It's a Dad's Life:Sport is breaking my heart, one strike of a hammer at a time. Recently, I have watched Dublin fail to take advantage of a vulnerable Kerry, who eventually went on to stroll through the All-Ireland final.
Following that, the greatest set of Irish rugby players ever to pull on the jersey seem to have suffered a mass embolism in France.
Not only have their performances in the Coupe du Monde appeared comatose, but their reactions to our stunned reactions seem again slightly bewildered, as if they can't understand why we would feel let down or even hurt at their limp displays. I could mention the soccer team, but there's enough maudlin stuff here.
Watching Dublin and Ireland play involves hope and despair. The viewer knows what their side is capable of, and the fact that they can't produce that level of performance when the big questions are asked incenses him. It's a personal insult. A friend who was to travel to Paris for the French game screamed at the TV for the duration of the Georgia disaster: "Come onnnn, lads! I'm coming to see you on Friday, don't let me down!"
The level of despair is in direct proportion to the previous levels of hope. When the Irish rugby team was being whipped out the door in the 1990s, we took it on the chin. But this new breed has teased us with their brilliance, then returned to mediocrity as if to spite us. The opportunity to vicariously share in their glory has been whipped from our grasp and we are resentful.
Last Saturday, I ran the Dublin half marathon in the Phoenix Park. My time was more than six minutes outside the time I had forecast, and I was raging. Later, a friend asked how I got on and I told her about the six minutes. She didn't get it. She looked bemused and wondered aloud about the importance of "six minutes". She has no idea of the hours of preparation for a marathon in November and a target time I am beginning to obsess over. Six minutes is a big deal.
Into this cauldron of simmering fervour and irrationalism that is a life of sporting interests, I have tried to introduce the elder child. For the first time in my own career, I entered a GAA establishment intent on getting involved. When you are merely an observer of Gaelic games, you have no idea of the depth of the Association. Ten minutes in St Vincent's in Marino on the morning they are recruiting the next generation of football and camogie stars and you know you are in bed with a powerful machine.
Hundreds of kids spilled out onto the pitches, with nearly as many trainers to keep them in check. It was a display of organisation and ambition the like of which I have never before seen in amateur Irish sport. The elder was initially keen, but her enthusiasm stalled as she went through the motions without any real appetite. It was a first outing, she knew no one and she wasn't clicking with her camán. I struggled to watch as she shuffled back to me at the end.
Why would I put her through this when the last month has shown me that all she can realistically expect is more disappointment than triumph down the line? Yet, if she shows the smallest flicker of interest I will encourage her every inch of the way. Pushing yourself hard and revelling in others doing the same keeps you ticking over well above idle; sometimes your involvement hurts, but really it's the involvement that's important. I hope the elder picks up that hurl again and is never overcome by disappointment of her own, or attempts by that rugby team to bring her down.
