THERE ARE times when we should all get down on our knees and thank the Lord for the GAA. Because even when planet earth herself is staring down the barrel of a very large and very loaded shotgun, the Gael alone does not blink, writes Keith Duggan
If, on one of these dark and apocalyptic mornings, a grave and teary Bryan Dobson were to appear on an emergency news bulletin to announce a meteorite was headed for earth and was expected to land smack bang in the middle of O'Connell Street, you could imagine the pandemonium. Thousands would flee. Ryanair would launch an irreverent ad campaign. The farmers and taxi drivers would strike. Brian Cowen would deliver a "farewell to nation" address on the steps of the Dáil, signing off with a warbling version of The Rare Oul' Times.
And the GAA would calmly issue the following statement: Because of the anticipated disruption caused by foreign bodies, Sunday's O'Byrne Cup game between Dublin and Meath has been switched to Dr Cullen Park, Carlow (Referee to be appointed).
Global meltdowns come and go but the GAA keeps trundling along. That was surely the message the Gaels sent out on Wednesday night when they held next year's All-Ireland championship draw live on television.
In these wild and hysterical times, the sight of Marty Morrissey and the boys, all kitted out in their smart but casual wear and smiling at us as though everything were fine and dandy, must have moved many an Irishman and Irishwoman to tears.
Michael Lyster, we were never so glad to see ya! Dazed, we watched them talking about the ramifications of Westmeath versus the winner of Longford/Wicklow, which, they told us with big, country smiles, will be played next year. Next year!
We looked at these men, so robust and hardy handsome following week after week of lily-livered bankers and cold-eyed EU bureaucrats, in the hope that they knew something the rest of the world did not.
Do they in the GAA really believe there is going to be a next year? Do they not listen to the news? By next year, a loaf of bread is going to cost roughly 118 quid. The world is just a few dodgy votes and a single cardiac arrest away from having the Baked Alaskan herself as president of the US of A. The way the world is lurching these days, by this time next year, Barack Obama could be flipping burgers at a McDonald's in Tullamore.
There will be no more banks, just bank executives. The M50 will be completely traffic free because nobody will be driving cars because oil will have risen to $100,000 a barrel. And the dollar will have ceased to exist as a currency anyhow.
Reality has bitten the humble Irish. No longer do we deceive ourselves that we are a nation of skiers and property moguls. None of us, except for Bono, Pat Kenny and Preacher Fitzpatrick from Anglo Irish Bank will own homes anymore.
And the GAA's answer to all of this: Meath versus Dublin. In Croke Park (presuming, that is, the GAA can still pay the mortgage on the old place). The Royals and the Dubs: the mouth-watering classic of old. Sure if that doesn't get you excited, nothing will.
And you want to believe it. You do. But these are hard times. It has reached that time of year when children are writing away to the Man in Red, scribbling their Christmas wishes in their adorable, spidery hand-writing. Celtic Tiger offspring, reared on the birthright that Santa is fond of delivering flashy, not to say outrageously ostentatious, gifts to the darlings of the Emerald Isle.
Oh, it will be a bittersweet experience, the old letter-to-the-North Pole ritual this autumn. Already, the excuses are forming in the dark recesses of adult minds. Santa didn't make it, son, we will say grimly to the little faces staring in shock around the empty room.
"Didn't make it, Dad?"
"No son. It was, ah, the global warming, see. The sleigh was so weighed down and the runway was soft . . . the ice broke . . . they got Prancer and Blitzen but the Big Guy went down with the ship."
No, the darlings will have to make do with a plastic football and a packet of those Irish toffees that will have them chewing in stoic silence until late March. It will make for a bleak festive period. But fear not, for in the dark of winter there is always the distant prospect of Derry v Monaghan to warm our hearts. At least we can dream about how Kilkenny will pass the time between now and the Leinster hurling semi-final.
But then, we get nervous again. Because aren't we being told every single day that the world as we know it has changed? That Uncle Sam is on his knees. Europe is buckling. The Market - that mythological beast - has gone schizoid and the pillars of capitalism are crumbling and we are all doomed. The Chinese are coming. There are 1.3 billion of them, you know. We all saw what they did to the Olympic Games once they decided to show an interest. If the Chinese ever take up hurling, the Cats could be in trouble.
In fact, there is probably a crack unit of budding "Cha"' Xiangs out there in the Gangsu province right now, training 18 hours a day, solemnly mastering the disappearing arts like the overhead strike. Doubtless they have translated 700 million copies of Val Dorgan's book on Ring and have faithfully learned off all of Christy's bon mots. It is no accident that Henry has become the most popular name for all newborns in China.
Here we are getting hot and bothered at the thought of Galway entering the Leinster championship. Listen, the way the world is going, by the summer of 2009, Shanghai could be favourites for the Leinster championship. With Ger Loughnane as their coach.
We are all fearful. We are all a little unhinged. At the Lotto machine the other day, an old lady spent five solid minutes giving out hell about Congress and the bailout and poor Hank Paulson having to go down on his knees. She said it was all Maggie Thatcher's fault and it would all be different if Dev were still around. She said she had to race home in time to get the Angelus live because her Sky Plus was on the blink.
We walk around in a state of paranoia, talking about John McCain and the sinking yen. And then Cyril Farrell comes on television and looks at us with his clear gaze and talks about Clare versus Waterford as though he hadn't a care in the world. Cyril talks as if the state of the Japanese stock exchange doesn't matter a hoot to him.
And you think: maybe! Maybe we can all get through this. Maybe, yet again, the GAA have pulled a stroke of genius. Because if you behave as if the world is not, after all, about to explode out of pure despair at human greed and stupidity, then perhaps the worst will not come to pass. For sure, the Celtic Tiger is dead and it turns out Bob Geldof was right all along: that this place is nothing but a Banana Republic - oh, and have you seen the state of Fyffes on the ISEQ anyhow.
But the GAA are showing the way! Our poor beleaguered planet may be on the brink of chaos and anarchy but the GAA have come up with the boldest rescue plan of all. For they have dipped into the trusty drum of fate and plucked out Armagh to meet Tyrone in the first round of the Ulster football championship. The venue has yet to be fixed but it will be Clones. It must be Clones!
Try telling the good people of Clones that the economy is terminally damaged and see the reception you get.
It is simple really: the world cannot melt because the GAA have declared that Armagh must meet Tyrone next May. If that does not restore confidence to the market, then nothing will.
Buckle up! We just might make it after all.
