Our columnist is getting in ‘up for the match’ mood – but is happy to leave the big trip up to Croke Park to more die-hard Rebels
• ‘CONNOLLY,’ I replied to my husband the other day, with about as much certainty as I could muster, given that I actually hadn’t a clue what I was talking about.
He had challenged me to name a player on the Cork senior hurling team to prove that I was worthy of throwing my name into the hat (whatever hat that was) to get an All-Ireland ticket. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked.
I wasn’t, but somewhere in the dark deep recesses of my brain I thought my namesake was among the 15 (or is it 12? See, I’ve no clue). ‘Actually I meant Connell,’ I said trying to read his facial expressions but he was giving nothing away. ‘No, wait, O’Connell, or maybe O’Connor ...?’ I ventured. He just looked at me disdainfully, and walked off, taking with him any chance, faint and all as it was, of me going ‘up for the match’.
• To be honest I wasn’t all that bothered. I’m one of those relatively rare souls who has no real interest in sport of any kind, be it GAA, soccer, rugby, whatever. I totally appreciate the dedication required to be part of a team, the camaraderie that it involves and the exhilaration when things go well (and devastation when it doesn’t), but I’m happy to let other people at it and keep the bench warm. I think it comes back to the fact that I don’t have a competitive bone in my body (which an armchair psychologist might suggest comes back to a fear of failure. Who knows?) Either way, in my world I’d love everyone to get a medal after a match, for the vibe to be all ‘jolly hockey sticks’ and for us all to sit down, join hands, and blast out a verse of Kumbaya when the final whistle blows. To be honest I can barely handle the pressure of watching an under-8 football match, that’s how much of a wuss I am.
• It’s not surprising, so, that I’ll rarely if ever sit down to watch a match at home, and if I do, I can guarantee you that I’ll be out for the count in 10 minutes flat, and yes, that includes Sunday night’s Euro final (although the rest of the family’s roars of excitement did make that a bit tricky).
The only exception is that if my local club, Argideen Rangers, reaches the dizzy heights of a county final. In that case I’m all in, head to toe in our colours, flags hanging out my ears, the works, which I suppose makes me one of those awful ‘fair weather’ supporters. At least I know enough to know that I don’t know enough, so I keep all opinions to myself, which doesn’t make me as annoying as the hurler on the ditch. Joking aside, I know the atmosphere in Croker on Sunday will be absolutely dynamite but I wouldn’t dream of taking a coveted spot from the diehards who live for days like this.
• Besides, since we beat Limerick, the fans have all been through enough trying to secure their safe passage into the Hogan Stand or Hill 16. There’s been covert meetings taking place at crossroads in the dead of the night and at dawn, deals being done behind dressing room doors, in farmyards, down cul-de-sacs. People are demented trying to track down long lost relatives (no matter how distant) or renew friendships with anyone with ‘connections’ who may have a few freebies going a-begging. Literally no stone has been left unturned and at the end of the day it’s a case of every man and woman for themselves. At one point it struck me that it would nearly be less hassle to actually tog off and play the game, than be a supporter!
Playing Lego can turn into a real project, with bricks colour-coded as Emma got right back into it! (Photo: Shutterstock)
• So anyway, while everyone else was taken up with trying to secure a golden ticket this week, mine got accidentally taken up with something else entirely – organising our Lego. The project happened entirely by accident when on one of our slower days, we started remaking an old Lego set, but it was beyond frustrating trying to locate all the bits and pieces that were all mixed in together in one huge, chaotic mess. There was nothing for it we decided, we’d have to colour code the lot.
By we, I mean me of course – my sidekick hasn’t inherited my OCD tendencies and thank the lord for that.
So I started off full of purpose and optimism and was even dividing things into sub categories (for example we had blue, but also teal, turquoise, navy... I was in deep). I was fly ing it, until it was time to make dinner.
So, that was on Tuesday.
I’d love to say that at this stage we’re over the line. We’re not.
We’re not even within throwing distance of the line. The piles are just as I left them, on the floor inflicting great injury every time I step on a piece, which is quite often. I’m now contemplating scooping the whole lot up, putting them back where I found them (or in the bin) and never speaking of this fiasco again. The whole thing reminded me of the time, when at the start of lockdown I tipped my entire wardrobe on the floor of my bedroom, walked around it for the duration, and then just shoved it all back in again. Does Marie Kondo do house calls I wonder?
• Anyway, I’m deliberately not mentioning the weather but now that we’re on the topic ... it’s all over the place isn’t it? Bonkers. Seeing as I’ve already outed myself as an odd ball, I’d nearly take this mixed bag instead of a heatwave. Just saying. Oh, and by the way, a quick Google has revealed that I was right about a Connolly being on the team. So there. Maybe, I’ll watch the game after all.
Remind me again ... is it hurling or football?
