It came at the end of a particularly busy week. By now, I should have been winding down rather than gearing up. Not how things turn out in life where the pages don't always flip neatly or even in order. Sustained throughout by the prospect of pulling the shutter down on the day, watching SSE Airtricity Premier Division soccer while sipping bourbon, I managed not even to nap once despite being out of bed around six in the morning. What a way to conclude proceedings. It didn't quite turn out like that: as they say about the best laid plans . . .
Such was the pressure of time that in the car to the game and in the ground right up to minutes before the kick off, I squeezed in a work related Zoom call, being denied the Pink Floyd luxury to 'fritter and waste the hours in an offhand way.' Once in the ground the noise level meant I had to go on mute, listening rather than being listened to. I guess it didn't make me good company for the first hour but Paddy is a union guy as well so understands that the working day extends beyond the 9 to 5 routine and that when others clock out the clock in the union world continues ticking.
The day started with the usual blog preparation, after A Morning Thought that is. Never begin a day without one of those. While not the intention, it annoys both the pious and the pompous, usually characteristics present in the persona of the same character. Most see the morning thoughts for what they are - described a few days ago by a Christian Facebook friend as light-hearted banter. But humour finds the religious road a difficult one to gain traction on. There the po faced pilgrims live out Mencken's witticism on the puritan mind: perpetually tormented by 'the haunting fear that someone, somewhere, may be happy.” Their lives are empty enough already, a vacuum that constantly needs filled from the well of hatred they call the Old Testament. And if hell bound ne'er-do-wells remorselessly mock the bull that hate theology effuses, then the mixture of power and pleasure they derive from jerking off from a ringside seat overlooking the pit of fire where 'sinners' burn in hell for eternity will have diminished. Mockery has a way of extinguishing hell fire. Perish the thought - a burn again Christian with nobody to burn. An empty hell is a hellish concept for puritans with torches.
Away from the world of superstition and magic, and back to my secular day, Sinead O'Connor had died. With Christopher Owens having penned a potent obituary I worked to schedule it for the blog before accompanying my teenage son over to the local hospital where he had an appointment for an x-ray. Only then did he tell me that he was going out on the beer with his buddies and would not be available for the Drogs game. His loss - two weeks in a row the Wizards of Weaver served up a feast of football and he wasn't at the table.
The day had this curious progression from the young to the old, just like the arc of life itself. After the game Paddy dropped me at the house a hip flask later, exhausted and ready for bed. As soon as the door opened my wife announced to me in the hall that an 81 year old friend whom we hadn't seen in a while had arrived an hour or two earlier and was seeking advice. The idea of a quick retreat to bed evaporated. As they say about the best laid plans . . . again. Needs must and I was not going to abandon him, having made the long drive from Mayo. An hour was about as much as I could muster but we covered what we had to.
Fortunately, I came home on a high. The Drogs were two goals behind with 59 minutes gone on the clock. It didn't augur good, but determination not deflation was the watchword. The home side suddenly found that spark to ignite the much needed fire in their bellies. If the Sligo side thought they were gonna reap success from the revenge mission they came on in response to last week's cup exit at the feet of Drogheda, it was about to prove a forlorn hope. The counter began in earnest. Paddy commented if we can get one goal it would prove a game changer. And so it was.
When the equaliser went in after some sustained pressure on the Sligo goal the ground erupted, and with it the flares from our ever raucous band of Ultras. This time the Sligo fans had not turned out in force, only a smattering of them visible in the almost empty visitors' stand across the pitch. The children, infants among them, rushed to the wall at the side of the pitch, delirium had set in. The older fans were on their feet, some waving walking sticks. The passion was infectious, spreading throughout the stadium like a Mexican wave.
A four goal thriller.
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