Sport attracts more exaggerated, over-the-top, preposterous hyperbole than any other field of human endeavour. We refer to defeats as ‘tragic’ and ‘disastrous’, in the context of a planet afflicted by no shortage of genuine tragedies and disasters.
We readily hail conspicuously retarded football prodigies as being touched by ‘genius’.
Nonetheless, when life treats you to a spectacle as gruelling and ultimately gratifying as Dublin’s recent Leinster triumph (over Laois), one is duty-bound to fling any sense of perspective out of the window and basically go completely fucking bonkers.
July the 17th was Liberation Day at Croke Park, and the match’s last ten minutes were as stirring, seismic and truly life-altering as anything witnessed in the capital since, probably, the Easter Rising. (I’m aware that Hot Press sells nationwide and that most of my dear readers probably wish the Dubs nothing but harm, but even if I was of a mind to shut up about it, I would be quite unable to.)
Now comes the hard part, of course. There’s a valid school of thought that Dublin suffer disproportionately from the expectations of their ever-rabid supporters, expectations fuelled rather than dampened by the other week’s events.
Hysteria has been released into the very air that Dubliners breathe, and it isn’t about to recede until the championship ends, whether in death or glory.
The Hill’s re-awakened ambition still seems like something of a pipe-dream to the wider GAA community: I’ve yet to hear or read a single pundit who actually expects Dublin to win the All-Ireland.
History plays its part: they have habitually failed to punch their weight at the business end of the championship. The present clutch of players is solid rather than spectacular, with only Messrs. Brogan, Sherlock and Christie realistic contenders if you had to assemble an All-Star XV to take on Mars or England or whoever.
That said, the team has bucketloads of spirit, balls, naked aggression (Ciaran Whelan) and (crucially) momentum on its side.
On their day, they can beat anyone, no exaggeration. And this summer’s championship seems to be the most open in years, with no team visibly pre-eminent.
Armagh displayed typical bloody-mindedness and Rasputin-like resilience to claim Ulster out of nowhere in the dying minutes, and are clearly the fittest, best-conditioned team in the land, but this shouldn’t be mistaken for invulnerability.
I also have a nagging foreboding that we haven’t seen the last of Laois by a long shot. It all shapes up to be a momentous late summer.
Before hordes of enlightened Hot Press readers rush to cancel their subscriptions, I should point out that yes, of course, were it to come down to it, I prefer the ‘true’ national game.
After the interminable phoney wars of the provincial championships, and the tedious mismatches of the qualifiers, hurling finally got serious this weekend with the first two All-Ireland quarter-finals.
Despite an average age of about 61, Clare rolled back the years with a surprisingly straightforward win against a Wexford side who failed miserably to play their full part. Waterford-Cork was an infinitely more flowing, full-blooded affair, with the champions rattled badly for an hour before the genius of Corcoran and O hAilpin conjured up the requisite magic at the time of greatest need.
I’ll stick my neck on the block and go for Kilkenny to end the Limerick challenge, while Tipp-Galway should go down to the wire, with Galway to edge it by a point or two.
From the GAA’s quaint Yeatsian idealism, we must now turn – yea, even a month before it starts – to the sordid, murky, sleazy, corrupt, utterly compelling soap opera of British soccer.
My other sky-blue ache, the acceptable face of Manchester football, look eminently capable of continuing a tradition of unadulterated misery, their sporting life since 1968 having been a tale of heartbreak, pain and loss to withstand comparison with Roy Orbison’s life story.
It hasn’t been the best of weeks for Manchester City: the increasingly obnoxious Chelsea just shelled out £21 million of Roman Abramovich’s undoubtedly honest earnings to fleece Shaun Wright-Phillips away, and while the fee is at least acceptable, the pattern is disturbing.
I like the manager Stuart Pearce, a genuine working-class hero despite the John Bulldog image, and I obviously wish him well, but can only wonder what took possession of his mind when he decided to take the squad for pre-season training to that renowned oasis of monastic serenity, Bangkok.
Short of Baghdad, it’s difficult to conceive of a more troublesome destination, and my three-year-old twins could have told you it was likely to end in tears. Sure enough, a depressingly predictable ‘incident’ took place in – you’ll never guess – a hotel bar at 2am.
Joey Barton, having already distinguished himself at last year’s Christmas party by stubbing a lit cigar into team-mate Jamie Tandy’s eye, heaped further glory on the club colours by becoming embroiled in aggro with a young Everton fan. Barton responded to what was undoubtedly provocation by belting the teenager in the face: when hard-as-nails defender Richard Dunne attempted to intervene as a peacemaker, Barton bit him on the finger.
Dunne, restrained by team-mates, lashed out and kicked a door, broke a bone in his foot, and is now in danger of missing the start of the season, not to mention Ireland’s key World Cup showdowns. A wondrous week’s work all round. Pure, vintage, classic Manchester City.
In the least surprising sporting development of the year, Muhammad Ali won the popular vote for Sky TV’s Greatest Sporting Legend of All Time. There was no place on the final shortlist for Kevin Kilbane, Franck Sauzee, Eric Bristow or Shane Byrne. Such are the cruelties of sport.
Lance Armstrong overcame universal suspicions about the validity of his seven Tour de France victories to finish second in the voting, a fair reflection of the scope of his achievements, however attained.
And while it may not bear comparison with Ali’s refusal to join in the Vietnam bloodbath, Armstrong gained massive kudos in this house for telling his President and Commander-in-Chief exactly what he thought of him during last year’s congratulatory phone call. Who said sport and politics shouldn’t mix?