Hurling has a nauseous self-regard

YOU learn in this game to take your laughs where you can find them.

Last Sunday, heavy-lidded and bored out of our little minds as Donegal shredded Antrim in Ballybofey (just like everyone knew they would), we sought other distractions in an attempt to stay awake.

And so the Hogan Stand match-tracker provided us with a window into another world where onlookers did not require to be hooked up to a caffeine drip to stay wide-eyed.

Apparently, something of an epic was developing in Tom Semple’s field and even through the ice-cold medium of an updating service on social media, you could feel the temperature rising.

When it was all over, the online correspondent could not contain himself.

‘Anyone who disagrees hurling is the greatest game on earth is fooling themselves,’ he bleated.

It is a sentiment that would be echoed time and again in the hours that followed the game – as it usually is with hurling. It is not enough to bask in the joy of watching a great game, it has to be held up as evidence to prosecute their case they are sport’s chosen tribe.

We don’t know really know what is at the root of this insecurity, but it highlights the best and the worst of us.

At its best, hurling is truly a game that can seduce but, at its worst, it also highlights the national itch which can only be scratched when people tell us how lovely and great we are.

Say what you want to about the Ulster football championship but at least it spares us that silliness.