Connacht in need of some IRFU mammying

OF ALL the birthdays, this was the hardest. Thirty-three ... the age of Christ.

I have never been a religious entity, but even I was aware of all the amazing things Jesus had achieved by that age.

Turning water into wine, feeding the 5,000, curing the infirm, turning water into wine... what could I claim by comparison?

At least we had one thing in common. At 33, Christ sacrificed himself and returned to his father and I too was moving back in with the parents. It may have only been for a couple of weeks before I transferred to (yet another) rented apartment but as I showed up at the door laden down with bags, my mother’s face was the very picture of despair.

“Ah Christ, look at you. You’re 33, you can’t drive, you’ve no house, no wife and you’re moving back in with your parents for the third time. You must have a very low self-esteem.”

“I do now Mam,” I said, as I sloped past.

In an effort to cheer myself up, I organised a weekend in Galway. Officially, it was a trip to see Connacht’s vital Celtic League clash with Cardiff... realistically, it was a restorative bender.

For those of you intending to travel to the City of the Tribes, a word of advice, do not take the train from Cork. It is a six-and-a-half hour chugathon with half-an-hour in Mallow and the longest hour and 50 minutes of your life in Portarlington.

Portarlington is one of those places where you are not entirely sure which county it resides in, similar to Mullingar it seems to exist in a parallel universe.

With the bones of two hours to kill, we walked half-a-mile from the station to the nearest public house. As the creaking door announced our arrival, three baseball caps, resting on suspiciously large craniums, swivelled around from the Racing Channel and six sunken eyes drilled into us.

Immediately, the duelling banjos began playing on my mental jukebox and I could have sworn I heard the squealing of distressed pigs in the backyard. To run would have been foolhardy (pick-up trucks will always outpace 33-year-olds) so we sat in distressed silence for a single pint before exiting strategically.

So far, the mood-strengthening exercise was not going well but things picked up in Galway. A charming city, its pedestrianised thoroughfares are full of vigour and artists and as cities go, it would make a decent European Capital of Culture.

Unfortunately, Connacht’s home patch remains the playground of the damned.

When the world eventually ends and they’re trying to book a venue for the final battle between good and evil, they should give the Connacht Branch a bell. To be fair, the hospitality facilities, shared jointly by the rugby and greyhound fraternities, are top drawer but the pitch last Saturday was as drenched and windswept as ever.

Connacht’s recent history has been a blight on the encouraging development of Irish rugby. Despite pulling off some incredible victories with only meagre resources and a motley crew of journeyman professionals, they have been seen as something of an embarrassment by the IRFU - the fourth son that isn’t mentioned at dinner parties.

Last week, the branch produced a commendably pro-active proposal to bring back some of their most talented wild geese from the lucrative environs of the Zurich Premiership but, although based around private investment, the union were unresponsive. Perhaps the memories of some of the more vitriolic western attacks during the protest march two years ago were still fresh in the mind.

The IRFU also made the valid point that Connacht attendances are way down on those of the other provinces and if they want the union to help them, they first have to help themselves.

As if to illustrate that assertion, the crowd last Saturday was less than 2,000 even in such a momentous week and for such a crucial fixture. Those who did turn out only raised their voices once, for a lacklustre chant of “Connacht, Connacht” as the second-half drained away.

The crowd’s torpor was reflected by the team’s performance as Cardiff cruised to a depressingly easy win, helped admittedly by some Mr Magoo refereeing.

Of course, it could be the classic chicken and egg situation... bring back the big names and the crowds will flock to see them. However, in the short-term, Connacht and their supporters need to focus on winning the Challenge Cup and gaining Heineken Cup qualification - then anything is possible.

For the sake of Irish rugby, the IRFU needs to mother its prodigal son but equally the son must get his act together and show that he deserves the support he is looking for.

After the horrors of the upward journey, we opted for the bus on the way back.

Although two hours shorter, the trip was just as depressing. All that was missing was a flat-faced peasant woman holding a crate of live hens.

Consequently, when I turned up once again on the doorstep, fighting post-alcoholic rats and swiping at imaginary crows, the mood was as black as ever.

However, this time I was met by a warm hug and a plate of equally warm stew.

That’s the great thing about Irish families, no matter how wayward your existence... you’ll always have your mammy.

Let’s hope Connacht can say the same.