In the dressing room before the game Jim had us all jogging intensively as we all listened to Billy Morgan tell the story of a champion boxer who was being questioned on his prospects in a championship fight in his opponent’s home town, with a hometown referee. As Billy’s voice increased in tempo, Jim’s instructions re the jogging intensified in sync. No place to hide or smile here. Billy is now acting out the boxer’s response - no fears or concerns about hometown anything. Fists flying, defiance, anger – Jim now has us jogging to a frenzy. No Nemo man must be left alone on the field he shouts out, with that hallmark urgency and sincerity. As Billy brings the story to a frenzied climax – the dressing door opens with perfect choreography and the entire panel raced onto the field in a mad frenzy with deadly intent and came away, shall we say, with a comprehensive victory. Jim Cremin knew how to instil spirit, resilience and a never-say-die attitude.

Late last year I was at a Construction Federation dinner. It’s President said he had achieved his life’s vocation because of a brilliant science teacher in Coláiste Chríost Rí by the name of Jim Cremin.

Every club in Ireland has somebody they point to as the ultimate club man/woman. Somebody people turn to if anything is needed, giving of their time, ever present. In Nemo, Jim was that man. For players what made him such a special motivator was that he lived the traits he asked of his players. Spirit, determination and togetherness. He always carried a helmet and hurley in the boot of his car in case he was needed to tog out. About four years ago he actually played in goal in a Junior City League game when Nemo were short.Jim Cremin’s passing was one of immense sadness to his wife Bernice, his family and friends and to his extended Nemo and Chríost Rí family. 

But in that deep sadness there was also an uplifting experience – an eloquent reminder of the extraordinarily positive impact one individual can have on so many generations of young people and on so many people overall.

His passing reminded us of the qualities and values that matter most in life – loyalty, integrity, commitment, humour and the importance of community. Jim’s passing reminded us about the importance of spirit, of soul, of giving life everything you can. In his life and in his death, Jim Cremin inspired us. 

I needn’t have worried – she pivoted faster than Pat Spillane after Kerry’s loss to Cork in the Munster Championship, and before we had time to think it through, we were attending live classes on Facebook, completely free of charge. 

Equipment was distributed around the community, and we dug in for the long haul. It’s no exaggeration to say that, in the midst of the chaos and anxiety that characterised the early weeks of lockdown,  those hours on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays saved my sanity. They offered a structure to evenings that had previously been filled with meetings, matches and events, provided an opportunity for connection with the other women, and of course, allowed us to release those much-needed endorphins, our ‘happy hormones’.

Donna’s relentlessly positive attitude, in what must have been absolute hell for her at times as she attempted to keep a nascent business on track, along with juggling the demands of a busy mom-life and building a house, kept us all going through the dark days, and for this I will be forever grateful.

As restrictions eased and then tightened again, Donna simply (or probably not so simply, but she made it look so) adjusted the sails and changed course as required.

We moved back to the hall, went outside at the GAA pitch, and latterly, back onto Facebook Live, but we all know that, whatever happens over the next few months, we’ll have our Fitlife family to fall back on.

And Donna the matriarch to guide us all on what we hope will be a slow return to normality.

*Follow Donna Fitzgerald on Instagram at @donnafitzfitlife.

As unifying an experience as “The Last Dance” was, it wasn’t MJ’s most important contribution in 2020. The global superstar who famously shied away from political stances by saying “Republicans buy sneakers, too,” didn’t stay on the sidelines during a turbulent year that mixed social unrest with economic hardship caused by the pandemic.

Jordan donated his proceeds for participating in the documentary to charity, with $2 million of it going to Feeding America foodbanks. “In these challenging times and in a year of unimaginable difficulty due to COVID-19, it’s more important than ever to pause and give thanks,” Jordan said of his ongoing philanthropy.

In June, when the murder of George Floyd at the hands of police sparked protests for racial justice across America and the world, Jordan put the weight of his brand behind the Black Lives Matter movement by pledging $100 million spread out over 10 years to the Black community dedicated to “ensuring racial equality, social justice and greater access to education.”

On this issue, the icon and owner of the NBA’s Charlotte Hornets did not shut up and dribble.

“I am deeply saddened, truly pained and plain angry,” Jordan said in a statement after Floyd’s death. “I see and feel everyone’s pain, outrage and frustration. I stand with those who are calling out the ingrained racism and violence toward people of color in our country. We have had enough.

“I’m all in with Jordan brand, the Jordan family and our partners, who share a commitment to address the historical inequality that continues to plague Black communities in the US.

“Black lives matter. This isn’t a controversial statement. Until the ingrained racism that allows our country’s institutions to fail is completely eradicated, we will remain committed to protecting and improving the lives of Black people.”

But there was also another layer to this day: All the way through the match, right up to the final whistle, and beyond it into two periods of extra time, the roaring that came out through the speakers on the computer was unreal.

In co-commentary, the Offaly senior football manager, John Maughan, observed with an admiring laugh how loud and emotional the Tullamore crowd at the game were as they rode the madness of a contest that swung one way and then the next.

The few Tullamore supporters who had managed to get into the ground were at it, behind their team and the way they were playing, from the minute the ball was thrown in. It got louder and louder as the game went on.

And I knew those voices. I could pick them out. One of them was a brother. Others were men I had played football with for Tullamore. And others again were voices that had roared at me when I was playing. It was an extraordinary experience.

Watching that game on a computer screen was an exquisite pain. To have that union with place and people was a wonderful thing; to not be there was a small cruelty.

In the raw drama of the inevitable penalty shoot-out, the computer came alive. Everything else was irrelevant. All that mattered was the ball and the net. And, after 20 penalty kicks, we won. Many lifetimes were lived in that sentence.

The outpouring of joy in O’Connor Park, the sight of men in blue jumping with a wildness that no passage of the years can control, was replicated at the far end of an ethernet cable, in a Dublin kitchen, where two homes collided.

Then there’s Maguire. A few hours after riding this epic wave - a life or death event -  we spoke by phone.

That in itself was a result - a coronavirus vaccine is easier sourced than the mobile number of a high profile GAA, rugby or soccer star in 2020.Not alone was Maguire chatty, he was passionate, enthusiastic, and interesting. It helped that he was a natural storyteller. 

“I could hear the deep bass from the ocean rolling through my house, the sound was echoing through the walls,” he said of the Donegal dawn chorus which greeted him before he headed out in the darkness. 

Surfing since the age of 11, he has forged an incredible career in the high octane sport of big wave surfing. In 2017 he became the youngest European to be shortlisted for the World Surf League Big Wave Awards.

That little biog illustrates Maguire’s place in the sport; he doesn’t need the publicity or the profile, he is already a big name in a global market. I learned later that he has a sponsorship deal with Red Bull - but he never once asked it to be mentioned during our chat. 

Here was a sportsman proud of his day’s work as he conquered Mother Nature for 20 exhilarating seconds.

“The wave was huge, buttery, smooth, green and beautiful. I just had to stand there and it did the rest. Mullaghmore is one of the best spots in the world for big wave surfing.

"I grew up 10 minutes from here and now to come here today and achieve something like this … what more can I say.”

You said plenty. 

As a ‘Dare To Believe’ Ambassador for the Olympic Federation of Ireland (OFI) she was already part of its school visits programmes.

When the OFI ran a brilliant spoof Olympics series for RTE’s Schools’ Hub, she was first in the queue, gurning her way through egg-and-spoon races and water-pistol target-shooting, roaring “Yes! I used to have a Super-Soaker when I was a kid!”

Her Insta feed, where King Nidge and Queen Macy (her cute Staffie and French pug dogs) feature large, was an absolute hoot, including polls of major national importance like: ‘Fish finger Sandwiches. Yes/No? Don't mistake her fun for flippancy.

She continued tough training at the Institute of Sport in Abbotstown while enlivening her mammoth weight-lifting with captions like: ‘If you squeeze your face really hard it helps!’

The Olympics got postponed and boxing's ludicrous qualification system for Tokyo 2021 remains a mystery yet there wasn't a trace of a pity party.

As she famously told another national treasure on the Tommy Tiernan Show: “Isn’t everyone suffering in some shape or form?”

Her uplifting candour, positivity and generosity of spirit throughout this Godawful year has been an absolute tonic and, truly, if there were Olympic medals for being completely sound then Kellie Harrington would already be champion.

Thirteen kilometres from Bray and an 18-minute drive and you’re in Kilmacud. A different county and a not so old GAA club. It’s most certainly not a ‘super club’, but my homeclub.

It’s a May weekend now and the weather is kind. I ring my mother and discover she’s escaped her cocoon to notice an army of purple of gold on the stroll and on the runaround Stillorgan way.

It’s not a particularly frightening army. It’s mostly families and socially distanced groups of young girls and boys or both doing the club’s ‘Coast for Crokes’, an initiative to walk the length of Ireland’s coastline without leaving your own locality. Most are decked out in club colours, babies, dogs and lads who should know better included.

The weekend brings the club out and the community together and raises funds for charities starved of revenue-raising opportunities in the lockdown.

The entire weekend is brilliantly documented online and on social media by Paul Collins, a young enough club member who cares and puts his time and talents at the service of the club and who leaves us, at this critical moment, with a visual record of how it was around the GAA we continued to cohere when our fields fell silent and the gates to our grounds were padlocked. 

The people who keep our communities spinning and make our clubs socially relevant tend not have ballads written in their honour or their likenesses cast in bronze, but they exemplify why it is that the GAA is not just about the games - which we love - but about an ethos - which we value.

The arrival of the West Indies team was shortly preceded in the UK by the publication of a devastating report into the way immigrants, known as the “Windrush Generation”, had been shamefully harassed by the Home Office and denied self-evident citizenship rights.

The universal horror and protests at the killing of American George Floyd in Minneapolis were the backdrop to the First Test at which all players “took the knee” in what seems a dignified gesture of solidarity although, as can be evidenced by recent experiences at Millwall and Colchester,  capable of hijack and misrepresentation.

What Michael Holding and his colleague, Ebony Rainford-Brent, did on that wet Wednesday morning was to provide an eloquent and humbling critique on institutionalised racism that accelerates in power every time it is heard.

Holding said: “The dehumanisation of the black race is where it started. People will tell you that's a long time ago, get over it.

“No, you don't get over things like that and society has not gotten over something like that.

“How do you get rid of that in society? By educating both sides ― black and white.”

Sixteen days before Holding and Rainford-Brent spoke, Burnley supporters had chartered a plane to fly over the Etihad Stadium during their game against Manchester City.  It trailed a banner carrying the legend “White Lives Matter Burnley”.

Holding said: “'When you see somebody react to Black Lives Matter with 'all lives matter' or 'white lives matter', please, we black people know that white lives matter. I don't think you know that black lives matter.

“So don't shout back at us that all lives matter. The evidence is clearly there that white lives matter, we want black lives to matter now as well. It's as simple as that.”

Sometimes we can pretend sport is the most important thing in the world, and those of us that are particularly invested in it can get carried away with that sometimes.

But when discussions were happening about whether the championship should go ahead or not in light of the Covid situation, it was no exaggeration to say that the country needed a lift and that a winter championship would provide it.

Can you imagine how much the last three months would have dragged if we didn’t have GAA to look forward to each week? While Dubs did as predicted and coasted to their sixth title in a row, the football still provided plenty of memorable occasions for us to enjoy.

Cork beating Kerry as serious underdogs for instance, only to go out and get outplayed by a Tipp team in wonderful form the following week. Cavan putting Donegal, supposedly the only real challengers to the Dublin machine, to the sword and winning their first Ulster title since 1997.

The hurling, as it tends to do, produced plenty of magic. While most neutrals hoped Waterford would have a fairy tale ending to the year after dismantling Kilkenny in a cracking semi-final, we could only step back and appreciate the well-oiled Limerick machine go from strength to strength, giving a city that is struggling to cope with the economic impact of Covid cause for celebration.

Because of what it signifies, I hope the winter championship was a one off, and I never want to see it again. But I sure as hell enjoyed the one we had.

Stander more than played his part in the fightback. He had prevented further first-half calamity by turning and then holding up the barnstorming Peceli Yato in a tackle over the tryline.

And then he helped turn the tide in Munster's favour after the interval, tapping into the momentum shift as set-piece dominance turned from blue to red and rookie loosehead Josh Wycherley exacted revenge on his elders in the opposition front row.

Stander continued that as Clermont unravelled within their fortress at Stade Marcel Michelin, as penalties turned into yellow cards and Munster edged their way upfield. He was on the scoring end of a successful drive to get the try that helped nudge the visitors in front for the first time with 10 minutes to go.

And with even less time on the clock as the game teetered in the balance at 32-31, he was the one who let a Red Army still confined to barracks know that their heroes would prevail. 

Not with a clenched fist, nor or a roar of encouragement. It came via a simple, unabashed smile as he stood up Clermont's replacement hooker in a choke tackle, saw his comrades join the effort like a swarm of locusts descending on a field of ripe crops, and then looked in the direction of the referee in search of a whistle.

The grin from ear to ear that accompanied it told the folks back home that all would be well and it was priceless.

His daily dispatches from “Coronaville” – more than 270 days and counting – have kept Kindred and his friends company during isolation.

“I soon discovered, through comments on the posts, that it resonated with people feeling the same things,” he told the Nieman Foundation.

“So I was less inhibited about writing very personal things. We were all in this together, so why not share what I saw and thought?” Posts range from poems to old sports tales to self-deprecating efforts at completing rural chores.

They cover the gamut from running errands for his sister, getting a library card, struggling to find green beans or open plastic produce bags in the grocery store to petty political thieves who keep stealing his Biden yard signs. 

We laughed at the Houdini-like talents of his beagle, Pepper, and cried when Pepper suddenly fell ill and had to be put down, leaving him and Pepper’s black lab mate, KO, alone on their daily walks.

Most of all, we empathise with the separation Kindred feels in his diminished world where the window to sit and hold hands with his beloved Cheryl was too small between virus lockdowns.

“Cheryl lay under a white fleece blanket. She was dressed in a turquoise top that matched her mask. We sat in the shade out of the wind on the east side of the nursing home. She had just finished lunch and was about to fall asleep. She could not know it, but it may be a while before we sit together again.”

But in the City Division final in September… my god, we were relentless. Tacking on scores early on, and dominating then, and never letting the other crowd back into it.

Never relenting for a second. I’m not on the scene with the team any longer—I don’t know what they said or did differently in terms of preparation or mentality — but it was so, so gratifying to witness. As the game went on, and I waited for that mental weakness — an inferiority complex maybe? — to surface somehow, Passage just got stronger and stronger.

I felt like Orpheus in The Matrix, watching on a screen as Neo realises the boundlessness of his potential. I don’t know if this happens to all supporters of sport, but there comes, in me, a brimming in the chest - this power - when I witness my team growing in strength/performance… Ah, it was marvellous. 

And, speaking generationally, it proves that progress is possible. That things are not doomed to repeat themselves, which (at the moment especially) brings me great hope.

And, on the more sentimental side, my own son is a little over a year old, and we’ve just moved back to Passage after years away, and he’ll hopefully take an interest in the GAA, and if he does he has a whole host of club legends to look up to now, for decades to come.

Every now and again, the screen froze. Each time, Tom looked at me with eyes that said you’re supposed to know how to sort this out. I got down on a knee in front of the laptop, pressed a few buttons, but there was no sign of a thaw.

"What’s wrong,” he said, all impatient, like what century were you born in, dad? I waved him away. This was adult stuff, he wouldn’t understand.

Suddenly, it was back. Things had moved on. They were into kicking practice, right and left. Mark addressed Tom. “Where were you Tom Clifford, come on, right and left, off the wall.

“Where was I?,” Tom says, turning to me, the genius who took so long to bring training back.

On it went like that for 45 minutes, the Wifi acting the maggot. Sometimes we’d get a good run, but more often than not it went on strike once every ten minutes or so.

When it froze for the fourth time, I picked up the laptop and shook it back to a time the picture on the TV could be retrieved by slapping it hard with the heel of your hand.

At the end of the session, Mark thanked everybody and gave a little pep talk and then they were gone. The evening seemed brighter, the far shore of all this awfulness a little nearer.

“Well done, boss,” I told the young fella, shutting down the laptop. “We’ll get the hang of it. By the time the lockdown ends, we’ll be motoring.”

It was devastating for that group but Cian never wallowed in that disappointment. He focused on his studies. He kept setting his alarm in the morning to keep up his training.

Then early in the summer, I got a call one day from Cian. “I want to do something to make a difference,” he said.

In my role as Community Champion of the Clare Community Response Forum, Cian was looking for advice in how he might go about making that difference. Before going into detail about any potential initiative, we chatted on what charities he might look at.

I mentioned Cystic Fibrosis because anyone with CF was certainly at high risk of Covid-19. Then Cian came up with this catchy initiative ‘Pass the sliotar, not the Virus’.

Similar to the ice-bucket challenge, you’d hit the sliotar and then nominate three more people to do the same, making a donation of €4 in the process. Cian got Shane O’Donnell and Lee Chin on board to kick it off and, for a finish, people were pucking balls in New York, Boston and Australia.

The concept raised over €7,000 for CF Ireland. I’ve seen Cian up close with the Clarecastle U-21s and seniors.

He showed his class with Flannan’s while he was excellent for the Clare U-20s against Tipperary back in October. Cian Galvin is a smashing player but, for me, his most inspiring act in 2020 was what he did off the field.

Prior to my purchase, I had been relying on a most basic stopwatch with three functions - start, stop reset.

By comparison, the new bit of kit was a revelation.

It told me everything I never cared about, but became fascinated by the stats, graphs and multi-coloured charts that would quickly ferment after each outing.

I was studying my average kilometre pace almost as often as I was the daily case numbers.

Self-involved, I know, but running, and how my running was progressing, proved the perfect distraction from reality.

Unlike my banana bread, the running, thankfully, has not proven to be a lockdown phase.

The watch and I are still getting out three times a week, the distances covered have moved on from my days at 5km and the hope is I’ll have a marathon to run on the weekend of my 30th birthday next October. 

Mark Tighe and Paul Rowan wrote ‘Champagne Football’, the gripping, nauseating and at times highly amusing account of John Delaney’s rise and fall.

The book has topped the bestseller lists, suggesting Delaney is a far better literary villain than he ever was a CEO.

But it is the work of Mark Horgan, along with his co-producer Ciaran Cassidy, on the podcast ‘Where Is George Gibney’ that gets my nod for heroism in 2020. 

The BBC Sounds and Second Captains production used the possibilities of the medium to full effect so that, although in hiding, the paedophile former swimming coach could be called to account to a worldwide audience of millions.

Airing the stories of Gibney’s victims afresh achieved some small redress for the fact that the Irish judicial system let the monster off scot-free in the 1990s. As many of the survivors said, to be heard and believed mattered greatly.

Since its release, scores of new allegations prompted by the podcast have led to the reopening of the Garda investigation into Gibney.

A pat on the back is the least Horgan and his team deserve.

When we look back on 2020 we’ll remember the incredible drama - the Cork footballers last-minute win against Kerry, Cavan and Tipperary’s provincial titles, Limerick’s tenacity, Declan Hannon’s words that captured the mood of the nation, a camogie final under lights and victory for a Kilkenny team finally able to drag themselves over the line. 

But for me, what stands out most, is the players' willingness to play.

Even in the most uncertain times, they stood up and gave us all hope.

And something to talk about other than the darkness that surrounds us. 

Let’s not forget, that’s just what they did on the pitch…off it, they were also involved in community fundraising efforts which raised millions of euro for those who need it most.

It hasn’t been easy and I’m sure there are moments each and every one of them wondered if it was worth it.

But after a year we’d love to forget, they’ve certainly given me something to remember.

One day in May when sport returned after the first lockdown, I was out walking near a GAA grounds. A boy on a bike passed me, a hurley in his backpack, a sense of purpose lighting up his face.

Two girls strolled across the street carrying their hurleys as lightly as dreams. Cars pulled up outside the grounds; girls and boys alighted. They greeted their friends and team-mates.

Their sense of belonging and connection – of being part of something greater than themselves – shone out of them. But none of them could have been there until they were cleared by the club’s Covid-19 Officer.

Someone who had stepped forward in 2020 when so much was at stake for so many.

The photos of these volunteers don’t appear in newspapers, their profiles don’t appear in match programmes. We don’t know their favourite food, dream holiday destination or toughest opponent.

Often we don’t know their names and we don’t get to meet them. I’m sorry I didn’t get to meet Jess. They say you should never meet your heroes but I think they’re wrong. 

If you’re involved in a club you’ll have your own Jess or Jesses, and there would have been no sport this year without them. Give thanks for them, say thanks to them. WhatsApp them a happy Christmas, it’s been a tough year. 

And don’t spare the emojis. 

Thankfully the club in which I coach has been able to push on. Because from the summer, I was able to identify just the person who could free me up to focus on the ball.

Before even Basketball Ireland had set up its own Covid health questionnaire app, Treasa had devised one for us. It has been a godsend for us – though quite possibly a pain in the butt for her.

Because as familiar as you become with the drill of filling in that form for yourself or your child the day of a training session, you’ll occasionally forget; someone always forgets. But the other constant is Treasa, tracking who has and hasn’t yet filled it in, and gently reminding and even chasing the forgetful.

The result of all that is that at least once a week over the past four months more than 35 girls aged 13 or 14 in the Ennis area, including Treasa’s daughter Sarah and my daughter Aimee, have been able to continue to play some basketball.

For sure it has been challenging, with little love or understanding from the government for our sport. In early October all indoor facilities had to close their doors to us.

Then even after we were able to secure the use of an outdoor court thanks to the generosity of another 2020 hero of mine, Dónal Ó hAinifein, principal of Gaelscoil Mhíchíl Chíosóg – and Treasa going to all the bother of securing the necessary insurance – Sport Ireland in its wisdom prohibited us passing the ball to one another for a while.

Those Saturday mornings can be long – with so many girls and thus so many pods, we’ve to lay on three different sessions, back to back, meaning we’re there for over four hours.

But it’s also been magical, hearing their laughter and seeing their enthusiasm and resilience in action, dribbling between the puddles and the showers of rain.

And all because we’d a Treasa. This season of seasons, she’s our MVP.

Yet, once a week, when allowed to do so under Covid regulations, a squad of over 40 players turned up for training.

Many were forced to give up the game in their mid-20’s due to work, family or travel commitments. Others packed it in when the dedication required to make the senior or seconds became too onerous.

Then the decision to play J2’s rugby on Friday nights, under lights, changed everything. All of a sudden, with the prospect of free weekends, former players in their late 20’s and early 30’s were enticed back to the game they loved.

The craic and sense of camaraderie once enjoyed was instantly rekindled. Three former Munster schools players came out of hibernation.

Others, like former All-Ireland league and Munster Cup winning prop Ger Sweeney, came out of retirement for social rugby.

This group has added massively to the fabric of the club and, hopefully, will continue to contribute off the field in the years to come. Over the past two seasons they took it upon themselves to raise €11,000 for the Movember charity.

The only competition completed to date this season was the Dennehy Cup which they won, playing some fantastic rugby along the way against two equally impressive sides from Highfield and Mallow. 

Their enthusiasm was a joy to behold. The unity of purpose and bond generated over the last two seasons provided a brilliant outlet at a very challenging time due to the pandemic.

As a group, they also helped restore my faith in the old amateur values that attracted so many to the game in the first place.

Collins, who has no intention of retiring, has remained loyal to his club and is such a positive influence on the younger players. His brother Gerard is manager of the team.

Off the field, the Randal Óg club isn’t found wanting either, demonstrating wonderful community spirit in times of need. Early on in the Covid crisis, the Community Sports Hall was used as a Covid Swab Centre.

At the time, Dr Emer Shanley thanked the amazing community of Ballinacarriga and the Randal Óg GAA Club who generously handed over their facilities at very short notice.

Some of the members volunteered as drivers for West Cork Cancer Connect and as nurses for Jack & Jill Foundation.

The club, along with Ballinacarrig and Lisbealad Community Association, organised a very successful fundraiser for these two very deserving groups.

Local volunteers came together and along with grant aid from Cork County Council, are creating a wonderful loop walkway, which takes you around the perimeter of the pitch, along the river, and passing by Ballinacarriga Castle.

And when games resume, the double-dream remains alive as they await the divisional JBFC final.

Yet those fortunate enough to retain their job took pride in the work they had and soldiered on whilst those in positions of authority went about finding a way to get a whole industry back up and running (literally). 

Racing never showed reckless abandon to the situation at hand; it followed guidelines, made calculated and safe decisions and never stopped trying.

From those in HRI  who had to obtain the political grace to reopen, to those in the IHRB who had to devise a plan of how racing could safely resume, to the staff at racecourses changing the facilities to get the show back on the road, Racing united and moved forward.

There was no apocalyptic talk, it was all about what we are going to achieve. 

Rules were made and punishments meted out to those who broke them. The industry came together and delivered some sort of sport, live sport, something new, something unexpected and unpredictable.

Racing led the way and gave us all a whiff of what normality could be like again.

My first experience of mountain biking was as an energetic child who loved getting lost in a forest on her bike with her pals.

You couldn’t really call it mountain biking I suppose, more kind of trail biking with mountain bikes. I am also ashamed to say we turned an old forgotten, overgrown, church cemetery into our biking arena.

Balancing over broken headstones and weaving through the muddy paths as fast as possible. My first proper mountain biking experience was in Thailand while traveling through Asia on route to Australia back in 2005. 

This was the proper deal, full body armour to wear, double suspension, weaving along paths with a 20ft drop to the side, navigating down a rocky mountainside.

I succeeded in staying on the bike gloatingly, my friend not so much with multiple crashes, flying over the handle bar experiences, plus a detour down a new path she created herself when realising she wasn’t going to make the turn.

No broken bones though and plenty of stories to reminisce on to this day. Since living in a world of lockdowns, Ticknock in the Dublin Mountains has become my back garden and my sense of freedom.

The uphill cycle from home burns the lungs and legs, but the downhill ride weaving through trees, over rocks, carelessly navigating, skidding and sweating as I try to take the next corner better and faster than the last, and gain a little more height over the next mound.

A new passion has been lit. It is a long way from the rugby pitch I was used to, but it feels like it could be something that rekindles the euphoria for sport I once had but then lost in retirement.

I’m even thinking of Covid purchase 2021, a new mountain bike.

We (I, mostly) got into the language. Water bottles were bidons. White cycling shoes were 'White Ladies.' For black shoes, 'Black Knights.' A hard ride had us 'on the rivet.' When I struggled like an oul' wan up Murley Mountain, I had the other three taunting me with, "Rule 5! Rule 5! RULE 5!"In my corner, I had the one-time GAA writer Paddy Heaney offering me his own brand of cajoling/bullying/sneering.

Heaney knows cycling. He's been on the Podium at Muff for the St Patrick's Day race, taking gold. Taking only the bits of his advice that I found easy, a bucket of protein was bought. It would be mixed every night with Greek yogurt to stave off the chocolate pangs.

In time, I would fade away to a mere 12 stone. As the love handles shrunk, my pace picked up. One day I was asked if I had been ill recently. Cyclists blush at such a compliment.

We would get out twice, sometimes three times midweek, beginning at 6am for two hours. The regular route was just over 32 miles. Sundays were a longer venture and could bring us to exotic venues such as Portadown. Clones was visited on the nominated Ulster final day.

As the summer wore on and action on the GAA fields resumed, the rides became less frequent. Aidan got a Bosman transfer to a breakaway group of Clogher Valley Wheelers and completed a 100 mile ride.

Out of pure thickness, myself and Cathal, along with occasional support from my nephew Ross (on an 18-year-old blue Giant that I once reversed over by mistake in 2009) and my father Sean (a mongrel breed of a bike from multiple sources) did our own 100-mile journey a fortnight later that took us around Lough Melvin and into Kinlough in Leitrim, before setting out for home again.

As we approached the finish line that day, Cathal looked at me in disgust. A stringy snot was hanging off the end of my nose, defying gravity, swinging to and fro. I hadn't the energy to wipe it off and there it remained for a few more miles.

The Cumann Rothar What's App still pings, but not with departure times and routes. We are all still clinging on over the winter months to a special chemistry.

Aidan went back to his Fermanagh commitments. Rather selfishly, Cathal and his wife Martina had their second child (I know, right?) Lorcan, and Enda finished up with Swatragh and became the Antrim manager.

But for a few months at least, it was just us, our bikes and the road. And it was great.

Is there anything to be said for another lockdown?

Late summer, and a chink of light.

The club. My last gaelic football game was in 2015, an All-Ireland semi-final defeat to Cork, before jumping two footed bag and baggage into the oval office. 

The club, Finuge/St Senans in north Kerry, had made massive strides in the five years since, from underage all the way up to senior, culminating in this Intermediate county final. Not bad for a rural club set up in 2009.

I registered for the season just before the deadline, ‘just in case’, and on official retirement I was there to lend a hand, a boot, anything they’d take off me.

A giddy child eager to contribute in any way possible, and to have a team, a crest, somewhere to belong to.

In the final we avenged an early season defeat to Castleisland Desmonds. With number 30 on my back, I was just thrilled to be taking the field.

The performance wasn’t bad, enough to justify a jersey even if my mother chastised me for a few stray balls after. Nobody else was around to confirm or otherwise. No homecoming.

No dressing rooms. No showers. But we slaked that thirst.

On May 21 this year, an afternoon I will never forget, Eoin took us on his journey from that moment, before the county quarter-final in 2015, when he noticed that tiny black mole on his foot. He was just 24.

He retraced the immunotherapy and radiotherapy and medical trials and scans and surgery. He described the staples and wounds and scars and unbearable pain.

He relived the heartbreak and hope, the respite and dread, of his cancer journey. At every turn he has been driven by a fierce desire to get back on the field for Sarsfields. To hurl.

He has hurled days after invasive surgery. And he has blocked out fears to nail his frees days before heading inside for more. The former Cork hurler and mental health advocate Conor Cusack summed up Eoin’s fortitude best.

“Amidst these surreal times emerges an extraordinary story about the immense importance of sport in our lives and the power of one man to give hope and inspiration to us all. One of the greatest love affairs with hurling and the GAA.” 

We talked last week again. Eoin has just finished his physiotherapy exams, is almost qualified. In the midst of this battle, a teacher changed career, to follow a calling that itched, to live his best life.

Since May, Eoin’s year has lurched like all of them since 2015, another scan bringing bad news, medicine delivering hope.

Hip pain stopped him hurling, tablets eased it but depleted him. He parked treatment for a few months to give himself a chance of playing championship.

“Because you have to live your life too.” He couldn’t quite make the seniors but played intermediate. To prove 2020 truly has no heart, Eoin had his penalty saved in the county semi-final shootout defeat by Éire Óg.

And to know Eoin and his story is to know that on that afternoon in Blarney he found no perspective in his bigger struggle. Because he has learned to stay entirely in the moment.

In that and the way he has allowed love to guide him, Eoin has showed us all how to live.