Though it cannot be sworn to with certainty, a punt would be chanced that it was in Colm O’Rourke’s autobiography, The Final Whistle, that mention was first encountered of the impromptu weekend away hatched by Sean Boylan in between the third and fourth matches between Meath and Dublin in the summer of 1991.
Time would prove, of course, that the aforementioned would be only one of numerous occasions the herbal maestro had to, in his own words, “Pull a rabbit from a hat” to get by the auld enemy. For all intents and purposes, the trip to Scotland – organised with the help of David Beggy who was working in the land of tartan and playing rugby with Currie RFC at the time – was a knees up.
Not that the players had any inclination to that end beforehand. Their only heads up was for them and their wives/partners to assemble at the head office of Kepak Group in Clonee at 5.30am on a Saturday morning, wherefrom the expeditions to the Highlands began. Now the p*** up came late in the evening and well into the Sunday morning, but, the pay off for that was they got the bo***x ran out of them for nigh on three hours on a soccer pitch.
However, something of much greater significance took place within the confines of same which altered the course of Irish history. And not just in a sporting sense either. What was sculpted on that Scottish soccer field over the course of that Saturday afternoon transcended sport. A week thereafter, it would go on record as the greatest goal ever seen in Gaelic football.
Not so much a rabbit from a hat as an elephant entering the room. The mere thought of Kevin Foley scoring a goal – never mind the reality of him actually doing so – would’ve drawn as much hysteria from his own camp as would have been the case with the opposition. Which is exactly how Sean designed it. Apparently, my neighbour’s thought process with everyone’s favourite vet was ‘They (Dublin) won’t be in a hurry to pick you up, so go, and keep going, until they stop you”. Except they didn’t. Nor could they halt Liam Hayes or PJ Gillic or Jinksy, before the latter flashed over the point which prompted ‘The Funeral On The Hill’!
Recalling the above, which will eternally remain the absolute most treasured moment of my entire existence, drew this writer to another comparison which will no doubt be the catalyst for much head scratching, but, to invoke Jim Gavin’s favourite mantra, trust in the process here! For, you see, some of the shock results which have transpired thus far at the PDC World Darts Championships have necessitated pedigree rabbits to be pulled not so much out of hats but hauled up from their very burrows.
What with Scott Williams Cross-ing Rob off the list and Ricky Evans leaving Chizzy (Dave Chisnell) dizzy and spinning for the exit door. This all coming after Madars Razma had taken out one of this writer’s favourites – Dirk Van Duijvinbode.
That, despite the fact that, in the midst of being hampered by illness and injury, the big aubergine farmer had bolted from the starting stalls and into a two set lead.
Thereafter, regrettably for his legion of fans, luck once again deserted Chisnell when he needed it most. Granted, he has always reminded me somewhat of the English soccer team. In terms of chances created, he could have an opponent proverbially kicked into a corner, never converting enough to put them away though.
Alas, for Chizzy, it wasn’t even a case of poor shooting letting him down but a mathematical miscalculation which left the popular thrower eight points shy of what he required and thus destined for the exit door.
And then there’s Ricky Evans. At the outset here, I will admit I love machine gun dart players. In other words, those who don’t hang around. Evans, Michael Van Gerwen, Josh Rock, Van Duijvinbode and there are many more. The flip side of that coin, mind you, involves the likes of Terry Jenkins and Justin Pipe in times past and then you have, say, Peter Wright, Mensur Suljovic and Krzczstof Ratajaski who could double job as experts in the cure of insomnia.
Evans, on the other hand, is a breath of fresh air for the sport. For several reasons. One, that he doesn’t take himself seriously in the slightest. Two, that he is as much about entertainment as doing his actual job. And thirdly but most fundamentally and importantly, because he’s a damn good darts player.
Gut instinct is to think there are certainly a few ahead of him in terms of actually going on to win the event outright, but don’t be at all surprised if he sends more rapidly towards the exits in the meantime.
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