As somebody who has been strapped into the rollercoaster that is mental health battles for longer than one cares to remember, the concept of a likelihood of playing into the wind at specific times of the year is all too familiar. Indeed, there are parts of life which, though they might set the pulse racing in one way, pull at the heart strings in another.
Exhibit A: Farming – as much as affairs of the land always have been and will be a huge part of my life, there is a percentage of me longing to get back actively involved in farming as was the case around a decade ago and pondering whether it will ever actually happem.
Exhibit B: Racehorse – Now, to some extent this itch has been scratched by way of getting involved with Owners Group Racing in the UK. And yes, of course it’s absolutely a dream come true to even own a few hairs in the tail end of a horse trained by Paul Nicholls.
However, even that wouldn’t top having a steed run in my own silks trained by one of Noel Meade, Jim Dreaper or Gordon Elliott. A bit like the tortoise and the hare – don’t ask me how it will happen but it will.
Exhibit C: GAA – And so we arrive at the epicentre of the emotional volcano the eruption of which has been bubbling under the surface for the last while. Now, unless you’ve been under the sea somewhere, you’ll be acutely aware of what a central tenet our national games are of what makes the road of life negotiable.
Good days mean so much more than the nuts and bolts of what goes on within the white lines. Bad outings linger for days, maybe longer, until there’s a chance to saddle up again and go for atonement.
When the bad days arise because the team one has a vested interest in didn’t perform to the levels desired or expected, at a certain point each year, there are ponderings as to whether far away hills might indeed be greener.
Specifically, once the provincial and All Ireland Club Championships click into gear. Simply because my own club, with its size and profile and the demographics of the area should be at the very least aiming to and be capable of winning the county championship every year. Not clinging onto status by a rapidly wearing thread. Especially when you at the circumstances of some of those who have lifted the Andy Merrigan Cup. Some only once, but others multiply so.
Now, even as a starting point for wishful analysis, consider that the populations and/or catchment areas of the likes of Crossmaglen or Kilcoo or Caltra or Corofin would most likely fit into Dunboyne several times over. Yet they can play football from the Gods, run up strings of consecutive county titles and garnered at least All Ireland title (multiples thereof in a few cases) whereas, at the time of typing, the Keegan Cup has only spent three Christmases in the parish in our entire history. No further comment in the interest of safety…
Mind you, judging by the attitude of the hierarchy in recent years, what should be the greatest day in the GAA’s calendar has now become an inconvenient afterthought. I mean, we are being told ad nauseum for decades that the club is the centre of the organisation’s universe.
Flying in the face of such a mantra, though, is the hideous spectacle of playing the closing stages of the best, fairest and thereby most important competition the Association runs at a time of year and in weather which is such that you quite literally wouldn’t have put a dog out.
Basically, what’s now in place is a scenario which is neither chicken nor egg. It’s been taken out of what was its traditional and perfectly fitting slot, St Patrick’s Day, and surely the only half decent idea behind that would be to conclude the Club Championships within the calendar year, but of course no, the GAA had to go half assed about it and do neither one thing or the other.
To be fair to the four clubs involved in the senior club finals last weekend, they produced a terrific day’s entertainment in spite of the vile climatic conditions. Though as seems to be the case with many major GAA matches these days, the cordite of controversy blew up yet again. Put simply, if you’re going to embrace technology, do it fully or don’t do it all.
Had it existed it 2010, there’s no way Joe Sheridan’s goal against Louth would’ve stood. Bad as that was however – for everybody outside of Meath – if those operating it were allowed put its full capabilities to use on Sunday last, there’s a considerable case for saying O’Loughlin Gaels would now be custodians of the Tommy Moore Cup.
By the way, the above observation is in no way a criticism of Fintan Burke and/or St Thomas’. Like the Meath lads all those years ago, they did what every player is taught from the time they can lace up a boot – play to the whistle.
What were they supposed to do? Say “Ah here, sorry ref, you made (another) cock up there”. Not a hope, always play the whistle. For what it’s worth, I think Fintan did take the ball behind the line – despite very delecate areas on his person aiding efforts to avoid doing so.
That dithering umpires couldn’t decipher as such wasn’t the fault of Burke or anybody else. Either use HawkEye for all contentious incidents or not at all.
Leave a Reply