SOME YEARS ago, when the world was a more innocent place than it is today, a young Pat O'Callaghan and his brother set off on a sunny summer morning from their home in Tipperary to travel to Ballinasloe or some such abandoned outpost in the west.

They had joy in their hearts and trusty Raleigh All Steel bicycles with them and athletic talents beyond the ordinary.

Pat was to become a dual Olympic gold medal winner. But before that the fraternal pair had serious business. At "the sports" in Ballinasloe they made significant inroads into the trophies on the table in regard to the matter of throwing things and sprinting and jumping over things. They had a fine day out.

Among the trophies was an item called a rose bowl. Pat was to speculate afterwards that it was something which a local shop had failed to get rid of and took the easy option of donating it as a prize in "the sports". His brother won it and with other items like alarm clocks and useless barometers and enamel buckets the attractive prizes of the day - they set off for home as the sun began to set.

On their way home they heard music and laughter in the dusk of the evening and stopped to join young people like themselves in a village hall where they danced the hours away until they decided that parental concern, not to mention disapproval, was likely to spoil the occasion if they did not head for home; which they did.

A hearty breakfast many hours earlier and a "feed" of bacon and cabbage in the afternoon had set them up foodwise for the day but, as the new sun began to shine in their faces as they headed east, the pangs of hunger began to gnaw.

Travelling in the open countryside they came across some blackberries which helped to slake both thirst and hunger for a while but big, burly young men were not to be satisfied by such morsels and lack of sleep and hunger itself become more urgent.

Finally they stopped to review the situation. No houses were to be seen, no hotels or such like and being men of modest means in any event they had no alternative but to depend on the fruits of the field to assuage their hunger.

Pat's brother soon found use for the rosebowl and he skipped over a hedge by which he had propped his Raleigh and quietly approached a cow who co operated by allowing him fill his rosebowl with milk.

Pat, not to be outdone skipped across the stone wall on the other side of the rural road and uprooted a few turnips which he cleaned and peeled with a pen knife (another prize) and the two breakfasted by the roadside on sweet warm milk and sweet cold turnips before resuming their journey home. Is maith an tanlann an t-ocras.

It is difficult in these times to equate that idyllic description of a then common place experience in the lives of young sportsmen in Ireland of the Twenties and Thirties.

For all its hyped up drama the film "Chariots of Fire" had moments within it which illustrated this same lovely innocence and the deep love which athletes had for their sport.

A few weeks ago a television crew stood outside the Gaelic Grounds in Limerick after the drawn match in the Munster hurling final between Limerick, and Tipperary for what the business of TV calls "vox pops". They recorded a brief interview with a captivated visitor from India who was loud in his praise of the hurling he had seen for the first time, its beauty and its skills.

What he could not understand however, was the fact that the players were not paid for their efforts in that gripping classic.

And now we have the sordid events which have marred what should be the greatest celebration of sport that is possible the Olympic Games. Leave aside the furore about Michelle Smith, leave aside the unfortunate Sonia O'Sullivan or the allegations about whether or not Marie McMahon took some cough drops.

Consider instead the unseemly squabbling between the members of the back up team for the Irish team in Atlanta. Is there nobody out there capable of keeping whatever problems which have arisen "within the family" until everybody gets home and we can sort the whole thing out? Why are there so many apparent factions within the official back up team?

Why can one official cite "patient doctor" ethics as a reason for being circumspect, and then launch into a tirade of abuse about a fellow official?

Sadly, my personal and longstanding admiration for Bill O'Herlihy has suffered because of some of the inquisitional attitudes he has taken up on certain matters on RTE's otherwise excellent coverage of the Games.

But that is not all. What has sport come to when it becomes necessary for the game of cricket to be dragged kicking and spitting through the English court system? How can it be that the Golfing Union of Ireland has to lecture its clubs, and by extension its members, about "hookey handicaps"? Why is the oldest rugby competition in the world tearing itself apart because of filthy lucre?

And where is it all going to end? Will nobody stand up to the television moguls? Will no governing body of sport say that television cannot be allowed to hijack the glory?

Who will replace the friendship, the love of the game for the game itself? Who will give us back the spirit which got Pat O'Callaghan and his brother out of their beds in Clonmel in the early morning to compete for rosebowls and pen knives and be blissfully happy with milk and turnips for breakfast?

As Sean O'Casey put into the mouth of the innocent Moll in The Plough and the Stars. "Is there nobody left at all Mrs Gogan with a tither of wit?"

There are a lot of questions there and few answers. But the answers must be found. There are nasty people out there who care nothing for milk and turnips. That is their problem, but we who might enjoy the frugal delights of such a repast need to be aware of the dangers which unmitigated greed can bring upon us all and, in doing so, deprive us of a precious heritage. Somebody must shout "Stop".