Editor’s Note: The UL Vikings are an American football team from Limerick, Ireland. The Vikings have won three IAFL Shamrock Bowl titles – 2007, 2008 and 2009 – and the Atlantic Cup in 2010. Author Liam Ryan was a founding member of the team. His reflection provides an insight into his passion, which provided the seed that sprouted one of the league’s most storied franchises.
By Liam Ryan
2007 feels like a lifetime ago now, but I can still see it so clearly—the jerseys, the mud, and the camaraderie. We were young then, at least we thought we were, though our knees might have begged to differ. The weekend began the way most Vikings weekends did—someone sent a text about the training time at the Bowl, and we all trudged out to the field, some still half-asleep, others wide-eyed with the buzz of Saturday. Wild Bill was flying around, making full-contact tackles as usual, Bmac bleary-eyed from the night before.
Ireland was playing England in Croke Park that afternoon. The Croke Park game. The first time England would walk onto that sacred ground for rugby, with the ghosts of a dark history muttering in the stands. But that came later.
First, there was the walk-through – we had a game coming up. No pads, no pressure, just a lazy rhythm as we went over plays. Ball to the QB, quick release, crisp routes. Perfect on paper. Never quite so clean on the field. Someone floated a “cheeky pints” plan, and no one said no. Training finished early, leaving us enough time to grab a spot at The Stables before kick-off.
Then the anthems played, and it went quiet. A strange quiet for a rowdy pub. John Hayes’ tears stuck with us all. Begrudging silence for the other anthem. And then the game. O’Gara floating that kick across the field. David Wallace charging through bodies like a man possessed. Ireland had hammered England. Forty-three points to thirteen. It felt like a new day, not just for rugby, but for us, too.
That night, a few of us went out to Clonlara. Someone’s idea of cooling off before Sunday. We stripped down to our jocks and plunged into the canal, the cold biting enough to leave us gasping and laughing like eejits. The water, somehow, felt like it washed the weight of 800 years off us, we were the whipping boys no longer. We surfaced, grinning like lads who hadn’t a care in the world.
Sunday morning came with nerves. The Belfast Trojans were coming to Maguires, our home turf, and we knew they’d be scrappy. They always were. By the time we hit the field, it wasn’t about the Ireland game anymore. It wasn’t about history or rivalries. It was about now. About throwing yourself into blocks, hitting tackles like your life depended on it, running until your lungs burned and your legs turned to lead.
We won. It wasn’t pretty, but it was enough. The soreness kicked in as soon as the whistle blew, but that didn’t matter. We were alive in ways we’d never be again.
Back at Oaklawns, someone cracked open a can in the shower—warm, metallic, and perfect. We sat in mismatched chairs, talking shite about plays that worked, ones that didn’t, and the sneaky shots the Bulls had landed. The day ended at The Stables again, watching the NFL playoffs, pretending we weren’t shattered. For the brave, the night rolled into The Lodge, but I can’t remember much after that, only that it felt endless.
Looking back now, nearly twenty years on, what strikes me most is how little we cared about the future. Our lives stretched out ahead of us like a field waiting to be played on, but all that mattered was the game in front of us. We were invincible then. Or at least, we thought we were.
And even though the aches linger longer now, and the games have turned into memories, the bond remains. We’re still in touch—different lives, different cities, but the same group chat lighting up with jokes, plans, and photos from back in the day. That weekend wasn’t just a weekend; it was us.
It was pure.
More on the UL Vikings: https://www.ul.ie/news/ul-vikings-return-to-the-top-tier-of-irish-american-football-division-with-perfect-season
