Battle between bond to past or fear of future

I mentioned Netflix last week but I promise I lead a real life as well, one in which I get out and talk to human beings and have White Russians in Cask (and those are nice).

I don’t exist just as an algorithm target. I know I don’t.

And I know I don’t because my online life tells me I don’t.

But, just like everyone else, I can compartmentalise. On a day to day basis I can forget the insidious tech experiment in which my individuality is monetised ruthlessly by vast corporations with no regard to my wishes, and can simultaneously see that as a price worth paying for the new season of Mindhunter, whenever that lands (October?), or the Deadwood movie promised by Ian McShane.

One unexpected benefit of giving oneself over to the technology is the slow realisation that it can offer a means of making sense of the modern world. I sincerely believe Netflix, one of those vast tech organisations mining my self-worth for all that it’s . . . worth, is not just exploiting my consciousness, but simultaneously offering a subtly veiled explanation of what is going on in sports. All the time.

One of the most popular shows on the streaming service at present is Black Mirror: Bandersnatch, in which complex choices are offered to the main character as he wonders whether the life he lives is reality after all, or if the complex rules of a fictional universe running parallel to his ‘real’ life have taken over.

Could you think of a better analogy for the average competition for office in the GAA?

For another example of applying Netflix principles to real life, try this remark: “When we really delve into the reasons for why we can’t let something go, there are only two: an attachment to the past or a fear for the future.” Reader, is this a random assertion from Tidying Up With Marie Kondo which refers to the possessions that clutter your house, or deep wisdom that many need to take into their hearts to move on from the Declan Rice debacle, an attachment now composting into fear or even anger?

It’s all here, like that du-dum sound which precedes all Netflix productions.

Why, the more I drift into the strange universe of Bojack Horseman, with its leading character bemoaning the way it was when he was on top, the more I’m reminded of the worldview expressed by quite a few rugby commentators who have recently moved from playing to punditry?

If any of them had writers as good as those on Bojack Horseman I’d probably pay more attention, though that means I can’t play the same game as I did above with Marie Kondo.

Let’s be honest, no rugby pundit is going to discuss the Italian scramble defence by saying: “Sometimes I feel like I was born with a leak, and any goodness I started with just slowly spilled out of me, and now it’s all gone.” If they did, though, I think the ratings would go through the roof.

The big recent hit on Netflix was Russian Doll, which I referred to obliquely here last week by way of a stunning soundtrack. This is a show based on the premise that unless you make changes in your way of life, you’re doomed, stuck in a never-ending cycle of despair as long as you keep doing the same things over and over. And over. I’m not even going to try to narrow the applicability of the sports lessons hidden in the tangles of Russian Doll. We’d be here all day.

A fad — or the future?

As indicated elsewhere on the page, the technology really is everywhere. The latest manifestation? Among other signs, try the app used by NBA Commissioner David Silver recently at the All-Star Technology Summit in Charlotte, North Carolina.

Silver went on stage and demonstrated what this app is capable of: He showed his phone, activated the app and proceeded to change the number and name on the back of a jersey displayed on the side of the stage, changing it from a Stephen Curry’s number (30) to Michael Jordan’s (number 23).

While hard-pressed hacks everywhere groaned at the prospect of numbers being changed mid-game (just when you associate number 14 with the green helmet, or number 12 with the white boots), everyone else is no doubt waiting to download this one and start changing their heroes’ numbers willy-nilly.

I know the ‘where will all this end’ line is now about as relevant as ‘old man shouts at clouds’, but you have been warned: The Singularity approaches at full speed.

Déise can learn from Páirc debacle

I see that Walsh Park in Waterford is now set for an upgrade.

The news filtered through at the end of last week that An Bord Pleanála had approved a €7 million upgrade to create what will be a 15,500 capacity stadium, with changes to the existing stand on Slievekeale Road; at Keane’s Road there’ll be a covered terrace, while there’ll be an uncovered terrace on the northern bank, four new dressing rooms and new office facilities on site.

Where to start?

Those in Waterford need only cast their eyes west to see what happens with building schemes, or more precisely, what can happen.

The lessons are still being absorbed from what is happening in Cork — and I use the word ‘absorbed’ deliberately so as to avoid any suggestion that anybody has learned anything.

There’s plenty of fun still ahead in terms of costs and blame and so on.

But if there’s one word worth bearing in mind in Waterford, it’s this: control. Specifically? Control of what’s happening in the county.

Those in charge of GAA affairs in Waterford need to tread carefully in the coming months if they want to retain that control. Large-scale projects aren’t just problems but, as the Chinese say, they’re also opportunities: in this case an opportunity to show you’re capable of the job you’re entrusted with. If you can’t do that, however, then you have a problem.

Baseball’s greatest home run - inside story

Cheers to the man who loaned me Hank Aaron: One For The Record, The Inside Story Of Baseball’s Greatest Home Run.

The story alone would have had me on the hook, but the author, George Plimpton, made this a no-brainer.

It’s an account of how Aaron broke Babe Ruth’s home run record in 1974, a book that’s simultaneously brief and unhurried, that style only Plimpton could manage.

It made for an enjoyable weekend.