My sporting fix is worth the mental turmoil

AS I write this it is Sunday evening at approximately 6.40 p. m. I almost always write this column at the weekend, and almost always find myself trying to fit it around what is currently a very busy schedule.

That schedule could, and perhaps should, be a lot quieter, but both Irish and British Governments have ensured it remains unmercifully hectic.

I will give you an idea of what I’m dealing with.

Saturday: The first task of the day is to go on GAAGO and order the Dublin versus Kilkenny hurling match. That done, I then order it for my mother and instruct her how to access the site come throw-in.

The early Premier League offering is Man City against someone unlikely to beat them, so I give that one a pass. Instead I do some grocery shopping, some housework, a bit of washing.

Before I know it it’s 3 p.m. I haven’t even started on the bathroom and there’s another Premier League game on, Chelsea and Burnley. No, I’ll just do the floors and then I’ll take a break. But Waterford are playing Cork in the hurling, that’ll be a good one, could go either way.

The mop and bucket are abandoned in the hallway.

Waterford and Cork was a good one, well at least the first-half was. Because at 3.45 p.m. the main course arrives, the Cats against the Dubs. For 35 minutes it’s great fare, uplifting, a tonic for the soul.

Then it gets uncomfortable, thoroughly unpleasant, and quite painful. Kilkenny win but I’m annoyed. Stupid hurling. Whose idea was it to hold the Championship during a pandemic?

Hoping for some solace I switch over to see Liverpool are losing to West Ham. This is great news. Cheered, I go back to watch Galway and Wexford in the other hurling semi.

They both look good, the thought of them running amok against Kilkenny depresses me, so it’s over to the Liverpool game again. They equalise, I don’t want to see them get a winner. So I get started on the dinner.

By evening, Galway have laid down a significant marker and Liverpool are top of the league. That’s enough sport for one day. Rugby? No thank you, not my bag.

Then, just as I’m about to go to bed, someone sends a link to the boxing. It’s Usyk against Chisora, not a title match or a fight of any great significance, but sure go on.

Sunday: I’m away all morning and don’t get home till 3 p.m. No harm done, the hurling starts at 4 p.m. United a half-an-hour later. The hurling starts well, Limerick and Tipperary going toe-to-toe, looking very good, way better than Kilkenny.

Never mind them, it’s Super Sunday, Manchester United, my main passion. I spend the next two hours shouting impotently at the television, throwing tantrums, and wondering why I couldn’t have chosen a different passion; crochet, clay modelling, yodelling.

Now I’m here writing this, hoping to catch some NFL before the weekend ends. I’m not sure how many hours I’ve spent watching sport since yesterday, but it’s a lot. This investment has yielded little reward; not unless you value emotions like frustration and rage.

However, I wouldn’t change a thing. Sport is my opiate, the thing that’s kept me going during this strangest of times, the thing that’s made Lockdown 2 hardly feel like a lockdown at all.

Sure, at the moment the performances of my teams are more alcohol-free beer than opium, but there’s always next weekend, a chance at redemption, a chance to taste some joy, however fleeting. And although I dedicate an inordinate amount of time to this folly I do manage to go outside every now and again, a quick 5km dash in between games giving me all the sustenance I need.

It has been suggested that watching sport at home may be damaging to your mental health, that disappointing results can exacerbate negative emotions, that without other supporters to share the ups and downs viewers become vulnerable.

I can confirm that watching Paul Pogba has left me feeling very vulnerable. But I’m going to walk it off, and when I come back I’m going to mop those floors. And if I’m lucky I’ll get the late NFL game before bed.