Croke Park: England return to scene of massacre

This time in Croke Park, according to the joke doing the rounds in Dublin, the English won't have the advantage of having rifles and armoured cars when they take on the Irish at rugby next Saturday.

It used to be that such quips would have a raw, jagged edge to them, giving vent to ancient Irish antagonisms against the English. But in today's Ireland such quips tend to be received with a smile: for while Croke Park's turbulent history remains well known, it no longer generates the anger it once did.

Saturday's match will nonetheless be a moment of huge significance that will spark deep emotions. Its importance will be not just sporting but also of profound cultural and social relevance, saying to the world that the Irish Republic - in existence for less than a century - is exhibiting a new maturity.

The last century of Irish history is irrevocably bound up with the story of Croke Park. For many, it will be a moment for reflection when the anthem "God Save the Queen" is sung, and when the Union flag flutters over this traditional citadel of Irishness. Croker, as it is known, this month hosted its first rugby game, when the French beat the Irish in the last moments. But the appearance of England will have more profound historical resonances.

Croke Park came into being early last century as part of a Gaelic movement that promoted Irish sport, culture and language, emphasising separation from Britain, disapproving of most things British.

In 1916, the push for independence moved from the cultural arena to armed rebellion, a rising in which small groups seized key buildings in the centre of Dublin. It did not last long, not least because British artillery quickly pounded rebel strongholds to rubble, especially in Dublin's main thoroughfare, today's O'Connell Street.

The rising commanded little widespread support, but in its aftermath the authorities made what was seen as a disastrous over-reaction, executing 15 rebel leaders by firing squad. The wave of anger and sympathy led to a marked shift of Irish public opinion towards the rebels. Some of the rubble was used to help build Croke Park, one section of which is to this day known as Hill 16, a reference to the year 1916. The stadium was recently rebuilt as one of the finest in Europe, but it still retains as part of its physical fabric some of the material from that time.

It was thus part of the Irish campaign for independence. But four years later other events gave it a permanent, if unwanted, place in Irish history.

In 1920, Michael Collins, one of the leaders of the Irish guerrilla campaign, sent assassins to strike British intelligence agents in Dublin. More than a dozen died in ruthless early-morning raids on their homes.

The British forces involved in the campaign, most notably the so-called Black and Tans, were notorious for swift retaliation.

Crown forces went to Croke Park, where Dublin were playing Tipperary, opened fire on the crowd and killed 14. One was Tipperary captain Michael Hogan, whose name lives on in Croke Park's Hogan stand. The incident was a political and public relations disaster for the British.

It was a violent and ruthless period, with insurrectionists first fighting the British, then each other. But in the past two decades the tendency to dwell on past injustices has strikingly lessened. So when Dublin's Lansdowne Road ground grew too rickety to stage rugby and soccer internationals, the Gaelic Athletic Association agreed to open Croke Park to rival sports.

What has really changed is the dramatic drop in antagonism towards England. On the field, Ireland will of course want to inflict defeat on the English, but of a purely sporting character. None of the past has been forgotten in Dublin, for Irish memories are as long as ever. But there is a new sense that even a deeply troubled history need not be divisive.

Oh, yes: the other quip in Dublin is that the most appropriate Irish margin of victory would be 19-16.