Rugby players’ necks

Ihear we are trying to get the Rugby World Cup to be held in Ireland. Please, no. Rugby is a game that wouldn’t be much different if there wasn’t a ball involved. Its just huge slabs of men running into each other, and then lying down for a minute. Its like watching herds of cattle collide. It’s comparable only to darts in the devastating effect it has on the bodies of those who play it.

Your head is not supposed to be stuck on top of your torso like a cherry on a cupcake; you’re supposed to have a neck. It’s a dangerous game, for sure, and I understand that after a nasty head collision, the player in question is taken for concussion assessment, where he is asked a few questions such as his name, his whereabouts and if he feels fit to continue. However, I believe that a desire to play the game in the first place is evidence of a pre-existing condition.

Fog of nicknames

I went to a rugby boarding school for a few years, so I know what these fellas are like. They were brave and strong back then, and they are still brave and strong now, but they have no idea what’s going on. They live in a fog of nicknames and drink and have the most ridiculously good-looking wives.

Hurlers don’t have good-looking wives. They marry practical women, whose ideal home would have a handball alley out the back, and her own hairdressing salon operating out of the downstairs jacks.

Hurlers choose their wives. Rugby players find themselves adopted by one. They surface to consciousness to discover a kind blonde saying to them,“I’ll mind you”, and then dive back down to the ocean floor, her hand resting on his arm like a child’s palm on the side of an elephant.

When they left school, they got jobs working as ornaments in banks and insurance firms. The game is professional now, of course, so they train full time. This consists mainly of running into trees and being widened. Pretty soon, teams are going to be the width of a pitch, and the game will end up looking more like team sumo wrestling than anything else.

I think, all in all, some changes could be made to make it more exciting. For example, if instead of a ball, they played with a live chicken. It would add a fantastic air of unpredictability to the whole affair.

Hurling is a dangerous game too, but thrilling to watch. Its like seeing 30 chimps trying to play golf with the same ball.

I’m amazed it hasn’t caught on in other parts of the world, where the poor have nothing but anger and sticks. You can imagine it being played in the Yemen or southern Sudan.

Harad v Kilkenny in the first round of the modified Leinster Hurling Championship would be worth a watch, for sure.

Pool was my game as a kid. I’d steal money from me mother’s purse and go down to the Round O and play all day if I could, heading home around dinner time, stinking of cigarette smoke and giddy from drinking splashes of Coke.

I got quite good and once played Maltese Joe Barbara, former World Pool Champion, during an exhibition match he gave in the town. He let me win, but I still bet him.

Forlorn gaze

I read a book once where the father of a chess prodigy who’s not doing well in school bursts into the class one day to yell at one of the boy’s teachers.

“My son is better at chess than you will ever be at anything in your life, so leave him alone.”

I yearned for a dad like that. Often, while being hassled for not paying attention or for having no homework done, I would gaze forlornly at the door, waiting for Kevin Tiernan to thunder into the room, but it never happened.

I know some fathers who are very proud of their kids’ sporting achievements. I recently overheard a fella talking in Dalkey: “Ah, the kids are very sporty, so they are. Its good for them. The youngest fella, now, is very good. He took Athlone Town to the final of the Champions League on the Xbox. Amazing!”

“It’s comparable only to darts in the devastating effect it has on the bodies of those who play it”