Heroes need no reintroduction
If sport tends to give generously, each and every sporting week balances the books by subtracting a little something from so many of the good and great.
In Croke Park, this past one relieved Conor Counihan of his sense of calm.
Round about 20 minutes into that second half, as Donegal’s grip tightened, the man you would ordinarily describe as phlegmatic buried his head in his hands, craving the peace of darkness. He did exhume it briefly, to get a better look at disaster and to receive wisdom from one of his selectors.
But neither inspiration nor consolation was divined from the message. He retreated from the light once more, lifting his hands to study the game slipping through his fingers.
It was hard to know if the widespread panic on the field had flooded the sideline or if the leak had sprung there to begin with.
The day wasn’t done deducting. There was a phone call from Spain, or wherever it came from, to confirm Pádraig Harrington could no longer be trusted. That the continent might sustain the odd collapse of its financial systems but was unlikely to survive a situation where Pádraig could be asked to stand over a tiddler in Illinois.
A verdict born of a decade-long feud or just cold assessment of two years’ work?
Then there was a teamsheet in Liverpool which confirmed Kenny Dalglish should never have been trusted at all. Not this last time round anyway. And not with the club’s newest money. Every passing day seems to bring fresh embarrassment for Kenny and last Sunday certainly ought to have, as so many of his expensive acquisitions slouched discarded on Brendan Rodgers’ bench or in the stand behind it.
The script for a mercy mission back at the club Kenny loves now reads like a misguided, financially calamitous sequel.
The week also wrote unwanted endings.
For Kim Clijsters there would be no elegant exit her graceful career — two careers really — deserved, bounced out early of her last and favourite tournament by the 18-year-old Briton, Laura Robson. At one point, as Clijsters’ famed ability to scramble looked more like the scuffling of the desperate, a cry rang out from the emptying Flushing Meadows stands: “Come on, you’re better than this.” She certainly was, once.
Andrew Strauss, too, deserved to take his leave under a less cloudy sky. However much he protests that this week’s retirement from cricket owed nothing to the treacherous antics of the scoundrel Kevin Pietersen, the timing screams otherwise. A strong, dignified leader undermined by a scut.
Another hero to many began the week in as sticky a position as any sportsman has ever been, yet emerged resilient as ever.
The donations to his foundation kept pouring in. The corporate world remained at his side. Not too many of his 84 million wristbands in circulation have been ripped off.
‘Just do it, whatever it takes’, might be the new Nike slogan.
On Wednesday, the hero to many re-emerged. A few days after he quit the fight for his good name, the man who told us once that “pain is temporary, quitting lasts forever”, who reminded us once that “giving up was never an option” felt, in light of the few days he’d endured, that he had to reintroduce himself. “My name is Lance Armstrong. I won the Tour de France seven times.”
He will probably always have to tell himself that.
It’s unlikely though, that Conor, Pádraig, Kenny, Kim or Andrew will ever have much need to recite their achievements. Nobody forgets them.
In truth, the week didn’t diminish any of them at all. It simply borrowed from their healthy balance of deeds done, dreams fulfilled and goodwill earned. They have a lot of titles between them yet none of them, as far as we know, found a shortcut, a secret passage, or a golden ticket.
And none of them will ever need any reintroduction. Least of all — as they stand before a mirror — to themselves.
