The sort of sporting pride that sustains us when life is a challenge
My uncle was very passionate about soccer and we spent many weekends on a greasy grassy patio while he tutored and I studied.
e was old fashioned. Fancy Dans and Delicate Flowers, who didn’t get stuck, got short work and a catchy tune.
Players with long hair have been told to cut it and Dublin teams seem to have invariably had the referee in their pocket.
He did all of this without ever saying anything remotely close to an expletive, his blooming expression in itself being more than enough.
This was in the late ’60s, and when the world changed, he didn’t feel like giving it his imprimatur.
Turner’s Cross, in south Cork City, still grips her, and there are other uncles who are now passing on their own undiluted passion. One can imagine that teams from the capital no longer benefit when in doubt than they did back then.
There might also be a fair share of swearing.
Football has changed a lot since then, but nothing has ever replaced the intense, innocent passion of that era and the kind of rivalries that seemed like life and death to a schoolboy.
As we grow up, life gets complicated. Too many things compete for our time and loyalty.
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The Six Nations is the hardy annual that helps us cross the river from winter to spring. Photo: Seb Daly/Sportsfile
Sport instead becomes a liberation from everyday life, both from its monotony and from its inevitable hardships. The Premier League, with all its bling and excess, is the bread and butter of armchair pundits the world over, and there’s little that can rival the All-Ireland series when summer arrives.
Cheltenham has become an annual escape from the old foe that seems, temporarily at least, to soothe and heal old historical wounds. It puts the nation in a good mood, at least those who can tell one end of a nagger from the other.
In a century that seems to have encountered more crises in its first 23 years than the average millennium could handle, this kind of innocent distraction is a pick-me-up.
Saturday was an excellent example of sport giving us a sense of ourselves that can’t be matched by anything else
But the best came at the weekend.
The Six Nations is the hardy annual that helps us cross the river from winter to spring.
It never lets us down.
I can’t remember a year when it didn’t captivate and absorb me. Even if Ireland was regularly the follower, the wooden spoon was left in hand more often than is polite to mention.
Triple Crowns were the holy grail of my childhood and, being rare, were considered truly wonderful.
A Grand Slam was again several levels higher – and as likely as spying on a hen at the dentist.
But here we are. Caught in the glow after Saturday’s exploits. An excellent example of sport giving us a sense of ourselves that can’t be matched by anything else.
It has a way of instilling the kind of pride that doesn’t come before a fall, but rather the kind that sustains us on those inevitable days when life is challenging.
Wonderful.