If there are any legal substances that provide a thrill to rival that of those unique sporting moments; that have hairs perpendicular to the neck and knuckles clenched to a shade of white, then this author has yet to indulge. Whether one reaches this climax at the World Cup Final, at the Lakeside Darts Championship or at a rain-beaten windy Whitehall on a run of the mill Friday night, when tenants Belgrove entertain in the Leinster Senior league, is down in its entirety to the viewers’ ability to become immersed in the build up and ultimately the climax of the achievement.

What these moments are in essence is impossible to say although one can surmise that there are certain factors that need to be present. A degree of tension and notion of the unexpected are required while variables such as an undercurrent, hero to villain character role or rivalries renewed only add to the mix. Over the past few weeks I have had the fortune to experience a few occasions when the problems of the world and sundry get put on hold, utterly irrelevant to be brutally forthright, as a manic unearthly sound resembling “Yeeeeeeeeeees” is gushed forward.
The first of these cherished moments started in the unlikely surrounds of a chilly front room by a 28 inch box that transmitted, albeit complemented by constant fuzz, the finale of Irelands Six Nations Championship. It was the dishevelled “morning after” and we righteously tucked into the Championships sponsor’s best, hoping beyond hope that our nation’s warriors would catapult themselves to the 6 Nations title whilst captivating us in the process. We were not to be disappointed until the final seconds of Frances compelling victory against the Scots. By then captivation had turned into stir crazy frenzy as we watched with an unblinking eye. Ireland thrilled and excited in the best 40 minutes of rugby this nation has ever produced ironically killing their hopes with the “try or bust” mantra that had put us to within touching distance. Dennis Hickie’s second try stupefied us with happiness and glee on this most patriotic of days- it almost seemed to be fate. Only for a bravado which bordered on naivety in the dying seconds that glorious try, in an utterly wonderful display, would have been the coup de grace that would have delivered the championship. Alas it was not to be. France abetted by a Northern Irish television judge claimed the crown. We claimed the moral victory. As it turned out the thrill of watching your country defy the odds on St Patrick’s Day did not end there. Instead our motley crew of charlatan cricketers delivered a result against Pakistan that shook the earth (and in the fall-out one fans sanity) and had us cynical Irish clambering aboard the most unexpected of bandwagons. Cries of “Easy, easy” rang around the heaving venue of The Barge in Ranelagh as the required runs were delivered with more than a touch of panache. These were heady days for any sports fans, over indulgent even, for me it was bliss.

The following day, emotionally drained, I headed to Goodison Park- the home of my true love Everton Football Club. They were entertaining Arsenal in a match that would not decide any silverware but would nevertheless have a huge bearing on Everton’s season. A win and a money-spinning European place was firmly within our grasp. After watching the razzmatazz on Sky Sports “Super Sunday” nauseously over hype Arsenal for an hour, while unsurprisingly discount us as merely well organised and hard working, we left the homely surrounds of The Winslow pub with countless other riled blues taking our wooden seats in the aging stadium creating a creaking clanking orchestra in the process.

Emphasis again how important Europe was to the club’s future aspirations. As it turned out our seats had us pitted beside John Morrison from the Wirral. John was an unemployed, balding, single, thirty-something, who had been a season ticket holder for 24 years. How he put himself through the torture, aside from chain smoking, only his pate could answer. He continued to be forthright with us and the team for that matter, with unreserved barracking upon any hint of a mistake. The game typified the league it represented - hotly contested, physical and full of honest endeavour. Goal mouth action was aplenty but neither team, particularly Everton had a killer instinct to capitalise on excellent build up play, a trait that would not be uncommon to John and his fellow season ticket holders. That all changed in the 93rd minute. With the hail pelting down relentlessly and the wind abetting it in its quest to hit us flush in the face Everton won a corner. We stood behind the goal, the weather only one of the factors for our hand rubbing and shivering. Basque magician Mikel Arteta whipped the ball over and after a melee in the crowded box the ball rebounded to Everton’s record signing Andy Johnson. His first shot of the day was arrowed on the half volley into the back of the Arsenal net- cue delirium. It was a joyous haze that replaced the hail as the stadium shook to the rafters erupting in a deafening chorus of random chants emanating from varying places - the normally serene family enclosure encapsulating the disbelief with their vociferous cheering. John was a distance of two seats from me but at that moment we were worlds apart. It was a feeling that was ubiquitous and isolated at the one time. The thrill derived from separate personal variables, his undoubtedly more powerful, yet both immeasurably satisfying. On the journey home I mused what it was that set the touch fire alight in these instances. I could not pin point it but rather settled on viewing sport for me, as the sage Kipling once wrote of his love; poetry, “as the wind that blows away the dust of every day life.” You see the thing is these sporting moments that have the “X factor” all have some thing that makes you feel better about yourself. I firmly believe that you reach a point at which you have to view your life through the things you’ve spent so much time doing. The alternative is a depressing feeling of waste. Just ask Mr. Morrison from the Wirral.

Paul Bassett

Paul is a guest writer and will offer a truly english flavor to our site. Expect more articles from him….

If there are any legal substances that provide a thrill to rival that of those unique sporting moments that have hairs perpendicular to the neck and knuckles clenched to a shade of white than this author has yet to indulge. Whether one reaches this climax at the World Cup Final, at the Lakeside Darts Championship or at a rain-beaten windy Whitehall on a run of the mill Friday night, when tenants Belgrove entertain in the Leinster Senior league, is down in its entirety to the viewers’ ability to become immersed in the build up and ultimately the climax of the achievement.
What these moments are in essence is impossible to say although one can surmise that there are certain factors that need to be present. A degree of tension and notion of the unexpected are required while variables such as an undercurrent, hero to villain character role or rivalries renewed only add to the mix. Over the past few weeks I have had the fortune to experience a few occasions when the problems of the world and sundry get put on hold, utterly irrelevant to be brutally forthright, as a manic unearthly sound resembling “Yeeeeeeeeeees” is gushed forward.
The first of these cherished moments started in the unlikely surrounds of a chilly front room by a 28 inch box that transmitted, albeit complemented by constant fuzz, the finale of Irelands Six Nations Championship. It was the dishevelled “morning after” and we righteously tucked into the Championships sponsor’s best, hoping beyond hope that our nation’s warriors would catapult themselves to the 6 Nations title whilst captivating us in the process. We were not to be disappointed until the final seconds of Frances compelling victory against the Scots. By then captivation had turned into stir crazy frenzy as we watched with an unblinking eye. Ireland thrilled and excited in the best 40 minutes of rugby this nation has ever produced ironically killing their hopes with the “try or bust” mantra that had put us to within touching distance. Dennis Hickie’s second try stupefied us with happiness and glee on this most patriotic of days- it almost seemed to be fate.
Only for a bravado which bordered on naivety in the dying seconds that glorious try, in an utterly wonderful display, would have been the coup de grace that would have delivered the championship. Alas it was not to be. France abetted by a Northern Irish television judge claimed the crown. We claimed the moral victory. As it turned out the thrill of watching your country defy the odds on St Patrick’s Day did not end there. Instead our motley crew of charlatan cricketers delivered a result against Pakistan that shook the earth (and in the fall-out one fans sanity) and had us cynical Irish clambering aboard the most unexpected of bandwagons. Cries of “Easy, easy” rang around the heaving venue of The Barge in Ranelagh as the required runs were delivered with more than a touch of panache. These were heady days for any sports fans, over indulgent even, for me it was bliss.
The following day, emotionally drained, I headed to Goodison Park- the home of my true love Everton Football Club. They were entertaining Arsenal in a match that would not decide any silverware but would nevertheless have a huge bearing on Everton’s season. A win and a money-spinning European place was firmly within our grasp. After watching the razzmatazz on Sky Sports “Super Sunday” nauseously over hype Arsenal for an hour, while unsurprisingly discount us as merely well organised and hard working, we left the homely surrounds of The Winslow pub with countless other riled blues taking our wooden seats in the aging stadium creating a creaking clanking orchestra in the process. Emphasis again how important Europe was to the clubs future aspirations.
As it turned out our seats had us pitted beside John Morrison from the Wirral. John was an unemployed, balding, single, thirty-something, who had been a season ticket holder for 24 years. How he put himself through the torture, aside from chain smoking, only his pate could answer. He continued to be forthright with us and the team for that matter, with unreserved barracking upon any hint of a mistake. The game typified the league it represented - hotly contested, physical and full of honest endeavour. Goal mouth action was aplenty but neither team, particularly Everton had a killer instinct to capitalise on excellent build up play, a trait that would not be uncommon to John and his fellow season ticket holders.
That all changed in the 93rd minute. With the hail pelting down relentlessly and the wind abetting it in its quest to hit us flush in the face Everton won a corner. We stood behind the goal, the weather only one of the factors for our hand rubbing and shivering. Basque magician Mikel Arteta whipped the ball over and after a melee in the crowded box the ball rebounded to Everton’s record signing Andy Johnson. His first shot of the day was arrowed on the half volley into the back of the Arsenal net- cue delirium. It was a joyous haze that replaced the hail as the stadium shook to the rafters erupting in a deafening chorus of random chants emanating from varying places - the normally serene family enclosure encapsulating the disbelief with their vociferous cheering. John was a distance of two seats from me but at that moment we were worlds apart. It was a feeling that was ubiquitous and isolated at the one time. The thrill derived from separate personal variables, his undoubtedly more powerful, yet both immeasurably satisfying.
On the journey home I mused what it was that set the touch fire alight in these instances. I could not pin point it but rather settled on viewing sport for me, as the sage Kipling once wrote of his love; poetry, “as the wind that blows away the dust of every day life.”

You see the thing is these sporting moments that have the “X factor” all have some thing that makes you feel better about yourself. I firmly believe that you reach a point at which you have to view your life through the things you’ve spent so much time doing. The alternative is a depressing feeling of waste. Just ask Mr. Morrison from the Wirral.

Paul Bassett

Paul is a guest writer and will offer a truly english flavor to our site. Expect more articles from him….