It had to happen eventually: the Rebel master-race finally lifting the football All-Ireland, a natural expression of their innate racial supremacy over people from every other county. It was no classic, but one still savoured every second, primarily because it was the last opportunity we’ll ever have to luxuriate in the dulcet tones of the mighty Mícheál Ó Muircheartaigh, by far the finest broadcaster mankind will ever know. As the final few seconds ticked down, I was praying for a draw and a replay, purely so we’d have 70 more precious minutes of the great man. I didn’t really give the faintest toss who won, apart from a vague unwillingness to endure the spectacle of vindicated Corkonians basking in the thrill of victory (their superiority complex is pronounced enough at the best of times).

So, another championship summer is gone, the next Sunday Game is eight entire months away, and the most immediately pressing event on the horizon is...erm, golf’s Ryder Cup, dismissed with some venom by the august Eamonn McCann in these pages last fortnight as a ‘load of oul’ shite’, which is almost certainly the first time he’s ever been wrong about anything. I can see where he’s coming from, but I must beg to differ.
Yes, it is arguably the most ridiculously over-hyped event in the entire sporting universe, predicated on the preposterous notion that golf is essentially a team sport rather than an individual one. Yes, the idea that you need a captain (never mind three ‘vice-captains’) to oversee the efforts of twelve golfers is plainly daft. The captain selects the pairings and decides what order they’ll go out in, but the idea that he has any influence whatsoever over their strategic decisions while they’re out there is plainly daft, and the increasing media tendency to equate the position with that of a football manager is deeply silly.
But...God damn it, it’s exciting when it’s a close contest. It also affords us an opportunity to engage in cheerful Stars-and-Stripes-bashing without any fear of being accused of bigotry, which is one dimension of the proceedings I think Eamonn might actually really enjoy if he’d let himself.
I lost my Ryder Cup virginity back in 1999, heavily fortified on fine weed and red wine, when me and a pal (who had been extolling the virtues of golf for years, to no avail) watched in horror as the Yanks mounted a stunning comeback on the concluding Sunday.
The enduring image of that day remains the sight of the USA’s players whooping it up and dancing around on the green in a pretty nauseating display of triumphalism before the deal was actually sealed, at a point where Jose-Maria Olazabal still had a just-about-sinkable putt to address.
It was not a sight which would fill one with admiration for the Americans, and further confirmation of the team’s inherent obnoxiousness arrived when it transpired that they had been given a motivational speech by the then-Governor of Texas, a certain Mr. George W. Bush.
I oppose all forms of racism and, as such, I have no time for knee-jerk anti-Americanism. In the cultural sphere, the USA has provided us with treasures aplenty, many of the finest musical, cinematic and literary creations you’ll ever encounter (I am half-way through the late Budd Schulberg’s anthology of boxing writing, Ringside, and heartily recommend it to everyone in the world). And there’s a warm, outgoing expansiveness about many of the inhabitants that can be hugely endearing to us northern Europeans, accustomed as we are to a certain dourness and reserve in most of the people we meet.
But the flag itself, and the anthem, and the behaviour of their golfing galleries as they chant ‘USA, USA’ - well, it stirs a certain unease, and a deep desire to see the complacent smirks wiped off these people’s faces. Which is why I shall be rooting for Europe this weekend with genuine passion, though I don’t think it will ruin my life if the outcome doesn’t go as planned.
On the soccer front, Foul Play’s audacious prophesy of a Liverpool-Man City-Spurs 1-2-3 in the Premiership (bookies’ price: 750/1) is already beginning to look slightly shaky, with the ‘Pool now a lofty 16th in the table, ten entire points behind Chelsea after five games.
In fact, the Blues at present appear to be easily the most potent footballing force in the history of the universe, starting this season in much the same manner in which they finished the last one, ruthlessly eviscerating all comers and racking up a frightening 21-1 goal difference. They haven’t been seriously tested, of course: the fixture list has been decidedly gentle on them up until this point, and I remain convinced that they can and will be beaten more than once before Christmas time.
North of Hadrian’s Wall, I would already venture to advance the suggestion that this season’s title race may well turn out to be a battle between Celtic and Rangers, both of whom have racked up a 100% record after five games, with their nearest pursuers (Hearts, it pains me to say) seven entire points behind, while Hibs’ customary excellent start to the season has failed to materialise as I might have liked. In fact, they seem to be going backwards at a rate of knots, and have recently failed to win at home to Inverness Caledonian Thistle and Hamilton Academicals, results which do not augur particularly well for the prospect of ending the 59-year title drought.
Of course, with 33 games still to be played, the deficit is theoretically retrievable, but I wouldn’t hold my breath. But there’s always the Cup (109 years overdue)...and, surely, this has to be the year...well, it has to happen some day...
No? Is my optimism misplaced?