Perspective vital when dealing with our sporting grief
Oh, the anticipation! Trundling through the dark streets like a...like a burglar casing an entire city, we nodded sagely at the front-room windows lit up in anticipation of the game. Hopping out by Jury’s Hotel on the quay we caught a whiff of frying sausage coming out of the hotel and, showing superhuman self-control, we strode past and into work.
(Disclosure: you are correct in surmising that the hotel kitchen door was locked. We know. We tried.) Okay, it didn’t turn out the way we all hoped. But the tournament’s still going on. Your correspondent is now trying to help you deal with your grief by fielding a few questions.
If the Irish team hadn’t listened to the hype, would we now be preparing for a Rugby World Cup semi-final? This is one of the choicest morsels floating around in the ether, a proposition which collapses almost immediately.
To paraphrase Father Ted’s instruction on perspective to Fr Dougal: These are small but the ones out there are far away.
The Irish team succumbing to the hype in Ireland was based for the last few weeks in New Zealand. A minor geographical obstacle to the ‘hype’ seeping in.
The world hasn’t been shrunk that much by Twitter, no matter what you hear.
Where are all the clear-the-air sessions? To go by the one Rugby World Cup this writer has attended, these tournaments are clogged with bad-tempered training sessions and no-holds-barred team meetings, at which the air is turned blue with punches and frank discussion, respectively, all of which is to the good of the team. We lost track of the number of captains saying that there were a few donnybrooks at the last run-out on the paddock, but that’s good because it shows the guys are hurting.
Sadly missing in New Zealand. Worse luck.
We deserved that defeat by Wales because of the way we treated Warren Gatland, right? Wrong. The expression goes like this: it’s not show friends, it’s show business. And it’s not just rugby, it’s professional rugby.
Warren Gatland was good for Ireland and Ireland was good for Warren Gatland, and a time came when the twain had to part. That’s the job.
People remember the circumstances of Gatland’s exit because it produced a memorable detail, his replacement, Eddie O’Sullivan, turning up to take his job when the supposed knife in the Kiwi’s back was still warm from the hands of the IRFU apparatchiks. But apart from the fact that happened years ago – 2001 to be precise — nobody has ever seriously argued that Gatland should have stayed in charge of Ireland forever (and no matter what happens next weekend, they won’t be making that argument about, or in, Wales either).
If you are focused on the manner of his departure, do you think a polite pat on the back then would have made Saturday any easier? Me neither.
Where’s the Irish scandal? Good question. You’ve got to hand it to England, who distracted an entire nation from their boring march to elimination by offering a variety of embarrassing side-shows.
People throwing dwarves. Lewd words. Someone kissing the top of Mike Tindall’s head. Who would have guessed that Martin Johnson had a gift for comedy that eclipses Chris Morris? Should I start following the soccer team now?
Well, you can do both. Most people do, in fact, which rather cuts across the worldview of some of the louder pundits/controversialists, who would have you believe that the Irish nation divides itself into discrete sections whose sports affiliations maintain a laser-like focus and exclusivity.
The technical term for this rhymes with Norse Smith.
Mind you, it may not be as easy for people accustomed to the rugby team to warm to the soccer team for one simple reason: personality.
The rugby team has distinct characters. Ronan O’Gara’s spiky individualism. Jamie Heaslip’s offbeat interests. Tommy Bowe’s laid-back surfer-dude attitude, sort of California by way of Castleblayney.
Could you say the same about the soccer team? We’ve struggled a while on this and, to be honest, a look of affronted surprise on Robbie Keane’s face at press conferences is about the best we can come up with by way of personality.
Well, while you’re spilling the beans, how did last Saturday morning end? Came out to a dour reality afterwards, the grey river softly lapping at the bridge supports. Two blonde women at the front door of the hotel, discussing where to bring their hen colleagues that night in town.
The sizzle of the sausages a sad and distant memory.
*michael.moynihan@examiner.ie Twitter: MikeMoynihanEx
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