I WASN'T there, but they tell me it was much the same. More muted than yesteryear, perhaps, but still the Tricolours and Union Jacks; the hymns, even on a Sunday, harping back to bygone days of gore, famine, H Blocks and men behind the wire. Ulster may have a Peace Process, but it had still to filter through to many of the massed ranks at last week's Old Firm match at Ibrox.
Yet even in New York as guest of the National Football League there was no escape. If there is a Field of Athenry in Manhattan, then it sprouts a healthy crop of shamrock-flavoured pubs, a directory of which reads like the pages of a Kilkenny phone book. Ex-pat patrons of Gallacher's, Kennedy's, Hurley's and Connelly's resisted the temptation of the New York Jets v Indianapolis Colts on TV, the battle between Sosa and McGwire for baseball's run-record, and the arrival in town of President Clinton, to seek news from Glasgow and Highbury where two other Irish favourites, Arsenal and Manchester United, were playing. The results were received with wry smiles or rueful shrugs - none of the wrath so often displayed back home.
Sport in America is vibrant, colourful, and seriously combative, but at the end of the day it is just that - sport. Across the Hudson from Manhattan in Meadowlands, New Jersey, squats the massive dome of the Giants Stadium. There on Monday night the Dallas Cowboys were visiting. The Giants and Cowboys are old adversaries, and 80,000 fans were there for the clash, but any warring takes place with earth-jarring ferocity on the vivid green Astroturf.
No picnic for the gladiators sweltering under visored helmets and cocooned in padding protective enough to deflect a heat-crazed rhino. A picnic instead for the fans in shorts and perforated shirt sleeves, sporting the gaudy colours of their favourites.
Football, American style, is day-out fun for all the family. Hours before kick-off the access roads and car parks at Meadowlands, which is also home for New York's racecourse and basketball arena, are crammed for the party they call ''tailgating'': rows and rows of pick-ups, with the rear door down to form a makeshift table for the barbecue and the ice chests. Murrayfield before a rugby match? You ain't seen nothin'. No Barbours or Bollinger, but burgers and Bud by the bucket. Kids hurl footballs back and forward; radios blare; and the sun beats down on Cowboys' and Giants' fans side by side. Not a cop in sight, but it won't catch on in Glasgow.
While our police shepherd Old Firm fans to their segregated stands, the outnumbered Cowboy supporters are dotted through the stadium in little posses, surrounded by the natives but not the hostiles. Sure, there is banter and cat-calling, and even a chorus of boos when Cowboys' wonder boy Deion Saunders prances round the pitch during the pre-match warm-up. But this was the reception for a silent-movie, black-hatted baddie, and nothing more sinister than that. When Saunders scored the first of two touchdowns with an electric burst from halfway, even the grizzliest Giant applauded. When he scored his second in the last quarter, the Giants crowd departed in droves - not happy, but not hysterical either.
For Her Majesty's Press this is the crown jewel of a trip. Americans know the value of publicity and marketing, and as the hacks are their conduit to the public, they treat them accordingly.
Every facility is laid on. An elevator whisks you to the stadium's ninth floor where the glass-walled press box peers down on the action. Staff feed reporters the vital statistics at the end of each quarter - who ran what yardage, and when. The main incidents. Explanations of referee decisions are broadcast. TV provides instant replays for those who blinked and missed it. Notebook and pen could prove redundant here, as heaps of info land in your lap-top.
Post match, and it's down to the bowels of the stadium, to locker room access and interviews with 20-stone jocks clad only in straps. Then in come the coaches, with their thoughts and theories, and while our football and theirs is a different game, the language is not: ''We started slowly, but the chances were there . . . Some of the decisions were baffling . . . It's early days . . . He's carrying a knock.'' We could be in a dressing room at home.
It is well past midnight now, dark and raining, but even after upwards of four hours in the stadium (the first ''15-minute'' quarter lasted 50 minutes) the fans want more. They mill around outside, awaiting autographs, no different here from back home. Saunders comes out to a cheer from Giants and Cowboys alike. Funnily enough, the hat he wears is white . . .
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