Late last night in Miami, the old F Scott Fitzgerald adage about no second acts gracing American lives was given a run for its money by an inconsequential game between the New York Mets and the Miami Marlins.

One of the many thankless tasks at live sporting events is held by the lonely soul singing the anthem.

Danny Doohan is too nervous to talk.

On Saturday I found myself having to explain to an American the fascination back home with Anton Ferdinand’s decision not to shake hands with John Terry and Ashley Cole before the QPR-Chelsea game.

It’s been quite the week for contrived crises over national identity.

Early on Sunday morning at Pennypack Park, about 20 minutes northeast of Philadelphia, you could still enjoy the last bits of calm before the third and final day of the North American GAA Championships really kicked into gear.

A year ago, on a hot Tuesday afternoon in Flushing Meadows, Queens, two tennis players were embarking on dramatically divergent paths after the best summer of their careers.

Since 1959, the seemingly impossible task of deciding a North American senior football champion has challenged the overseers of the GAA across the US and Canada.

We never love referees, we only loathe them and we rarely fully appreciate how much we need them.

Sports personalities in Boston always have a one-way ticket to Palookaville in their back pocket.