Highbrow Lions don’t deserve a man like Drico
It’s been interesting to see some of the criticism that’s descended on O’Driscoll’s head as a consequence – that he should have kept that to himself, the damage he’s done to the Lions, all of that.
Some of that criticism has muddied the waters a little by referring to the hysteria in this part of the world when news broke that O’Driscoll would be in shirt and tie rather than shorts and boots for the game, and there’s no doubt it was excessive, if by ‘excessive’ you mean ‘toe-curlingly embarrassing’.
But that’s an exercise in moving the goalposts. You can divorce O’Driscoll’s personal reaction, months later, from the contemporaneous nonsense.
If you do you’ll see a fine exercise in latter-day nonsense. For over a decade O’Driscoll’s competitiveness has been hymned all over the world, yet as soon as the man is honest enough to express it he’s criticised?
Where’s the consistency there? As for supposed damage to the Lions brand, that seems a little rich given that O’Driscoll, above almost any other player, has kept that jersey relevant over the last 10 years.
Since when did a Lions jersey become some kind of revered relic that was above discussion, or the selection process evolve into the deliberations of the College of Cardinals – proof against any criticism?
Widening the lessons out, there’s a wearying familiarity to the old circular argument here, the one wherein people roll their eyes at the bromides and clichés that managers and players – across all sports – use to insult the intelligence of listeners. Then, when someone says something that isn’t so much half-interesting as wholly expected and not remotely surprising, there’s a pro forma reaction (I almost said backlash but caught myself in time).
Clearly if Brian O’Driscoll didn’t put such a high value on playing for the Lions he wouldn’t be as annoyed not to figure for the team.
Yet somehow it’s surprising to people that a) he’s annoyed and b) he should say so?
Sticking with the oval ball, we said an old-fashioned goodbye to an old-fashioned rugby man last Friday.
The late Tony Loughry reposed at his home off the Model Farm Road that evening, but the following day he lay at rest in Highfield RFC for a few hours: fittingly, because he was a Highfield man to his fingertips.
Long before following Munster to the south of France became a leisure pursuit for the cubs of the Celtic Tiger, there was a ferocious inter-club rivalry within the province; if it doesn’t burn with the same wattage now, then that’s a loss, but for Tony and his cohorts, the club was everything. At his house on Friday evening there was a superb photograph circulating – black and white, from 1968, a Cork Con player in possession and about to receive the close attentions of several Highfield players.
I remember meeting him at a family function a few years ago and he was visibly distracted: over the course of the afternoon his mobile-checking went from discreet and disguised to passionate and emotive: Highfield were in the throes of a relegation play-off, and, in the days before Twitter, erratically timed texts, some running out of sequence, were putting him through the wringer ahead of the final score.
His family – Marie, Rebecca and Anthony – will miss him terribly. So will many others.
Did you have a favourite moment yesterday? Maybe it was Domhnall O’Donovan’s late, late point to equalise. Davy Fitzgerald, his manager, broke up the press corps after the game when he told everyone that the usual encouragement to O’Donovan during shooting practice is to just drop it into the square; there’s a Greek inevitability to such a player getting the chance to level an All-Ireland final.
Maybe it was one of the Cork goals. Anthony Nash’s goal helped to reel Clare in, and Patrick Cronin’s was almost the launchpad for ultimate success, but Conor Lehane’s goal was the one you dreamed about as a little boy, be honest: getting the ball and heading off on a long, long, solo run, bearing down on goal as opponents vectored in from odd angles on your location, before putting the ball in the corner.
Everyone dreams of that. Only a few get to live it.
Maybe it was one of the high fetches we saw the Clare half-back line get up to; a few decades ago it was heresy to put your hand up for the ball, and getting your knuckles rearranged was usually seen as just desserts for your temerity. There’s still a visceral thrill to seeing someone go all-out for the ball and coming down with it; Brendan Bugler produced a couple of nice ones yesterday.
Maybe it was one of the other, less visible skills: Conor O’Sullivan got in an immaculate flick at one stage on Conor McGrath, slapping the bas of his hurley across the sliotar the split-second it left the Clare man’s hand. It’s not all about the towering points and elegant solo-running. The defensive arts aren’t all dark.
Maybe it was the rush of blood in your chest cavity when Patrick Horgan snapped over that point towards the end, when you thought Cork were actually going to win.
Maybe it was the flood of pleasure in your receptors when you realised Clare had actually rescued the draw after all; sometimes it takes a few seconds for the actuality to register.
Maybe it’s the prospect that you’ll see it all over again in a couple of weeks. Can you have a highlight which doesn’t actually exist yet? Go on, we’ll give you an exemption and you can start counting down the days.
Dublin, Saturday night. A taxi ride from the city centre out to the hotel. God knows the opinions of taxi-drivers are the stuff of a desperate columnist, but bear with me.
The gentleman who drove the cab I was in over the weekend was from the sub-continent, though whether India or Pakistan I don’t know.
“Are you up for the game?”
I am, I said.
The driver went on to explain he had worked for some years in Croke Park – specifically, as a dressing-room attendant where, in all his time, very few players had spoken to him. He wasn’t complaining about that – cricket was his sporting interest, he said, and he appreciated that before or after a big game the last thing a sportsman wanted was to make small talk with the people working in the stadium.
But one of the Cork lads always did, he said.
“Seán Óg Ó hAilpín, he always had a word with me. He has nice manners,” said the taxi driver. “So I’ll be cheering for Cork tomorrow.”
Pause.
“But if you’re from Clare, it’s nothing personal.”
Absolutely not.
