Sunday in February

It’s the first morning after the night before of the second month of the thirty eighth year and it must be said that I’m getting the hang of this. Granted, excess was imbibed yesterday evening in the course of watching two games. A splurge of nonsensical tweets were made and subsequently deleted. Some chicken goujons were devoured. Ireland lost to England. Dublin beat Galway. The merlot flowed. There was snow on the hills when I made it to bed. And it was still there when I got up early to shake off the afters and duck egg myself before the gym. Sunday mornings are great in their lazy uncomplicated way and this morning was no exception. Except for that rotten feeling whenever the thought hit that Ireland were beaten by England. Or that Eddie Jones’s win led me to Tweet like an eejit. Or that maybe it was just my own greedy thirst that led to the latter. Any which way, the bottom line is that every now and then, there’s a pang of pain-guilt, guilty-pain, who knows what. It’ll pass.

It’ll pass until Sunday afternoon when the gym is under the belt and a few hours of work in the library have been banked. I’ve earned the right to listen to the Cavan game and so the buds in my ears are keeping me happy. They lead Kerry by 4 points. Come on Cavan! Dublin are sailing past Offaly in the hurling. This is the day that can overturn yesterday. Stone cold sporting with no inclination to Tweet like a fool: a clear win-win. It’s turning out to be a great day.

But you can never rule out the Kingdom, can you? Of course, point borrows point and Cavan shy away from scoring. It levels. Kerry go ahead. The focal that came to mind is quite like the Irish for word. And with a few points to spare, Kerry wave goodbye to the Breffni boys who have tossed away their chances two weeks on the trot. The sadist in me flicks on Twitter to catch comments of the game. But neither Cavan’s loss nor Carlow’s superb draw against Galway come to the fore.

It has started again… Yes, hard to believe but it has… “This is our year” was high and low and everywhere in between: viral/trending/sponsored ads, whatever you’re having yourself. The men from the west pulled out of Healy Park with heads and hopes high. The Mayo mantra dusted off once more. “This is our year,” they cry.

That focal came to mind again.

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