One of the endearing Irish traits is the propensity for gross generalisation and wild exaggeration. Take Johnny Sexton, the captain of the Irish rugby team who after Ireland beat the New Zealand All Blacks said, and I quote: “I bet you we have four million at home up for breakfast, probably having a couple of pints watching us,” I appreciate Johnny was deliriously excited, but those words are gross, reflecting an unwelcome caricature regarding the Irish: that we’re are a nation of drinkers. And implied therein is that we spent the weekends gorging on Guinness, spuds and sport.
Here, I must cite a favourite mantra: truth, beautiful truth and statistics. The TV viewing figures for a typical international rugby match when Ireland play is around 600,000 and this relates to matches played in the late afternoon. If 1 in 10 of those watching drank Guinness at breakfast that morning, Johnny would be exaggerating by a factor of 70, and that’s wild! My statistical senses were assailed.
As commendable as Ireland’s rarefied rugby victory is, it wasn’t the main event of that sporting weekend; that honour belongs to the All Ireland Hurling Final where Limerick wearing the green of the Irish rugby team defeated Kilkenny in their amber and black stripes. It was a bad weekend for wearing black.
With all due respect to hurling, it’s not a great spectacle sport. The scoring is ridiculous. They were 60 scores in 70 minutes; that’s too frequent, scores should be harder to come by; at that rate supporters get multiple heart palpitations which may be dangerous especially at 40 degrees heat. Also advancements in technology of the hurling stick combined with that of the musculature of men means the guys are hitting the ball far longer than before; soon they’ll be able to puck the ball from their goal and go the full distance: it’ll become a pucking contest. And it’s not always easy to see the ball.
TV viewing figures claim 770, 000 persons watched the hurling final which is more than the rugby international and rightly so for for rugby is rough, there’s so much unseen brutal stuff taking places in the front row, too many stoppages for penalties, injuries and setting up scrums that it’s painful. Just not a good spectacle.
And as for the other sporting event of the weekend, don’t get me started. Any game which has a playing implement called a wood is asking for irony. Golf is the game where the players hit the hard little ball with the wood and it goes into the trees; it’s called not knowing the wood from the trees. Lost balls, hard balls, failure to get birdies: enough said. The whole of the golfing fraternity of Ireland, which is definitely not 4 million persons, were glued to the TV to watch Rory Mcllroy win the Open— the British Open—the greatest golf tournament in the world of course. And though Rory went under par, which is good, he didn’t go under enough and was beaten by not one, but two fellows called Cameron.
Cameron! Any mother who calls her son Cameron is pushing it. The name Cameron comes from the Gaelic words “cam sron” which means “crooked nose”. Rory just didn’t have the crooked nose to win. He admitted afterwards to feeling under par about not going under par enough to win; some ironies write themselves. It was the day of the crooked nose.
Asked about his disappointment Rory replied, ‘I’ll murder 4 million pints of Guinness.