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Timing of Hell for Leather ideal as viewers reminded why Gaelic football is GAA's code with furthest reach
Midway through the first episode of Hell for Leather,
RTÉ's
elegant five-part series on the history and nature of Gaelic football, we see a clip of a young boy at some kind of
GAA
family fun day. With his face painted like a lion, he embarks on a hectic solo run. He chips the ball over the head of the first defender and closes his eyes as he catches it on the bounce. Then tries a toe-to-hand that flies up above his head, but he keeps running, improvising as he goes, like jazz.
The camera never loses sight of the boy's enraptured face and, in the slow-motion sequence, every movement he makes with the ball is uninhibited. His relationship with the game has yet to be polluted by systems and strategies and all the paraphernalia of risk management that, until recently, threatened to destroy Gaelic football.
The clip is underlaid by interview footage from Juliet Murphy, the eight-time All-Ireland winner with
Cork
. 'With football, the skills are
bunúsach (
basic),' she says, 'but they're beautiful in motion.'
The opening episode focuses on football's roots. Bundled up with that are childhood memories and first feelings. Brian Fenton, one of the greatest players of the modern era, talks about knocking the pebble dash off the gable end of his family home in
Dublin
, in the simple act of kicking and catching. But then he talks about grown-up football trespassing on the innocence of that relationship.
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'Playing the game as a child, this is the game you love and this is all you know,' he said. 'As things got more serious – and at that elite level – you kind of lose sight of that beautiful game you played as a kid. In many ways, some of our best games were when you strip everything back and the team talk is just, 'this is the game you've played all your life. Just go out and play the game you love. Go out and play it as if you're a child again'.'
A little later in the piece, Jack McCaffrey, one of Fenton's teammates on
the Dublin six-in-a-row team
, addressed the same theme. 'A Gaelic football match is 70-plus minutes,' he said. 'For the majority of it, you're just working like a dog. And the fact of the matter is, it's not enjoyable. But getting a ball in my hand, looking up and thinking 'let's go' – that's exciting.'
The feeling that McCaffrey describes was captured by the boy with the lion painted on his face. At so many levels of the game, not just at the highest level, Gaelic football had lost contact with that feeling. It had become a fearful game of percentages and safe passing and suppressed imagination. Everybody was indentured to a plan that reduced the possibility of losing. For many teams, winning could only be considered after not losing was mastered. This philosophy had left the game in a bad state.
Football is inherently more portable than hurling and more accessible
The timing of Hell for Leather couldn't have been more opportune because this has been the most spectacular football season in living memory. The new rules have injected the games with excitement and scoreboard summersaults and an element of end-to-end sparring that had been absent for many years. The game had been kidnapped by coaching actuaries obsessed with the bottom line.
To bring football back to life, it needed to be brainwashed. In a staggeringly short space of time, the new rules seem to have accomplished that mission. If this series had been broadcast last summer, the tone of love and celebration that courses through the interviews would have felt utterly at odds with a game trapped in a cycle of self-rebuke and black introspection. The synchronicity of the tone and the timing adds something vital.
In Hell for Leather , some of Gaelic football's biggest stars talk about their first sporting love. Photograph: RTÉ
The challenge for a series such as Hell for Leather is to explore something we already know and somehow make it feel like a new acquaintance. Gaelic football covers more of Ireland than any mobile phone network. When something is under our noses, how closely do we look?
In the first episode, there is a terrific piece about the islands tournament that is played off in a blitz every summer. It comes and goes without any notice beyond the players and supporters who animate it. Just like with any sport, Gaelic football connects with people and communities in a million micro ways, but because football exists wherever Irish people are found, it bends to each habitat. Football is inherently more portable than hurling and more accessible.
Hell for Leather is conscious of an audience that might only watch a handful of big games on telly every summer, but the passages about the origins of the game will be fascinating even to fanatics. The game had ancestors in rural Ireland, but no codified rules. One of the GAA's first big jobs was to make them up.
'As for the tackle,' says the historian Mark Duncan, 'you couldn't headbutt.' It seemed like no other holds were barred.
The first match under the GAA's rules was played in Kilkenny and ended scoreless. Don't forget that Kilkenny won two Leinster football titles in the first 25 years of the GAA and contested four other Leinster finals. They don't talk about it much.
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Hell for Leather is made by Crossing The Line, the same production house that delivered The Game, the acclaimed series on hurling. In every sense, it has the same texture: it is glossy and cinematic and earthy and soulful.
In an exhaustive trawl, more than 80 interviews were conducted over five years. The filmmaker, Gerry Nelson, spent up to three hours with many of the subjects, and you can tell from the short, sharp snippets that appear on screen that Nelson kept digging beyond surface thoughts.
'When you think about football, life comes with it,' says Shane Walsh, the Galway footballer. Had he ever said that out loud before?
This is an important portrait of a precious strand of Irish life. Just when football discovered the joy in life again.
Hell for Leather, RTÉ One, Monday, 9.35pm
