Growing up in Ireland in 2002, supporting Sunderland AFC was one of the quickest ways to stand out in a primary school playground.
In my class, there were eight football-mad boys, each proudly supporting their chosen club.
There were four Liverpool supporters, one Leeds United fan, one Tottenham supporter, one Celtic fan and me, almost certainly the only Sunderland supporter not just in the school but perhaps in the whole of South Dublin. I loved supporting Sunderland — not because it was unusual,
but because I knew no different.
One of the earliest photographs of me shows a tiny boy sitting in our living room wrapped from head to toe in Sunderland colours: shirt, hat, scarf and every other piece of red and white paraphernalia I could get my hands on.
My Sunderland story really began long before I was born.
My father had fallen in love with the club because of Charlie Hurley. Back then, following an English football club from Ireland wasn’t easy. Live television coverage was rare, so supporters relied on radio commentary, newspaper reports and the occasional magazine to keep track of their team.
Like most football loyalties, mine wasn’t really a choice — it was inherited.
Niall Quinn became my childhood hero in much the same way Hurley had been for my father. Kevin Phillips wasn’t far behind, and his autobiography, Strikingly Different, was one of the very first books I ever read.
I can’t remember exactly how I was told that my dad was taking me to my first Sunderland match against Newcastle United, but what I do remember is the excitement. Every day felt longer than the last as I counted down to the most exciting weekend of my young life.
As was tradition in our house, every school morning began in organised chaos.
RTÉ Radio 1 hummed away in the background while GMTV played on the television as Mam somehow managed to get three children ready for school. I can still remember watching the dates tick by on the screen, willing 24 February 2002 to arrive just a little faster.
The date couldn’t come quickly enough…until it did.
Looking back now, many of the finer details of the weekend have faded with time, but what remains crystal clear is the overwhelming feeling of excitement. My dad and I flew from Dublin on the Saturday morning, and I vividly remember my disappointment when I realised the plane wasn’t full of Sunderland supporters.
With the game moved to the Sunday, Saturday was spent almost entirely in the club shop, where my poor father’s credit card took an absolute hammering.
My greatest disappointment came when the assistant told me they had run out of the number ‘0’, meaning I couldn’t have ‘Phillips 10’ on the back of my new shirt. They suggested choosing another player instead, but there was never any chance of that. I stubbornly stuck to my guns and proudly walked away with PHILLIPS on the back and nothing underneath. In my mind, there simply wasn’t another option.
That weekend also gave me my first taste of what supporting Sunderland was really all about.
The hotel was full of members of the old Irish Supporters Club — years before a few of us would help revive it — as well as supporters from the Belfast branch. Despite being the youngest person there, they made me feel completely welcome, as though I’d been part of the Sunderland family for years.
Before kick off on the Sunday, members of the Belfast branch wrapped another scarf around my neck and painted my face red and white. Wearing my brand new ‘Phillips’ shirt, I finally felt like the real deal.
On the journey to the Stadium of Light, my dad tried to explain just how fierce the rivalry with Newcastle United really was.
This wasn’t an ordinary football match and tempers could flare, so I was told to stay close and not wander off. If anything, he frightened me a little too much. Walking from St Peter’s Metro towards the stadium, I remember a man accidentally kicking a pebble in my direction. In my six-year-old’s imagination, he’d obviously spotted us, realised we were Sunderland fans and was launching the first attack.
Sunderland lost 0-1, although I was convinced Shay Given had personally conspired to ruin my first match. He produced two magnificent saves from Kevin Phillips before Nikos Dabizas headed home the winner just after the hour.
We returned to Dublin empty-handed but looking back now, the result feels almost irrelevant.
That afternoon marked the beginning of something far bigger than ninety minutes of football. It was the start of a relationship with a football club that has shaped much of my life. Nearly twenty five years later, after countless crossings of the Irish Sea and many years as a season ticket holder, Sunderland remains a constant.
Like so many football clubs, Sunderland has become far more than what happens between kick off and the final whistle. In our family, it’s been a reason to spend time together, to travel together, to celebrate together and, more often than not, to suffer together.
Those shared experiences have become part of who we are, and they’re memories that I wouldn’t trade for anything.
Twenty five years later, I’m still making that journey across the Irish Sea with the same sense of excitement as the six-year-old boy who once thought a kicked pebble outside St Peter’s Metro was standard practice in the Wear-Tyne derby.
Long may that continue.
