Well, there's no point in being coy is there? As you all are no doubt aware, a significant anniversary is in the offing. Yes, desist for a moment from your frantic bunting making, your shady collusions in the matter of surprise parties and parades, your fretting as to how to mark the occasion with the appropriate levels of dignity and celebration and just pause for a little thought and reflection.
That's right, in a couple of weeks myself and, His Eminence, The Rugby Correspondent will celebrate eight years on the staff of this, the world's greatest newspaper. Eight years toiling in the vineyards of truth. Eight years trampling the grapes of rumour and innuendo and pressing what will become, with the help of our skilled friends on the sub-editing desk, the fine wine of words which you sip with your Rice Krispies every morning.
And, you know my friends, somewhere amidst the hoopla and razzmatazz of the next few weeks (and I do sometimes wonder if we aren't losing sight of the true meaning of Tom and Gerry Day, what with all this commercialism?) somewhere, sometime in the next few weeks somebody, perhaps a fellow member of the literati or maybe even one of you, one of the little people, an ordinary Seosaimh Six-Pack, will tug my sleeve and ask a question.
Tom, you will say, in all your years, man and boy Tom, man and boy, in all your years as a truth teller, as an oracle, as a soothsayer, as a tribal poet, as a light giver, in all those years Tom what was the most significant story you covered? What for you, Yoda, best summed up the state of Irish sport in these momentous times.
And in all likelihood I will lay down my cigarette holder and thoughtfully run my index finger, the very finger I type with, over the rim of my Martini glass and with an almost imperceptible nod bid the orchestra to hush, yes, hush for just a minute boys. And as the sounds of revelry subside only the whirring of my mind and the shallow breathing of the audience will be audible.
Was it the incident in Ballybofey when the four Dubs went to the disco in Jackson's Hotel on the eve of a game and became known in their martyrdom as the Disco Four? Was it the case of the Galway footballer, the referee and the 4,000 visually impaired people who went to a club match? Was it the mysterious disappearance and re-materialisation of Eamonn Coleman in Derry? The Louth v Laois punch-up in Croke Park a few years ago? Was it Ger Loughnane and the crazy Clare Power summer of '98?
And as the pregnant silence of my contemplations becomes unbearable, as my good friends in RTE, the national broadcaster, break into regular programming to cover the occasion of my reply, as peasants in the fields lay down their scythes and walk slowly towards the radio, I will smile and begin, with typical humility and wisdom, with a tale drawn from my travels overseas, from my time in the new world.
Yes, my dear friends, there is nothing in all my years covering the Irish sports scene which compares with one season of watching the National Football League of America, the absolute Gomorrah of world sport. We Irish, a simple and loveable race, have many miles to go and many promises to break before we can compete on this level.
It began here in Chicago, the town which currently plays Elba to my Napoleon. Cade McNown, the quarterback of the local Bears, was done back before Christmas for parking in handicapped parking spaces, becoming known in the city as MotorCade McNown.
It was a modest start to an NFL season which would culminate gloriously with journalists asking the owner of the winning Superbowl team what it was like to regularly be accused of murdering her sixth husband and with Ray Lewis, the franchise player of the Baltimore Ravens, becoming involved in an incident on Superbowl weekend which would culminate in him being indicted this week on two counts of murder.
Even in this league where cheating is so rampant that no linebacker or tackle need come to work unless he is a Colossus of 'Roids and where the "character" issue has become so blurry that one in five NFL players is a convicted felon, this was a bumper season.
Ray Lewis wasn't even the first NFL player to be charged with murder this season. Rae Carruth of the Carolina Panthers is waiting trial on charges of murdering his pregnant girlfriend, accusations which if true may eventually distinguish Carruth as a modern genius of crime. The accusation is that he drove his car in front of his girlfriend's car while speaking on his mobile phone to the goons two cars behind whom he had hired to carry out the hit. Don't they teach about alibis in the NFL?
And there was more of course. Take this list compiled by Sports Illustrated last week. Jumbo Elliot of the New York Jets awaits trial on assault charges. His former team-mate, Matt O'Dwyer, is charged with kicking out a police car window during the same incident. Superbowl winners St Louis Rams missed linebacker Leonard Little for most of the season after his conviction for killing a woman while driving under the influence. Steve Muhammud of the Indianapolis Colts is charged with two counts of battery against his pregnant wife, who died from injuries sustained in a car accident 10 days after his arrest. Two Buffalo Bills players are charged with sexual assault on two off-duty police officers (nice going fellas). Miami Dolphins running back Cecil Collins is up on two counts of burglary.
Caroline Panthers running back Fred Lane was arrested a fortnight ago on drug and weapons charges. Kansas City Chiefs Star Tamarick Vanover was named 13 times in an FBI investigation into an alleged drug distribution ring. All this and the handicapped parking spaces scandal.
We may yet build the Bertie Bowl and Stade Saint Bernard to house the little smattering of professional sports which we permit ourselves to indulge in. But do we have the penitentiaries to hold the big stars? Do we think that the odd head-butting incident in a night-club really cuts the mustard? Are the mere amateurs in the GAA committing enough crime to consider turning pro?
Go my friends, enjoy Tom and Gerry Day, but count your blessings before you send the telegrams and gifts.
