Tony the barman slams the shot glass down on that particular piece of mahogany most adjacent to my left ear. My left ear which is at that moment cushioning my head in a pool of stale liquor. The familiar percussion of glass on bartop rouses me.

"Whadds the story, Tony?" I say. "Whadds the story?"

Tony carries a switchblade behind the bar in case I cut up rough and start pumping him full of it with facts about dope in sport. Got me barred from most of the dumps along this stretch. No intention of messing with Tony.

"Whadda story yourself, you got no work to be doing?" he says.

I've been running from this, but Tony, he's got family and all that baggage and wants to get away. Workaday sap, I think bitterly, but I don't say nothing out loud.

"Yeah, sure I got work to do. Sure I have. I gotta column to write. I'm still somebody."

I wipe the dribble from my chin. Tony blinks, turns and adjusts the rusty horseshoe hanging above the mirror behind the bar. Keeps tipping over upside down and spilling all the luck out.

"Go do your work," says Tony, "get outta here and do work. It's getting bright outside."

"Give me something to wash this down with, willya." I knock back the glass of Four Roses. Feel a column coming on. Anything to take the edge off the morning. Hot shot bastard editors will be on the case soon. Last chance saloon and all that heavy stuff.

"Ya even know what you're goin' to write about?" Tony mutters, shaking his head.

He steals a look at his wristwatch as he tips the tequila into the glass. Thinks I don't notice him looking at his wristwatch. Sneaky homebird.

"Ya even know what your doin'?" he says. Louder this time.

"Yeah, sure I know," I tell him. And I'm lifting my head out of the wet, wiping my ear with my sleeve. "Sure I know. I'm gonna tell it like it is, Tone. Sport is shagged. Sport is dead. Sport, my little measure-cheating friend, is a goner."

"That's what you write every week," he says, "people get sick of it."

"Yeah. Like you'd know," I say. "What makes you such a hot shot expert media consultant goddamned Marshal MacLuhan know-all type. Who died and made you Fintan O'Toole for the day? Huh?"

"I'm just saying," says Tony, not backing off, "that people need something to believe in. Ya could write something positive once in a while. Must be something good."

"Tell me about it," I say. "Nothing good under heaven and earth. No heroes left, Tony. Sport is a jungle with little moral pygmies running around in it, Tone. It's a dirty job, but somebody has to do it. What's your story?"

HE HITS me with it then. Paid £200 for a pair of hurling final tickets. The credit union still has him in a headlock since the last World Cup. He's doing extra shifts to go to Brussels. Dreamy saps like Tony can't be saved.

"Tell ya what I want," says Tony. "I want to not know how much Phil Babb gets paid and what will happen when his contract finishes. I don't want to worry about where swimmers get their muscles. I get a temperature when I read about the business of sport. I want to believe."

"Yeah Tony. And I wanted Adi Roche for president. Dream on flower child."

"Shut up a minute now, dogbreath. I don't want to be forced to do the Mexican wave in Lansdowne and I don't want to believe in the Clare Shout. I'm not a halfwit. I don't want to buy Nike runners off Michael Jordan or Oki printers off Mick McCarthy. I just would like to be able to be allowed buy tickets to see them at work."

"I don't see your point, Tony."

"Shut it wiseass. Listen and learn. I don't want to be held to ransom by Sky Sports. I don't want to listen to the Celtic Warrior boasting. I don't want to be bitter about executive boxes. I don't need to know about Roy Keane and his next door neighbour."

"But Tony, I've been saying all that . . ."

"I don't want stupid dances and celebrations after footballers score. I don't want athletics to be dirty. I don't want Don King anywhere on the premises. I don't want rugby to die. I hate agents and I hate public relations types and I hate sponsor's advertising on jerseys."

"Just let me interrupt here, Tony. Newsflash Tony."

"No. I hate hype and groundless transfer speculation. I hate contrived sports events. I hate GAA players fighting. I hate awards ceremonies and I hate that nearly all sport is for somebody else. If you're just an ordinary Joe, who will sell you a ticket? They'll sell you everything except a ticket to be there. The jersey, the computer game, the bumper sticker, the dedicated credit card. I'm a fan, not a customer."

"I hate those things too, Tony. I could cry Tony. I hate all those things too. Welcome to my world. Don't bother wiping your feet."

He lifts his finger to his lips. Sssshhh.

"But most of all I hate having it all rammed down my throat by you every Monday morning, ya big fat self-righteous high horse on the moral high ground loser ya. I hate having it all picked apart by some hypocritical, expense account lump who hasn't paid into a game in a decade."

"Oh."

"Give me a hero. Give us the romance. Give us one hero, that's all. Something to believe in. One hero, one thing to hold up to my kids. Something about joy and sweat and pride. Just about the game. Leave us something to believe in. You don't have to pull the stitching out of everything, do ya?"

"Hurling," I say to him. "Believe in that. There's lot of it about, lots of good sport. But you know something, Tony? You are my hero. You're the last real hero left. The last to believe in the good things."

"Go home," he says. "That phoney won't run. I'm starting to feel sick."

"Just goin,"' I say.