Saturday, September 19, 2009
AND so the last Sunday in September is almost upon us and there’s just a nerve-tingling 24 hours to go to one of the biggest events in the sporting calendar, as two ancient rivals and neighbours prepare to renew battle in the presence of a massive crowd and with millions more tuning in on television all over the world.
Yes, it’s Manchester United versus Manchester City, folks, and you hardly need me to tell you that they don’t come much bigger than this.
Had you going there for a minute, eh? Of course, don’t be silly, I’m fully aware that the Manchester derby isn’t the only round ball blockbuster taking place on the morrow. For, no sooner will the reds and blues have settled their differences at Old Trafford than the armchair enthusiast can, with a simple press of a button, turn his attention to that other much-anticipated meeting of neighbours, as London rivals Chelsea and Spurs go head to head at the Bridge. After that, there’s a chance to broaden your sporting horizons by checking out Real Madrid v Xerez live from the Bernabeu, followed by another quick change of scene to see how Valencia handle the visit of Sporting Gijon to the Mestalla. That should take us up to around 10pm and a little bit of breathing space before we settle back down again to wrap up all the weekend’s action in the always personable company of MOTD2. As Uncle Lou once put it, oh, it’s just a perfect day...
Not that I’m forgetting Cork versus Kerry in the All-Ireland final, although that would be easy enough to do, given that, in a shockingly self-defeating piece of scheduling by the GAA, it directly clashes with the London derby. I mean, what were they thinking of? Still, the occasion will not be entirely without significance since, if nothing else, this small domestic dispute, this barney across the back garden hedge, this local sporting fixture which would decide the world champions if the world consisted of four million people — well, at the very least, it will act as a useful kind of stadium warmer-upper for the really big one to come at Croker next month, when Ireland take on Italy.
Ah, many a true word spoken in jest, and all that, although I doubt that the poor old man, were he still with us, would see the funny side of it.
Sometimes, I think he must have wondered if I’d been stolen and returned, like those mad people who claim to have been abducted by aliens. There he was, a proud Clare man, steeped in hurling, Gaelic football and the horses, and with about as much time for soccer as he had for aromatherapy, and then one not so fine day, he turned around and discovered that his eight-year-old only son and heir had unilaterally abandoned his miniature hurley and was now wholly absorbed in Shoot, desperate to have his hair as long as Mick Leech and, on the last occasion he accompanied the Da to a match in Croker, the source of much parental mortification when he reacted to a ball being deflected over the end line with a piercing cry of "corner".
In fact, all that had happened is that the family had moved out to a new housing estate in Tallaght where I quickly fell in with a gang who worshipped George Best, not Mick O’Connell (After all, how are you supposed to score a point on the street?). Then, in quick succession, came the Holy Trinity of Manchester United following Celtic to the European summit, Shamrock Rovers completing their historic six in a row and, the crowning glory of glories, the footballers of Brazil casting a spell over the entire world in Mexico in 1970. After that, there was no returning to the native code.
That wise man Con Houlihan once observed that he had no problem with people who didn’t ‘get’ sport — what he objected to were people who like to boast about the fact.
It’s a good point and one which needs to be addressed by those whose antipathy to any sport is rooted in snobbery, prejudice and ignorance. While no expert — but then we’re not talking rocket science, are we? — I like to think that I get Gaelic football pretty well. And no doubt a close-fought game can be intensely dramatic. But then so can a close-fought game of bloody darts. Or, though I can’t be sure, lacrosse. The problem I have with the Gaelic is that what I get from it is something much less aesthetically pleasing than the mix of entertainment, drama and artistry served up by a good game of soccer. In truth, I even prefer bad games of soccer on the grounds that the sport always permits the possibility of at least one moment of transcendent individual skill. Which is not to say that there aren’t obvious skills in the gah, just that they don’t come even close to the exquisite refinement and audacious imagination of the finest of those which are routinely exhibited in what has come to be called, with good reason, the beautiful game.
SOME of the things which I love about football — a diving header, a bicycle kick, a velvet first touch, a laser-guided through ball, a mesmerising dribble, a free-kick posted in the top corner like a stamp — involve sensational skills which, almost by definition, are entirely absent from a game where the use of hands is permitted and the option of scoring by kicking a ball miles up into the air effectively minimises the much more difficult challenge of trying to win a game by putting the ball under the bar and between the posts.
In short, I never quite worked out why there was a need for compromise rules, since Gaelic, as a contrived amalgam of rugby and soccer, is demonstrably a compromise game to begin with.
All of which is by way of explaining why it’ll be Chelsea versus Spurs rather than Cork versus Kerry for me tomorrow. Although if Ireland’s first-half display in Cyprus was anything to go by, I’ll only have to wait until we play Italy at Croker for my next helping of high, dropping balls.
Up Kerry, by the way.
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