Rugby team has dispelled the mood of doom and gloom, writes MIRIAM LORD
HOORAY FOR panic and pleasure and sweet palpitations! Oh, but it did the heart good to feel the heart flutter and skip a beat and almost stop, before the triumphant roar of those brave enough to look made it race again and nearly burst with joy.
At long last – a chance to celebrate.
Good news, for once. Great news. News to put a smile on your face, and make you sing and cheer and do silly dances.
The sort of headline news that has nothing to do with budgets and pay cuts, unemployment figures and politicians’ expenses.
The blessed relief of sporting distraction.
It didn’t matter if you never set eyes upon an oval ball or knotted an old school tie. Whether you are into rugby, soccer, Gaelic, bog-snorkelling or tiddlywinks – it didn’t matter.
This was a nation responding, admittedly belatedly and in a different fashion, to their Finance Minister’s call to “patriotic duty”. Thanks to the outdoor exploits of a rugby team and the indoor exploits of a boxer, Ireland grabbed the chance to get out there and party.
On an exhilarating Saturday that stretched giddily into the early hours of Sunday, we broke through the pervading gloom of the last few months and fell happily into the glorious Green beyond. First, a rugby Grand Slam title after a wait of 61 years, and then, the heroic capture of a boxing world title by a courageous Dub with a great line in patter.
Gift. Absolutely gift.
We’re not the better of it yet, thank God.
Bernard Dunne, who was crowned the WBA World super-bantamweight champion in Dublin after a gutsy display of stamina and self-belief saw him knock out the highly rated title-holder, will be honoured by his native city next week.
Yesterday belonged to the rugby players.
Coach Declan Kidney’s team, led by captain Brian O’Driscoll, arrived home at lunchtime and were met by a huge, adoring crowd at Dublin airport. It was a foretaste of what was to come.
Taoiseach Brian Cowen, who has wisely kept out of the limelight during the celebrations, leaving the players to bask in the glory, called into the Mansion House from Government Buildings, where discussions on the economic crisis are ongoing.
The Taoiseach, who loves his sport, stood back and applauded with the rest of the guests as the players entered The Round Room. He met the players and looked on proudly as his youngest daughter Meadhbh had her photo taken with O’Driscoll and Ronan O’Gara.
Social Welfare Minister Mary Hanafin, had she been in a line out, would have been penalised for barging as she elbowed her way through the throng to sit beside O’Driscoll and the trophy.
If O’Driscoll thought it was tough on the pitch, he didn’t reckon on the determination of Irish female politicians. He was sandwiched by Senator Ger Feeney and Cllr Deirdre Heeney, clinging to the trophy for dear life as the rhyming public servants smiled for the camera.
Outside, the crowd waved their green flags and waited for a glimpse of their heroes. Finally, the players emerged from the Mansion House to deafening roars of approval, walking a green carpet and a guard of honour of flagbearers and drummers.
Coach Declan Kidney, meanwhile, had a few words with Brian Cowen back inside. Was the Taoiseach asking him the secret of his success? Our IRFU man said that Kidney told his men at half-time that they had been doing everything right, and if they kept that up, the scores would come. “Keep doing what you are doing,” he told them.
Not, perhaps, the sort of advice to be giving to Brian Cowen.
Jerry Flannery’s mother, Jane, was waiting for the son to appear. “I was at the match — there were the Horans and myself and the Hayes. We stayed seated at the end and I swear to God, all the Welsh in front of us stood up. We couldn’t see a thing. Then we heard the roar. We thought it was the Welsh roaring, at first, then we realised Ireland had won. There were hugs and kisses and jigs all round.” Jerry is one of the many walking wounded on the team. “He has a big, big swollen eye. He needed five stitches,” Jane told us, as her son mounted the steps to the platform.
She looked on in delight, a proud Irish mother. “And his hair not even combed.”
Brian O’Driscoll’s girlfriend, actress Amy Huberman, held his nine-month-old niece Aoife in her arms. “I had her on my knee during the game and she hadn’t a clue what was happy. Thank God, she was a great distraction. When it was finally over, and I realised we won, I couldn’t stop crying for an hour.” Tommy Bowe sang a verse of The Black Velvet Band. At the first sighting of Brian O’Driscoll, the crowd burst into a chorus of “Ole, Ole, Ole.” There were high-pitched squeals from the sizable contingent of teenage girls in Ugg boots whenever Ronan O’Gara said or did anything. Then the ticker-tape exploded out of machines at the base of the platform with great gusts of tinselly green. The wind caught the paper and it rained down on the crowd.
Sure, it was only a game. Just 80 minutes of diversion. But it was great, and it gladdened the heart and the next few weeks at least will be a little easier and the memories will remain forever. By jingo, isn’t patriotism great?