LOCKERROOM:Hooped Cork goalies' jerseys, Des Lynam when he was funny, Páidí Ó Sé's hair-cut ...
THINGS I miss . . . crepe paper hats. Cheap, fashionable, recyclable. Where did we lose our way as a society? The red-and-white-hooped jerseys that Cork goalies used to wear. Design classic. Why tamper? Why, Why, Why?
Three castles on the Dubs’ jersey. Simple. Meaningful.
Big-time boxing on the television. Well, big-time boxing, full stop. It’s all small time now.
Saturday afternoon wrestling. Sport as performance comedy. Always thought I could make it in that game.
Fat full forwards. Stout goalies. Psychopathic full backs.
Characters in GAA. Modern managers are so windy and wussy they gag and straitjacket any fella who might say something funny, honest or interesting in the papers or radio.
The days when I could recognise the top 10 snooker players in the world. That time when they were all real people rather than pencil-thin etiolated machines.
Being hated rather than pitied for following Leeds United.
Going to the odd Bohs game.
Stadiums with real character.
Soccer teams going whole seasons putting out the same line up plus one sub (Mick Bates of Leeds, David Fairclough of Liverpool: kings of the bench where are ye now?)
Having older people to slag and imitate in the press box. Now everybody is younger. They don’t, do they? Bastards.
Believing in athletics. Knowing the Aga Khan Cup was on. Caring about swimming.
Grandstandon Saturday afternoons. They promised a smorgasbord of delights every week and then they delivered. I saw sports on GrandstandI have never seen since.
Sportsnighton Wednesdays. Des Lynam when he was funny.
Lar Foley.
Crystal Palace being in the Premiership. They’re so louche they seem sinful.
The odd game of golf on a public course like Corballis. The cries of “Heads, lads!”, “Duck!” “Jaysus!” “FORE!” The young entrepreneurs selling you back your own Penfold Commandos which they fished handfuls of out of plastic shopping bags.
Hurlers without helmets. Post-match pitch invasions. Do insurance nerds run the whole country now? Viva Plan B.
Childhood summers. Road leagues. Five half-time and 10 the winner. Three and in. Pitch and putt. Give us a backer on your bike.
Being permitted to go into team dressingrooms after matches to get some meaningful quotes and colour people might actually read rather than the two minutes of industrial strength banality we get in the Croke Park press room.
Superstars. From Kevin Keegan to Pat Spillane to little known judo players or cyclists, the test of all rounders before they got to rich to be bothered.
Phillip Greene’s mellifluous radio commentaries.
Being excited about National League finals.
Strong feature photos with sports interviews in papers.
All sports being free to air.
Dublin being in All-Ireland finals. From 1974 to 1995 we had 12 September Sundays where we hung the bunting out and hoped for the best. And since 1995? A biblical famine.
The excitement and fun which surrounded Irish youth teams when Brian Kerr and the late Noel O’Reilly had charge of them.
Thinking Páirc Uí Chaoimh was state of the art.
Eamon Dunphy writing seriously for a major Sunday paper. Decentskinmanship. Official Ireland. The Liam Brady vendetta. McLuhan was right. Television is a cool medium. Newspapers are a hot medium.
Playing snooker drunk in the Cosmo or Jasons at two in the morning. Whispering like somebody who learned to whisper in a helicopter. Oooh, bit of backspin there. Doesn’t quite come off. The white grazes his opponent’s forehead. This could turn ugly
Gambling on episodes of One Man and His Dog.
The FA Cup meaning something. The Uefa Cup just being there. England v Scotland in the Home Nations. Scotland qualifying for every single World Cup and coming home after the first round every time. Watching Brazil being just like watching Brazil.
Having to be truly exceptional before taking the decision to wear football boots any colour other than black.
The days when rugby players were out of shape and more renowned for their feats at the bar than on the pitch.
Serge Blanco. Dominique Rocheteau. Yannick Noah. Marie-José Pérec. When will we freckled, sweaty Paddies start producing cool competitors as a matter of priority?
Rule 21 and Rule 42. Never liked them but it was so good to feel like a besieged minority for being a GAA person.
Believing in the Tour de France. The awe of those long summer afternoons with Phil Ligget and the peleton.
Individualistic haircuts. Early Páidí Ó Sé. Noel Lynch of Westmeath and his Valderrama. The John O’Leary Fringe for the Ages. Various Kieran McDonald incarnations. We’re left with Conor Mortimer and Mugsy Mulligan to carry the torch.
Jumping in the lineouts. Okay, don’t lose a lot of sleep over it but this lifting looks like it will be all fun and games till somebody loses an eye.
Sonia O’Sullivan, Eamon Coghlan and John Treacy. I know, I know, they keep selling us new Irish athletes to follow. They do well in the European Indoors and other such events. We want fourth place at the Olympics. Second even. We want the real deal.
Pro-celebrity golf. A pro. A celebrity. Peter Aliss. All coming in under the budget to play 18 holes and listen to harmless questions from Aliss.
Meath being strong at Leinster football. The insipidness of recent teams is a plot to undermine Dublin football. Two can play at that. We’ll undermine ourselves thank you.
Stadiums with real names. From the Aviva to the Stadium of Light we are getting short change.
Not finding Maradona to be a figure of fun.
Being young and optimistic about those things coming back.
