Pondering Finals Past

THIS weekend I will play in a cup final for the first time since I was just emerging from the spotty, cranky throes of puberty.

Unexpectedly, for this final I won't be donning the beautiful and well chosen yellow and wine colours of Bruff (although I won't be the only Bruffian playing) but instead the red, black and white of the Vancouver Rowing Club - which in Canada passes for the name of a rugby club.

And this week, while anticipating the Lower Mainland final, my mind has wandered back to my previous big final days back home in Limerick.

I'm almost sure that my first sporting final was in Croom at an Under 10s hurling tournament with South Liberties. It was memorable for us losing and my accidentally smacking our opponent's captain on the chin with the boss of my hurley during the clash. After the game, I tried to apologise to him for it as he showed his teammates the cup but he told me to get lost. Even at nine years-of-age I had a capacity for sourness that made me wish at the time that I'd cracked his chin into several pieces, thereby preventing his petulant reponse.

After that less than savoury introduction to cup finals, there were a few barren years but a team on which I featured once again climbed to the summit at Under 13s, this time in the oval ball code. For many years, Newport had been the bane of our young lives such was their dominance in our particular grade of underage rugby. That's what made it all the sweeter when we beat them in the North Munster Cup Final in Thomond Park.

I can still see our centre celebrating with his hand in the air even before he crossed the chalk after intercepting a Newport pass on the half way line. Even more clearly can I remember one of our player's parents roaring at him from the sideline to stop such classless carry-on as it was Thomond Park he was playing in and not Old Trafford.

The following year brought with it another final day, this time once again in hurling but unlike the Croom catastrophe, this time Liberties emerged victorious. There were however parental remonstrations again on this occasion however as we celebrated our win in the Klinsmann style that was fashionable with jackass 14-year-olds at the time. It was hugely disrespectful to the jersey, we were told, to cover it in muck by sliding along the ground, especially seen as the celebration had originated from a bloody soccer player.

Our Bruff team returned to Thomond Park again the next year for an Under 15s cup final showdown with Richmond but there was to be no repeat of our Under 13s heroics as we crumbled to the boot of one Wayne Murphy who could have dissected the posts with a kick taken from one of the ground's toilet cubicles that day.

Certainly there have been other finals since then that I have been involved in but on every occasion it has been as a splinter arsed substitute. That won't be the case this Saturday however when I'm hoping I'll be able to bring a bit of that Bruff Under 13s and South Liberties Under 14s luck to proceedings.

Thomond Park may be invaded by legions of Fiachras, Fintans and Fachtnas

This week's column from the paper.

IN A few months time, there’s more than a small chance that the rugby world will truly enter the Twilight Zone, with Munster calling the RDS home and Leinster setting up temporary residence in Thomond Park.

I excrement you not. This could actually happen if both sides were to reach the European Cup semi-finals and - by the luck of the draw - each were to get a home fixture.

ERC rules stipulate that teams who receive home advantage for a European semi cannot play the game in their home ground and must nominate a neutral venue in their home country.

That rules Thomond Park out and the regulations of the GAA mean that Croke Park would also not be an option (heaven forbid an Irish side were to play a game in a stadium which was built with Irish tax-payers’ money.)

Unfortunately, construction work in Lansdowne Road won’t be completed on time either and that leaves one undesirable remaining option.

While particularly delusional Leinster fans will tell you that the Royal Dublin Society has become something of a fortress since Drico and pals started plying their trade there, in reality it is the ugly cousin to Thomond Park’s homecoming queen.

For one thing, the ground can only hold 18,500 (although this would have to be increased to 20,000 for a European semi-final). On top of that, my reliable rugby sources inform me that well over half of these tickets would go to sponsors and visiting fans if the match were to be played there.

Also, playing our home match in our arch rival’s ground would necessitate having to navigate the labyrinthine streets of the capital. Half of us probably wouldn’t make it past the Red Cow Roundabout.

And as if that isn’t bad enough, on the same weekend that we’re all out of town, legions of Leinster supporters will invade our brand new stadium when no one’s looking.

Limerick will become part of the Pale for 24 hours as blue, harp-emblazoned flags are draped around Thomond Park, ‘Alive Alive-O’ is sung from the terraces and barmen in the stadium try to figure out what the hell Courvoisier Cognac is.

It’s just not right. Richard Harris would do a few pirouettes in his grave, stray dogs would howl outside the stadium gates and - worst of all - instead of respectful silence, kicks at goal would be marked by cheers and jeers from legions of Fiachras, Fintans and Fachtnas.

I know it may be jumping the gun a little to speak of this possibility before Munster even play their last group game but if we don’t address the matter now, it may be too late. You have been warned.

Lucky gal

NOTHING says ‘I love you’ quite like phoning in a few bomb threats to your girlfriend’s school just so she can get out of class early, as the old saying goes.

That was the course of action taken by lovesick puppy (and complete looney tune) Christopher Wiley in Pennsylvania, USA, who caused his lucky girlfriend’s school to be evacuated 13 times over the space of eight days.

“What’s the problem there?” says you.

“None at all, just a bit of craic.” says I.

But those right-wing nuts in America don’t take kindly to the odd love-inspired bomb threat, it seems, as they threw poor old Chris into the slammer for his antics.

What an over-reaction. I mean he didn’t even blow up the school. Not once.

Thank the gods the authorities on this side of the Atlantic are a little more understanding when it comes to the crazy hijinks of a man in love. I’ll tell you, if I was flung behind bars every time I rang in a bomb threat, kidnapped a beloved pet or wrote a love letter in my own blood just to impress the object of my affections, I’d have my own suite in Limerick Prison.

Sweet nothings

SPEAKING of sacrifices made in the name of love, one unlucky Chinese lady will be hearing sweet feck all - as opposed to sweet nothings - for a while after a supposedly inoocent smooch caused her to lose her hearing in one hear.

Such a powerful kisser was her boyfriend that he caused the pressure in her mouth to reduce, pulling her eardrum out and causing the breakdown of her ear.

Thankfully, her hearing should be back to normal in three months time, the lady’s doctor pointed out between guffaws of laughter.