the best team in the country coming into the final although Mayo did put it up to them for long periods.

Going to Kerry games in the late 80s and through the 90s for me was when I found my first idol. Maurice Fitzgerald was (and still is) the reason why I wanted to play for Kerry. He was the reason I woke the house at 7 o’clock every morning kicking the ball out in the yard. He was the reason I broke so many windows. He was my hero before he did what he did in that final. On that Sunday in September he just cemented his place in history by winning his medal.

When the final whistle went we eventually got down on to the hallowed turf. I remember being one of the last supporters to leave. I didn’t want to leave. I made a decision that day. I was coming back here again but this time as a player.

I remember being one of the last supporters to leave. I didn’t want to leave. I made a decision that day. I was coming back here again but this time as a player