Pass me my waders, I’m going in. Just what was it about the Ireland rugby team beating New Zealand last Saturday that seemed to annoy so many people?
There seems to be an insatiable appetite among followers of the various round ball codes popular in this country to denigrate the achievements of our international rugby team.
No sooner had the final whistle gone on Saturday evening than I was accosted with messages, privately and via Twitter, scoffing at the scenes of jubilation at the final whistle, scoffing at the lap of honour, and scoffing indeed at the entire idea of rugby ‘friendlies’ being treated with such deadly seriousness.
The fact of the matter is that New Zealand really, really wanted to win on Saturday
I would be inclined to ask a lot of questions as to how we’ve never managed to win a World Cup quarter-final in a sport that only has nine countries currently taking it all that seriously. I have some issues with the national residency rules as they pertain in rugby at the moment.
But I also really, really enjoy watching Ireland teams beat the best team in the world in their chosen endeavour. This isn’t exactly the greatest contradiction in philosophical history, is it?
The fact of the matter is that New Zealand really, really wanted to win on Saturday. Ireland really, really wanted to win too. They showed up at the appointed time to play a game under the agreed auspices of World Rugby at a stadium with over 50,000 people in it who all really cared about the result, and presumably the 900,000-plus people who watched the last few minutes on television had more than a passing interest in it as well.
That’s almost a million people who have showed some element of interest in the final score, without taking into account the entire population of New Zealand, who follow every move of their national team with the sort of rapt attention more usually given to K-pop starlets.
Regardless of anything else, isn’t that enough? It might not matter as much as a World Cup quarter-final, but it mattered. Burrow down deep enough, and you’ll probably find a part of yourself saying that none of... this (*waves hands vaguely to encompass the entire sporting world and its ancillary parts*) matters.
I mean, what's the point of Ireland finally breaking its quarter-final duck at the 2047 Rugby World Cup if climate change has ensured that the entire fabric of human existence as we now know it has been ripped to pieces? It would be one in the eye to the Twitter edge-lords though, you'd have to admit – if they aren't all under water by then.
If New Zealand lost a little more often, I’d be inclined to buy this idea that they don’t really care about games like this. But, like Old Firm managers, they’re always only two losses away from a crisis.
If the protagonists care, then the result matters. That’s just the way it is. I remember one January at the beginning of this century, when I was a teenager playing for the Milltown senior Gaelic footballers. We decided in our wisdom to play our near-neighbours Dunmore MacHales in a Sunday morning challenge game. It was cold, it was wet, and if 90 per cent of the players hadn’t been out drinking the night before, it was bloody close to 90 per cent.
The game began at a torpid, almost comatose pace. It became clear to all concerned that this will be the most pre-seasonish of pre-season friendlies. After a number of minutes, however, some confusion builds.
One of the Dunmore midfielders has refused to take off his tracksuit top. It’s pretty much the exact same shade of green as his team-mates’ jerseys, but our midfielder, my teammate, is not amused. Apparently our man believes that this laissez-faire attitude to uniform demeans the entire fixture. Some jawing ensues.
Was there any other reason I risked life and limb 20 years ago in a challenge game against Dunmore, aside from a cold man refusing to take off his tracksuit top?
Moments later, our man tries to rip the tracksuit top off his opponent. All hell breaks loose. What had started the morning as an early-season loosener has now assumed all the deadly seriousness of a championship Sunday.
Blows are exchanged, bitter words too. I feel sufficiently far enough away from the main theatre of war to suggest to my Dunmore marker that we negotiate a side-treaty. This is a drama currently being played out far from our field of influence (over 60 yards, at least). If we stick together, we might just live to see the end of this.
The game ends, the victory has been secured, I survive unscathed, and make hesitant enquiries to try and find out if there was some previous incident which may have sparked this conflict between our man and their man. And – obviously – they used to play rugby together, they are good friends. There will be no further explanation forthcoming, apart from the wider, too-wide-for-the-naked-eye-to-comprehend explanation, which is that we’re all absolutely insane to begin with.
Was there any other reason I risked life and limb 20 years ago in a challenge game against Dunmore, aside from a cold man refusing to take off his tracksuit top? What the hell kind of question is that to ask? We showed up to play, so we played. It’s nothing new. In fact, it’s what sport is all about in the first place.
