As rollercoasters go, Alan Brogan’s has been that emotional it wouldn’t look out of place on an episode of Fair City.
At a glance, it would be easy to assume – far too easy – that one of the most fearsome footballers of all time has it all. Every bit of it. A quick scan through his enviable CV throws up an outrageous decoration of medals and feats that most of us couldn’t even dream about.
And, do you know what? It’s even easier to forget where the capital legend started with Dublin because of where he has helped take them during a meteoric 13 years.
Throughout his time in the county camp, Brogan has seen 10 Leinster titles come back to a once starved sky blue outfit who knew no success for seven years. Eventually, that transpired to All-Ireland glory, two of them and perhaps more to follow. All-Star awards, Footballer of the Year gongs and a list of records as long as your arm have given one of the game’s finest servants the recognition his rare talent so fully deserved.
But something has been missing.
Throughout all the success, the titles, the individual accolades and all the marvellous rest, something has been gnawing at Alan Brogan. Something that perhaps runs deeper than the free-flowing exterior that washes unstoppably over the plains of Croke Park every summer. Something that he still wants. Something he needs.
Ask any child starting out with a piece of leather between their hands what their hopes and dreams of the future hold and they’ll do well to paint a picture as colourful as Alan Brogan’s national exploits with Dublin have.
Ask any man though. Ask someone who has been embedded in this way of life for a generation and they’ll admit that a county title with their club, their community, their family, is something priceless. The chance to celebrate with those you grew up with, the club that moulded you, the home which promises to provide a haven forever, when county careers come and go, that’s the biggest dream.
And yet, somehow, in all his blessings, fate has been so cruel to deny Alan Brogan his club championship.
And it’s not like he hasn’t had a sniff of it either. It’s not like St Oliver Plunkett Eoghan Ruadh haven’t been banging on the door when the nature of it is that all this might have been easier if they were nowhere near it.
It’s a phenomenal but unfortunate sight when you can go to Parnell Park on a freezing Monday night in October and see a man who has touched greatness at the very highest level all over the country reduced to sheer and utter dejection because his club have suffered an agonising defeat for a third time at that finishing line they just refuse to retreat from.
Where else in the world would you get it?
Where else could a sports star of such distinction be chained by one slave-making dream that is the AIB Club Championship?
Alan and his world-beating brother Bernard might well rule the roost of the 12 counties in Leinster, they might even hold more power over the 20 others, but when the third Sunday of September passes, when the Dublin jersey has been hung up for the year and the heart of the GAA reopens its calendar, those two superstars are no different to the rest of us. They are no different to the other 2,000-plus clubs around the island desperately, frantically, endlessly chasing the holy grail of an organisation that has community lining through its very core. They’re just dreamers, too. Human.
The country speculates about Alan Brogan’s next move, whether or not the most diverse attacker of his generation will call time on a glittering county career in a move which would probably be too soon for a talent sure to reap more rewards on the biggest stage.
Whatever his decision, whatever his thinking, it won’t change a thing. Come next October, Alan Brogan will still be that same man relentlessly hunting success in the toughest championship around. He’ll still be that same club man trying to realise the same dream as the rest of us.
And he’ll still be heartbreakingly unfulfilled until he gets what he deserves.
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