This article was first published in the Cork Evening Echo in 2006
I hate sports. There’s no more succinct way
of putting it. Whenever sports comes on the television I change the channel. I
dump the sports supplements of newspapers straight in the bin. Sometimes I feel
guilty for the waste of paper, the
sacrifice some tree has made and I try to pass it on to somebody else. Last
Sunday I noticed two squad cars parked outside the newsagent, I started to dump
the supplements I never read: the driving section, the travel pages, the
property supplement and the appointments advert section. I pause before dumping
the sports section. I tap on the squad car’s window and ask the vigilant Garda
Siocana inside if he would like it as I never read it. He politely refuses. I
wonder has he turned it down because 1) he prefers to read the sports
supplement from a different paper 2) he doesn’t want to fraternize with
civilians 3) he thinks I’m trying to chat him up and doesn’t want to encourage
me 4) he is just like me and hates sport. Somehow I think the last option is
the least likely.
I know I am not alone in being a straight
man who hates sport but I also know I’m in a definite miniscule minority.
Everywhere I go I’m interrogated with:
Whatchya think o’ the match bouyyy? There was a match? I reply. My only inkling
that Scotland were playing Ireland recently was when there was a news story
dealing with the chagrin of Scottish fans having to drink in a smoke-free pub.
But exactly what were they fans of? Soccer? Hockey? Tiddley winks? I had no
idea. Many people are astonished at my level of ignorance but it’s amazing how
much of this kind of thing can pass you by when you don’t read the back pages
of the newspaper and switch TV channels as soon as Tony O’Donoghue comes on the
telly. Not that I have anything against Tony O’Donoghue. I went to school with
the guy and know he can be really interesting when he isn’t talking about games
which involve balls or fields of crew-cut grass painted with white lines.
About twelve years ago I met Roy Keane and
I had no idea who he was. I was working in a bookshop at the time. Late one
weekday evening when there weren’t too many customers I was approached at the
desk by this really fit-looking young man with a marvelous Cork accent. He
radiated a peculiar vibe. Academically, it’s interesting how I understood exactly
what that vibe meant because I had never really come across it before. The vibe
meant: I don’t know who you are but you obviously know who I am. Now I have to
make it clear there was nothing arrogant or caca-headed about this vibe. The
young man couldn’t have been more pleasant, well-mannered or respectful. Any
parent would be proud of the demeanour of this young man, but there was the
unmistakable presumption on his part that I knew who he was. Of course I hadn’t
a clue. I thought to myself, well, if
he’s that famous and I haven’t a clue who he is, he must be a sportsman. At
that stage I had no idea that any Cork man played for a major English soccer
team so I presumed he must have been a member of the Cork Hurling or Football
team. I’ve since learned who he was of course. Roy Keane is now iconic,
literally ( a photograph of him hangs in the Crawford Municipal Gallery, the
same photo will feature on the cover of an Irish poetry journal in June) and he
appears on all sorts of non-sports news stories. Plus I have to admit, in spite
of everything, some atavistic tribalist compulsion made sure I took an interest
in Ireland’s participation in the last two world cups – all without reading the
back pages of newspapers mind.
Generally I get very peeved when sports
stories start appearing on the front pages of newspapers – don’t the feckers
have enough space at the back I reason.
Occasionally sport impinges in a
pleasurable way on my life. Theo Dorgan, the Cork poet, has written a very good
poem about some hurler who, funnily enough has the same name as the bridge next
to the Opera House. In the poem he discusses the legendary skill of this
apparently famous hurler. What’s most impressive to me of course is the poetic
skill with which Dorgan describes the hurler.
Another pleasurable sporting experience was
when I walked into a pub in Barrack Street and noticed all the male customers
staring at the television set like zombies. I looked to see what was so
hypnotic and got hooked myself. It was the middle of Wimbledon and there was
this very nice looking young woman making all sorts of interesting movements
across the screen. Soon a pair of names flashed up. One I’ve
forgotten forever, the other etched itself onto my brain: Anna Kournikova.
I don’t think there were too many tennis fans in the pub that day. I’ve since
learnt Anna Kournikova isn’t actually a good tennis player, however I didn’t
learn it from Tony O’Donoghue or the back pages of a newspaper.
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