Colin Sheridan: Appreciate our resilient college kids, the promise of a better tomorrow

A generation who have come through a lot deserve our respect.

Michael Murphy gives a hand getting the pitch ready  ahead of the Electric Ireland Higher Education Sigerson Cup game between ATU Donegal and DCU Dochas Eireann this week. INPHO/Evan Logan

There is no rain in the world as wet as the Galway variant. This is not a fact proven by science, but by testimony, from every student that has ever laced a pair of Converse and walked the Quincentennial bridge. From every tourist from deepest Wisconsin who has alighted a bus at Jury’s, innocently ignorant to the elements, hopeful for a dry look at Nora Barnacle's cottage. From every Spanish interloper who came to the west, greener than a Leitir Mealláin field, but left cynical, and very, very wet, longing for the heat of San Sebastian.

When it rains this hard in Galway, it is as if God himself has turned the Atlantic ocean upside down, and emptied it upon the city in an act of biblical retaliation for some bohemian, pagan act. And the wind! It’s been said that the tunnel at the Higgs boson collider was inspired by the experiences of Peter Higgs, the scientist who designed it, who spent a semester in Galway, where he lived above a Vodafone shop, working nights at Javas to keep himself in pairs of dry Converse.

It was one of those days in Galway last Wednesday. And Tuesday. And Monday. And every day since, but on Wednesday, the University of Galway were scheduled to begin their defence of the Sigerson Cup, a title they won in similarly apocalyptic conditions last February. That morning, I swear it was still pitch black dark at 8.26am. It was truly wild. The definitive “no unnecessary journeys” kinda day.

Amazingly, the game went ahead. Even then, it was less the game, but the short journey to it and all it evoked that warmed the heart. From carpark to playing pitch, each corner turned revealed something of the resilience of youth we far too quickly choose to ignore or dismiss.

Two years ago, I wrote about the curse of COVID-19, and how it silenced a city, robbing a place synonymous with the endless potential of youth, of the promise of a better tomorrow. Typically, quoting yourself is an indicator of early descent into crippling narcissism, but revisiting it now proved what a profound counterpoint to that horrible time a night like Wednesday in Dangan truly was. 

“The River Corrib is empty,” I wrote then, “No college crews rowing to the din of a cranky cox… The playing pitches that stretch from the Claddagh to Mutton Island, normally populated by living creatures of every age, from the unsteady toddler trying to pick up puddles, to the pensioner working on his wedge play, lie idle. Dangan, too, sits silent; the clack of hockey ball on stick sadly absent. No Collingwood. No Sigerson. No Fitzgibbon. No City Harriers running fartlek on the floodlight track.” 

Almost two years to the day after, the hockey field in Dangan was full. The running track packed with students doing high knees over wind-bent hurdles. The floodlit playing pitches torn up by rugby teams going through line out drills, the Collingwood boys rehearsing set-piece routines.

Previous generations have had wars to torture them, but also to fall back on, to reminisce about and, perhaps from time to time, use to excuse some failings. COVID was this generation's own private war. Short, but brutal. Sure, this generation of college kids did not have to bury their buddies. They weren’t cripppled or maimed by COVID, but don’t tell me they didn’t suffer for their solitude. They say - those who’ve been there - that there is a certain peace in war. Likely born from the often interminable silence, but it also comes from the uncomplicated camaraderie of others. Of having somebody beside you who’s going through the exact same thing. The college kids didn’t even have that. Silence, yes, but nobody to share it with.

We should ignore them at our peril. The future teachers of our kids. Tomorrow's doctors and nurses and engineers and scientists, the very people we hope will invent cures for nefarious diseases. We are quick to castigate, but they are our greatest resource, and on Wednesday's evidence, they are much tougher than you think.

In the end, Dangan was less a tempest, more a goddamn rainbow. An oasis of energy. An impromptu, unified act of giddy rebellion. I know, too, that what was true in Galway was likely true in the Dub, the Mardyke, Bellfield and playing fields across our saturated country.

Whether we choose to believe it or not, we live by others. College kids are the promise of a better tomorrow. We should never forget what they endured, and how they’ve responded. Let’s not take them for granted.

To sack or not to sack, that is the question 

Diary of an embattled manager; entry 751. Sport is a cruel mistress for fans, especially for those charged with curating the fortunes of a team. The smell of victory lingers in the nostrils just long enough to give the facade of security, but each loss carries the whiff of pungent Nitroglycerin, the scent that usually follows the firing of an assassin's bullet. 

To sack or not to sack is a quandary laden with a multitude of intricate elements, from the crude (financial) to the philosophical (culture and continuity). The higher the stakes, usually, the swifter the guillotine. Every rule has an exception, however, and Everton’s Frank Lampard will be viewed by many of his peers as a man currently living a very charmed life. 

Saturday’s loss to bottom-of-the-table Southampton the latest evidence in a curious case of a club board bizarrely willing to keep faith in their manager despite compelling evidence. Over the road in Leeds, Jesse Marsch will be hiding in the jacks at Elland Road rather than face his employers, but if he has to, he may point at Lampard and Everton as an example of patience being the new trend. 

By any other standard, Marsch, who has a PhD in waffle, will do well to reach the mid-term break. After an admirable honeymoon period, the American Marsch has evolved into Ted Lasso’s evil twin, initially adopting all the wholesome elements of the TV “coach” persona, before betraying it with hubristic bombast and a performative management style that has lately walked the Leeds faithful to the edge of a cliff.

Friday's loss to fellow strugglers Aston Villa may be the tipping point. Good for him that he just joined LinkedIn, as it should help him find his next job.

Freedom under threat 

End of year honours lists usually mean good things for people; not so NBA centre Enes Kanter Freedom, who last week told the New York Post that the Turkish government is offering $500,000 for information leading to his capture after naming him on their most-wanted terrorists list for 2023. 

The former Boston Celtic, who was raised in Turkey, has been an outspoken critic of Turkish president Recep Tayyip Erdoğan whom he called the "Hitler of our century" in 2017. As a result of repeated threats to his safety, he became a US citizen. Currently a free-agent, Freedom remains a relentless advocate for human rights.

Plane wrong from Odell

The next time you complain about being stuck beside a baby on a plane, remember it can't be any worse than having NFL wide-receiver Odell Beckham Jr. for company. 

Last week, Police released bodycam footage of an incident on an American Airlines flight which resulted in it being de-planed, all because OBJ - who was initially passed out and unresponsive - refused to fasten his seatbelt. As the passengers were escorted off, the unrepentant Beckham reassured them "You gon' wait 40 minutes and I'm going to be on a private plane home”. 

Odell, once considered a future hall-of-famer, is currently without a team. One wonders why?