February 16, 2011
By Staff Reporter
Misguided though it may be, and in no particular order, over the coming months we’ll be hoping…
That Setanta O hAilpin progresses so quickly with Carlton he manages to play a first-team game in his first season, and gets to do an emotional satellite interview with his older brother Sean Og and the celebrating Cork hurlers in the Burlington Hotel on the second Sunday night in September.
That the GAA decides to open up Croke Park on their own terms and in their own time and charges exorbitant rent for the facility.
That everybody wonders what all the fuss was about when they realise that the IRFU can fill the venue just once every two years for the England match and the FAI really only need it for their home game against France.
That the small band of outspoken Neanderthals knocking around the GAA’s nether regions doesn’t get afforded the sort of disproportionate publicity that damages its status as the most progressive and successful sports body in the country.
That Billy Morgan’s trawl of Cork in search of hungry footballers and good ones discarded by the Tompkins regime proves fruitful enough to turn the team into genuine contenders.
That a team that actually plays something resembling Gaelic football (it doesn’t even have to be Cork) as opposed to Tyrone’s hybrid of rugby league and wrestling win the Sam Maguire.
That we are spared the usual hype about the rugby team’s chances ahead of the Six Nations (five real teams and the up-for-a-hiding Italians) tournament given that they under-performed to such an extent at the World Cup.
That the same side decides to fly the national flag before internationals and maybe who knows, this might be pushing it a bit, sing the national anthem too.
That somebody explains for once and for all why Irish club rugby gets taken so seriously by newspapers even though nobody in the real world cares a jot for it.
That somebody explains for once and for all why schools rugby gets taken so seriously by newspapers even though nobody in the real world cares a jot for it.
That the Alex Ferguson-John Magnier feud rumbles on and on until enough sordid details emerge to remind United fans in Ireland they should not religiously worship a manager who has done so much to undermine their own national team.
That Magnier and JP McManus buy a controlling share in the club and cause months of endless speculation about Ferguson’s future.
That Denis Irwin gets the plaudits he deserves (a street in Cork named after him for starters) when he plays his last competitive game for Wolves and ends his illustrious career in May.
That Damien Duff doesn’t suddenly start pulling out of internationals all over place.
That Roy Keane speaks out about United’s lack of professionalism in Riogate with the same fervour with which he has previously castigated the FAI’s lack of
professionalism.
That Brian Kerr unearths a striker or two in the coming months to ensure that Ireland can actually threaten opponents when Duff is missing.
That Zinedine Zidane retires after Euro 2004 and takes a few of his team-mates with him before the World Cup qualifiers against Ireland.
That somebody in the Eircom League realises how much trouble they are in and does something radical to try to save the thing before it implodes.
That the government refuses to give Shamrock Rovers and all the other chancers another cent in public money until they prove they can actually be taken seriously as businesses.
That the inquest into why Irish participants in Athens failed to bring home a slew of medals lays to rest once and for all the myth that Bertie Ahern is a (pass the sickbag) sports-loving taoiseach.
That Ahern, Charlie McCreevy and John O’Donoghue stop carving up the sports capital grants program between their own constituencies and allow clubs in
every other part of the country a fair share of the largesse.
That Ahern finally finds enough guts to admit that the Bertie Bowl will never happen and was a ridiculous idea in the first place.
That Padraig Harrington wins a major and proves nice guys can finish first.
That Darren Clarke wins a major and proves overweight guys can finish first.
That regardless of how she performs in these Olympics, everybody remembers that Sonia O’Sullivan is the greatest female athlete Ireland has ever produced – although we can’t take too much credit since we exported her to America as a teenager just like we’ve done with every Irish running prospect since Ronnie Delaney.
That Gillian O’Sullivan walks her way to gold.
That RTE finally discover a way of covering hurling that doesn’t involve losing the sliotar any time it’s up in the air.
That RTE finally starts churning out long overdue serious documentaries about Mick O’Connell, Christy Ring, John Giles and all the other great Irish sportsmen and women who’ve never been done properly in this format.
That RTE stops wasting public money on Formula One and third-rate Scottish soccer.
That the next idiot to boo a bemused former Rangers player at Lansdowne Road gets arrested and charged with offensive stupidity.
That Bernard Dunne continues to develop into a serious professional prospect in Los Angeles and that Wayne McCullough definitively calls it a career inside the ring before he gets badly hurt.
That Steve Collins stops appearing in court for all the wrong reasons.
That somebody saves Paul McGrath from himself, if it’s not already too late.
And finally, that somebody saves George Best from himself though we suspect it’s already far too late.