Boys of Summer make my day

OVER the long, hard winter, Championship Man fell foul of an old enemy – the seasonal bout of melancholy. Down the years, he’s tried everything to bridge the gap. One November his wife suggested yoga, saying it’d take him out of himself.

He went a few nights, but found himself dozing off at the first breathing exercise, and eventually the instructor gently said his snoring was distracting the others and would he stay away until he got it right at home first.

He’s tried it all. 25, 45, 110. Texas Hold’em, Rings, Badmenten as he calls it himself, Darts, and even a bit of hill walking. An evening course in genealogy, but it taught him little he didn’t already know.

One year, he was coaxed into running the St Stephen’s Day tug-o-war for charity, not realising he was walking into a political minefield involving the two largest families the parish, and was lucky to escape with his life. He used to enjoy the line dancing classes in the community centre. The teacher said his style had rhythm and emotion, but she moved back home since and there’s no one doing it at all now. He misses it alright, and still listens to Alan Jackson’s Chatahoochee in the car, tapping his finger on the wheel, and is half-thinking about booking a trip to Nashville next back-end. But, still, these are fleeting romances, illusory concepts, because nothing compares.

He first noticed the small bit of a stretch the second week of January; then the pre-season tournaments, and the league, and, now, suddenly, here it is, as if ushered in by invisible hands, The Summer.

And The Greatest Open-Air Festival Of Them All – Better than Glastonbury, better than Woodstock, better even that the late, lamented Mallow Four-Day International Folk Festival.

If it were socially permissible, he’d run down Main Street tomorrow morning, dressed in his best Lady Godiva, yahooing and buck-lepping to proclaim that the championship is upon us. But that wouldn’t be his style, and so he keeps himself in check with more mundane tasks.

He changes the car for a fresh one every third May, “important to have a good yoke under you when you’re doing the big mileage”.

The garage man fills it up for free and promises that “this one’ll be in the cavalcade coming over the county boundaries, guarantee you that”. Driving away, he realises he’s bought either nine cars in his life, all from the same man, all blessed in similar fashion, and still he hasn’t got to experience the famous day.

But Championship Man, he never loses the faith.

He’s been to five pitch-openings this past month and has seen encouraging things. Met the usual faces, the diehards, those with the deep longing in their eyes, who help each other along with encouraging comments.

Here, throwaway comments are rarely thrown away: so it’s important to give some hope where you can.

“Good to see two or three of the minors coming through”;

“The new man is driving them hard”;

And “I heard the week abroad went mighty.”

Anyway, it’s finally upon him. Managers are playing the poor mouth, Kilkenny are talking up Tipp, Drumcondra B&Bs are already taking September bookings, the good vibrations are coursing throughout the land.

Championship Man is at peace once more. Like Wordsworth, he knows the winter’s “hours of weariness” were all worth of it for the impending “sensations sweet.”

How would he – and, indeed, we – ever survive without it?

nLiam Horan’s Championship Man radio essay is broadcast each summer Thursday on RTÉ Radio One’s Drivetime Sport programme. The Adventures of Championship Man & Other Cruciate Stories, a CD collection of the best essays of the last two years, sponsored by Cooper helmets, will be launched in early June. Email [e-mail] to order your pre-launch copy at a special discount price for Irish Examiner readers. Visit www.championshipman.com to take the Are You Championship Man test.