Tom Humphrieson the irretrievable breakdown in the relationship between fans and players and administrators who see not failure, only blips
Bad times are depressing but surprisingly eloquent when it comes to telling us the inconvenient truth.
The decision of Philip Browne, the IRFU's most prominent suit, to dismiss the recent green tsunami of mediocrity as a "blip" had lexicographers taking a hard look at the evolving meaning of the word "delusional". No need. Those of us who enjoy watching John Delaney busting out his dazzling variety of sharp moves and dance steps understood the message.
Browne had recently used a contract extension to staple himself to the coat-tails of Eddie O'Sullivan. Detaching himself would have been painful and embarrassing. Staying with the coat-tails as they were escorted through the exit door would have been unthinkable. Hence Ireland had a blip en route to wherever it is they are flying.
There is no need for alarm back in the economy seating. Just a blip. Unfasten your safety belts and move about the cabin. A trolley will move through the aisle soon serving a variety of light refreshments which you can pay for in a variety of ways. Heineken European Cup, anyone?
Bad times. Tonight in Croke Park the Republic of Ireland play out what is essentially a lucrative friendly. For the first time in a generation the national soccer side head into the final stages of a qualification campaign with nothing at stake other than pride and the worry about seedings.
If at times during the past 18 months the whole dog-and-pony show that is Steve Staunton's team has veered strongly towards presenting farce as a staple of its repertoire maybe the problem is with us. We as fans and critics and paying customers should understand that this is merely a blip, a perfectly understandable deviation for those who understand the shifting nuances of the genre. You just don't get it, do you?
It has been an odd and jarringly anticlimactic week to be an Irish sports fan. If it is true we are a nation not of sports lovers but of events junkies this has been a stark period of cold turkey. And the bad times tell us plenty we don't want to know . . . at the moment they are telling us that the sense of connection and commonality we have all felt with teams and stars over the years is corroded permanently by money. We are getting to that stage in our relationship with our sports heroes where it is time to say, tenderly, "It's not me, it's you." The sense of togetherness we thought existed between ourselves and our teams was an illusion. The people who are all in it together are those whose livelihoods and lifestyles depend on keeping the product moving off the shelves.
Stephen Cluxton, of all people, was oddly revealing about this whole business during the week. Cluxton isn't a professional but Gaelic football has on the whole been good to him and if he has been detained for questioning after a series of high-profile errors in big games (a sending off against Armagh, a quick kick-out to a sleepy sub, again against Armagh, and this year's magical mystery tour late in the game against Kerry) it has never detracted from the overall impression of a likeable young man with an extraordinary talent for shotstopping. Those errors have always seemed to suggest, at worst, a man whose passion for the game sometimes outweighs cool reason. He is to the current Dublin side what Charlie Redmond was to Dublin's last All-Ireland-winning team.
Charlie understood the symbiosis between Hill and team better, though. Cluxton, a man who has partaken many times in the current Dublin side's skincrawlingly embarrassing slow walk of homage toward the Hill before big games, was talking this week about the difference between the people who fill out the Hill in the summer and those who troop faithfully after the Dublin team all year round.
"It's funny that you go to a game up in Ballybofey in the mid-winter and you have a handful of supporters there," he said. "You go into Croke Park in the first round and you are playing anybody and it's packed to the gills. You are kind of saying to yourself, 'where are all these coming from and do they even support the game, or are they just looking for a day out?'
"I'm not saying they are all football or rugby supporters or anything like that. I suppose in Dublin, though, you probably have more critics than you have supporters. They don't understand that term, I don't think."
Notwithstanding the prospect of the Dubs doing their slow walk toward The Chosen next time they visit Ballybofey, Cluxton's comments were helpful in terms of parsing the relationship between big-time sport and those who are fans of the big time.
We are customers. There is very little about Dublin's league form in the past half decade that seduces us. Why would anyone free themselves for a day of all domestic, sporting and working involvements in order to make the investment of time and money needed to travel to Ballybofey to watch Dublin play in the league? It's not a journey or destination that regularly makes it onto those lists of 50 Things You Must Do Before You Die.
The competition itself has never been advertised as anything other than a secondary, a skimpy carvery from which teams pick and choose whatever they need in order to nourish themselves for the summer. Nobody has ever pretended otherwise.
In essence what Cluxton said was true though, but what of it? The Dubs, like all teams, attract fair-weather support. That's because big-time sport, even Gaelic football, is a commodity. Customers pay to be part of creating the experience. The vivid theatre to which those who may not understand the term "support" contribute so richly every summer in Croke Park is what pays for the sponsored cars and puts the faces on the billboards.
It's a market. Most of the time those who do the paying rather than the receiving offer enormous goodwill and sentimentality to those who are down on the field. All that is asked is that they do their best and continue to peddle the illusion that we are all in this together. The Barney Syndrome. I Love You, You Love Me. We're A Happy Family.
Cluxton's comments, coming as they do from a top GAA player, a species who occupy a unique middle ground in that they experience the thrilling essence of big-time professional sport while drawing very different but possibly more intrinsic rewards, were unintentionally revealing about the market. Those on the other side of the fence view the market they perform for differently.
The blip experienced by the Irish rugby team was precisely that to those who draw a wage from playing for Ireland. Bad day at the office. It was more than a blip for the thousands who paid long ago for the right to go France or Cardiff to "support" them.
The context and mission statement of Ireland's work through the past few years has been to make a contribution of substance at this World Cup. The product was purchased on that basis.
Ditto with the Ireland soccer team, the collective who rail most passionately against any and all criticism sent in their direction. Stephen Ireland was sitting in Manchester this week fretting as to what obloquy would come his way having offered us in the space of a few days last month the confusing spectacles of, first, Grannygate and, second, his agent quickly renegotiating what was already a lucrative contract at Manchester City.
In his absence it was oddly refreshing to sit in a room at one of the FAI's absurdly controlled press events this week and watch Shane Long shrug his shoulders when asked about the criticism the Ireland team has taken.
Long, the baby of the panel, took harsh words as being all part of a game. If the criticism is sometimes excessive, he said, it is because everyone wants so much for the team to do well. In the context of such a sensible and rational worldview it didn't need to be said that the rewards, too, are always excessive - and it is a long time since we saw or heard a sports star wringing hands in anguish about that one.
These are bad times but they speak to us chidingly. The years when we punched above our weight at sports as disparate as soccer and pro cycling have vanished. With them has gone the sense of us all moving on together as a great and innocent caravan of Irishness, descending with unselfconscious joy on world events and pronouncing ourselves the ambassadors of a great little sporting nation, the best supporters in the world.
What we paid in as customers back then was supposed to be invested in the future of the relationship. It was money we hoped would be ploughed back into perpetuating the good times.
But tonight Ireland are out of the Rugby World Cup and our soccer team play a meaningless game in a ground not their own as they fail for the third time in succession to qualify for a major tournament.
As we wonder where it all went wrong we think of the old dictum about people getting the politicians they deserve. It doesn't work with sports administrators, does it? We get to pay at the turnstiles but not to cast a ballot. We are customers and that is how we are viewed in the business. Do not withdraw your funds; this is just a blip.
It hurts that it took so long for us to wake up. As they say in Vegas, though, if you've been sitting at the table for five minutes and haven't worked out who the sucker is yet, well then it is you. Perhaps we are customers and not supporters. If so there should be no guilt. The good times are all gone and it's time for moving on.
