The sort of sporting pride that sustains us when life is a challenge

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.

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.