Hurl

'Sit yourself down there and watch real men play sport,' I muttered to Gustav, a rare cultural superiority causing me, at an atomic level, to pulse. Slightly.
   'Fastest game in the known universe,' I said as we sat down. Cheap beer. Orange colored can. Sounds foreign.
   'What are those in hands?' he asked. I went on to explain what they were, what the players could do with them and told Gus that in a few hours time, one set of them would be the Hurling champions of the world.
   'But it is only in Ireland you play?' he said.
   'Well yes. Professionally anyways,' I said. 'But - without pay.'
   'I not understand this country sometimes,' he said as a posse of people invaded the hallowed turf of Croke Park. Hallowed everywhere, it would seem!
   You and me both, Gus!
  
What was this? The posse stretched themselves out into flags of welcome. A cry to the Irish masses who find themselves abroad. From RTÉ.
   Come back we call. Next year. For a time. Too dwell. Too spend.
   The Gathering.
   By all means come. We are a land of a thousand welcomes. Run ragged through the ages, the melancholy hides in the rain for those that remained. Too squabble. Too drink. Too play...

'Why he hit his friend with stick?' Gustav asked.
   'It's a Hurley,' I said.
   'Yeah. Hurley.'
   'He's G-ing him up,' I said. 'Getting ready for battle.'
   'I think I like this sport,' Gus said leaning forward. Lips drying up.
   'What's it name again?'
   The roar went out from within the cauldron and could be heard in every door throughout the land such was its might.
   OK, that's drivel. But it did go up and it does carry. Impressive also.
   I wish I'd surround sound.

Just an hour an a half later and both of us were exhausted. Gus' hair whipped east and west. I didn't bother pulling at mine. He's opted for the Tribesmen - because he 'don't like cats.'
   For a time it looked like he'd picked a winner. Galway, the men from the West - the provincial champions of Leinster - looked like they were picking up again from that Leinster final day when they whipped the cream from the Kilkenny whisker in a ten-point mauling. It's not often it happens, but it did force the Black Cats to think that perhaps, this year, they might not have things all their own way.
   But the Cats are a strange bunch. Instead of bickering and analysing everything, they closed their training camps to the public and held their enquiries behind closed door, before demonstrating the look of the Kilkenny of old in an successful, but unexpected, detour through the playoffs.
   It's rumoured throughout the island that Cats are born with a Hurl in hand. They have won five of the previous six All-Ireland finals. 33 in all. Star man of an age, Henry Shefflin, stood on the threshold of becoming the first Irishman to hold nine All-Ireland winning medals won from the field of play.
   But at half-time it looked like Galway were on to something as they left the pitch with a healthy five-point lead. It looked like the Tribesmen could bring the Liam McCarthy cup back across the Shannon for the first time in 24 years. 
   In the end, Shefflin came within seconds of his place in history, before Galway's Joe Canning slotted over a free, having just missed one from a similar range the minute before. A sighing Shefflin at the final whistle was left reflecting on a thunderous personal performance - but one that could have been that little more, perhaps enough to have seen his kittens over the line.
   Trading scores with Joe Canning for much of the match, both players ended up scoring twelves points each. Canning, in his first final, scored 1-9. Shefflin's scored an even dozen points.The same number of Leinster titles he holds as it happens.
   Shefflin looked to set his own personal bar early on with a goal attempt from a close-range free - only to see it saved. When faced (twice) with similar situations in the second half, he opted for points.  But when Kilkenny were awarded a late penalty, Shefflin once again assumed the leadership role - and opted for a point instead of going for goal, despite having hit the net on four occasions in previous All-Ireland finals.

'So what happen now?' Gus said at the end.
   Converted or what?!
   He was none too happy when I told him there was to be no extra-time. Cashing-in and all that.
   'I think this game is well for 3-D,' he said. 'It be awesomeness. That how you say?'
   Sure is, Gus - and what an idea! We should grab ourselves some suits and BS our way into RTé. An unemployed writer and a foreigner. In to save the day at the cash-strapped cash cow. Selling Hurling to the world - through green tinted glasses. Few pints of the black stuff and away with ye. Might be interesting on whiskey too. Get the NFL involved. Keep all our athletes in good jobs.  Ones that pay a little.
   'So, did you play this game?' Gus asked, as I flicked the TV off.
   'Nope,' I conceded. 'Far too windy.'
   Have a think about that my foreign buddy. I heard him mutter 'ah, the weather' as I went to relive myself. That supermarket stuff doesn't half run through ye.

He left a few hour ago.  Human contact done for another week. Opens a writing window.
   'I walk Linda from work home,' he said.
   Sap!
   Clouds closing in. Hope he doesn't get wet.
   Yesterday was a Vitamin-D stockin'-up day. Make hay while the sun shines - or something like that. Glad the weeks done with. A chance to put behind one of those cage rattlers that pass through us all from time to time. Just to let us now how fragile most things are. To remind us to take it all in whist we can.
   I don't like weeks like that. Weeks that make you think. Weeks that don't make sense. That kinda pull people about a little. Giving folk a little shake.

Too remind of whatever, wanted or 'wise.

*************

The ramblings here are three-years old this week, so great to see the blog shortlisted in the categories of Personal, Pop Culture and Humor  blogs this week in the Blog Awards Ireland.

Booker's World will be free to download tomorrow, Tuesday and Wednesday at this link.

Trips & Double Majors

I'm just in the door in time for the golf. I've been away too long. Longer than I had intended to be. Was it worth it? Can't say it did me any harm. On a battery level.

I don't know what it is about this particular year but, be it a US presidential election or visits to the nursing home, I seem to be tuning out. Seeing little benefits from certain things. Tiring to the point of - nonchalance.
   French word I think. General meaning. I really couldn't be giving a certain four letter work made famous by a fictional priest with a liking for alcohol from the Isle of Craggy. Desperate stereotyping - the genius type - but the subject of stereotyping couldn't have been further from my mind as I turned on the computer and prepared for another week writing for myself.
   Shortly after a deep sigh something unexpected happened. My finger just kinda stopped short of the 'on' key. Stayed there for a few seconds. Then moved again. Away.
   I gathered it up and closed the laptop down, grabbed a bag full of clothes and 37 minutes later I was sitting on a bus heading West. Spontaneity, I think they call it. I left the key of the house with Gustav who I woken from his sleep.  He'd just got off the night shift.
   'I'll be back in a week,' I said. 'Keep an eye on the place,' handing him the key to the house.
   'Hold it a second,' he said, still half asleep. He went back inside, returning with his camera.
   'Where it is you go, take picture. I keep it for scrap.' He handed it to me. Cool.
   'OK, 'I said and hurried off. The bus to the big smoke needed getting if I was to make Mayo by nightfall. I could do it. It was 8.35. In the morning.

Go on Rory Mac. Whey! 3 shot lead in the final major of the year.  Ooh, Tiger there's too. Nice.  I'm glad I didn't extend my holidays into another week. There's no place like home on the last day of a golf major - however good it was to touch base with Mattie once again.
I tend to avoid impulsiveness since - well, you know.  Never seemed to work out for me. Finding myself half way to Dublin on a whim was a surprise.

   'Anyone sitting in there?' an elderly woman asked me, pointing down to the seat beside the window. Was she blind? She didn't look blind. Was quite obvious there was no-one sitting there.
   'No,' I said, rising to my feet.
   'Oh, you could have just shuffled across,' she said, grazing past me toward the window.  Bloody hell. What does she think I am? A poker dealer. A disco dancer.
   'You're very kind.'  How little people know about others.
    'My pleasure,' I said, disguising my voice unknowns to myself. Like I do. Hiding who I was - where I came from - for reasons I don't even know. I sat back down. It's times like this I wished I'd brought a book.
   'So where you headed?' she said. Deep sigh. My mistake for sitting so close to the top on a near empty bus.
   Oldies.
    I looked at her face. Late sixties, I'd say. How could I fib?
   'Out West,' I said. 'To see a friend.'
   'I've never been,' she said, before telling me her life story. She's been to England once.
   'My sister died. Unexpected,' she said. 'I found thousands of pounds hidden everywhere when I was clearing out her flat. Her daughter was delighted. We could have had her brought home if we'd found it sooner,' she said. 'She'd have liked that.' She seemed sad all of a sudden.
   'Was too late be then. We'd cremated her. My niece said it was more environmental friendly.' I wasn't sure where to look. At least she had the window. Not that she cared as she went on to tell me how hard it was for adventurous women back in her day.  Seems her sister was one of those.
   'Shocking to see them still leaving today,' she said, shaking her head. At last. On my level. Something I'd heard about. Emigration. I was just about to go into a rant at the expense of the present administration when the bus stopped suddenly.
   'Mrs McGuire,' the bus driver shouted.
   'My stop,' she said. For feck sake. I got up again and stepped out into the aisle.
   'Enjoy America,' she said walking forward. A little rustically. Age, I suppose.

Woo! Ian Poulter. What you at?  Five birdies in a row. Leon would be proud.
Better watch your back, Rory Mac.

I was early for the bus to Castlebar. Three hours early. I parked on a bench and waited. The back of the bus felt like a seat from the heavens when I finally took it. I could have stretched out along them. 
   Gone to sleep. Would have felt like home.  There was no such luck. A few fellows took up their own residence on the back seats. Avoids. Luckily no one decided to use the seat beside me. You know the one? The one you don't pay for but still feel is yours.
   Buses. Strange places.
   The last time I came this way I found the trip bleak.  We weren't long out of the city and I'd drawn the same conclusion again. I decided to do what I do best. Sleep. I dreamt of Granddad Booker making his way up from Mayo all those years ago 'walking barefoot in winter.' Never could tell me how long it took him. I tried to draw Granny out about it. One of her finger wagging 'don't mention that again' times, it was. Man, they fought like tigers. Funny stuff.
   A cleaner woke me when we got to Castlebar.
   'Last stop,' she said.
   'Barefoot,' I said, trying to remember where I was. She looked at me. Tired. Drawn. Beaten.
   'Just get off the bus,' she said. I hope I wasn't foaming from the corners of my mouth. I quickly moved on and stepped out on to the street. A Tesco's the only thing I recognized. Phew. Some bells rang six. I'd made it. Before dark. Hours before dark. I'm sure Mum was fibbin' to me when she said I'd never make it in out in the real world.
   'Is this Castlebar?' I asked a random passer-by. She kept walking. I put it to one side and built myself up to ask someone else. They look friendly.
   'Excuse me, is this Castlebar?' They stopped. They looked like students. I'm not sure what they thought I was.
   'Yes,' said the one with the messy hair. 'Where do you think it is?' Aggressive little git.
   'Sorry,' I said. 'I fell asleep on the bus and wasn't sure.'
   They looked at me - this freak. In off the bus. Clothes in a hold all. Had I even shaved?
   'Thanks,' I said after them. The natives were friendlier the last time. If a little more eccentric. I walked on up the street in the opposite direction and popped into a newsagents.

 Tiger to -4. Normally starts falling away by this stage since his crimes against matrimony. Not today. Not yet anyway.

'Can I help you?' a girl said from behind the counter. Ah, this is more like it. Smile too.
   'Could you point me in the direction of the Pontoon Road?' I said, mirroring a smile back in her direction. Lord, but I must sound like a plank.
    'We have little maps of the town,' she said, pointing up to a stand displaying postcards. Enda Kenny's office? No way.
   I was sure I'd remember - Castlebar wasn't Dallas.  But smiling she stayed until I reached up and took one.
   '€3.'
   Never broke the smile. I gave her it in change. She didn't seem to mind as she told me there was an 'alphabet' thing at the back and I'd find where I was looking for there. I didn't realise I looked so odd - so out of place - that I looked like someone who couldn't find their way around a map. I was a scout once. For two weeks. 

Paddy Harrington! -4.

I stepped back out on to the street. It was busy. I continued on up the street and found a quite spot. I sat down on my bag against a wall and folded the map out.
P.
Pontoon.
 To Pontoon.
Pontoon Road.
   Here we go. Quick turn 90 degrees. Booker luck. Back down where I'd just come from.
   A car horn. I looked up. Police. Irish ones.
   'Lost?' They had pulled up on to the footpath. I hadn't even noticed. I got to my feet.
   'I am, be dad,' I said. 'I'm looking for the Pontoon Road.'
   'Hop in,' one of them said. He didn't look old enough to be driving. 'We'll run you over.'
   I did as instructed. You don't mess with the law. Unless, you're from Rossport.
    'Thanks lads,' I said getting in. 'Very decent of you.'
    'New in town?' the passenger Garda said as his mate pulled off down the street.
    'I am,' I said. 'Just off the bus.'
   Silence.
   'Where you from?'
    I told them.
    'My aunty lives down there. Una Gangley. Do you know her?
    'Can't say I do,' I said.
    'What's in the bag?' the driver said.
   'Clothes,' I said. 'I'm here for a few days.'
   'I didn't ask you how long you'd be here?' said the driver. Pause. The two of them laugh.
   'Where will we drop you?
   'Little cafe,' I said. 'Tessy's.'
   'Mattie's joint,' they said together before laughing again.
   'How you know Mattie?' the passenger guy asked. I couldn't go into it. I'd need all night.
   'Old friends,' I said.
   'Ah, Mattie's alright. Best breakfast in the town.'
   The driver guy took a sharp turn right and then another almost immediately. I was glad i was sitting in the middle of the back seat. I'd definitely have been kissing window.
   Two minutes later they screeched up outside.
     'Mattie's place is down the alley at the back.'
   'Thanks lads,' I said, missing the door handle at the first attempt in my hurry.
   'We'll be seeing you about,' the driver said with a serious face. He then pretended to smile before they began twittering to themselves again.I shut the door over and they drove off.

Rory's taking Kiawah Island asunder. -10 at the turn.  Two ahead of Poulter. Oh, who's that? Justin Rose. -6 for the day.

 I kind of knew I'd find Mattie at something. As I walked down the alley, there he was. Mowing the lawn with one of those old mowers. The 1 hp. Keeping busy.
   'Do you never stop?' I called out.  He was facing my direction. Head bowed. Watching the newly sharpened cutters scalp blades from the grass. He looked up and stopped.
   'Well it's about fuckin' time...' he said walking over to me.
   'Great to see you,' I said.
   'Aye, it is,' he said shaking my hand firmly. He's re-discovered a depth to his accent since he moved back over here. Sounds like Granddad used to - when he'd be telling his stories. His bullshit stories. Great bullshit stories.
   Within minutes normal service was resumed. Mattie cooking and serving me. Like the old days.  Cabbage, bacon, spuds, onions and carrots all in the one pot. He filled two mugs from it as it fermented. If vegetables ferment - which I doubt they do. As good a soup as I've tasted in a while. Nice and salty. Great for the heart.

I could bore you into a coma with scenes of serenity as Mattie closed the cafe early each day so we could cycle some ruggedness. He damn near killed me on Day 3 - a four hour round trip to the place the road led off to. A little pub on a bend on the road, a lake for as far as the eye could see.
   I was a little worried as we set the bikes down up against the side of the pub and went inside. Mattie opted for a cordial when i went for the black stuff. Two to re-hydrate, two for pleasure - and one for the road. We got back by bike light around eleven, taking breaks to grab Gustav his snaps and to water the bog. Not that it needed it.
   By the weekend I was talking about going home but Mattie would have none of it.
    'What you going back for?' he said. 'Stay another week.'  I didn't need convincing. There was something about getting lost on a bike in the middle of no-where which was appealing to me. A different state of recluse. A more natural one.

Bogey-bogey, Ian Poulter. Rory by four. Barring an Adam Scott...

My phone rid itself of some dust when it rang on the Tuesday night of the second week.
   'Are you alive?'
   Gustav. I'd filled Mattie in on our Gus. I sensed Mattie was glad I had a neighbour. I re-assured Gus I was well and good.
   'Maybe you come back this week?'
    I didn't know if that was a question or not.
   'Maybe,' I said. Jaysus. The freedom.
   'Please try,' he said. 'Linda's friend. She come for weekend visiting.'
   I knew there and then I wouldn't be going back. I wasn't going through that again.
   'I'll see what I can do.' I'd have asked him to feed the goldfish but I don't have any, so I bid him a quick goodbye. Mattie laughed as I told him of that fateful night. 

There was days I just sat in his little cafe. Reading a newpaper. They still exist. Just watching the world go by. The two young Guards were in and out. Could be a comedy duo. Sonny could have done something for them. If the law didn't work out. If Sonny was here...
   They were drove off their feet. Some lorry with part of an drilling machine had jackknifed in the county. Heading to the coast. To drill. Who'd have thought? Oil - in the West of Ireland. Being given away.
   I couldn't resist. I stole away and found an internet cafe to find out what had happened. Shell had tried to sneak it under cover of darkness. Big escort. Media silence. Then the old bog road had her say. I find them hard enough on a bike. I had a snigger to myself as i read how Mother Nature had her say and thought to myself- only in Ireland. But when was planning ever a concern in this country?

Oh shut up. You're on holidays! Or were. 

Rory. Can't see him doing anything but winning from here. Six clear. Two-majors at 23.


You can't help but deal with the issues at hand when with close friends for a time. It was no different here. I took what Mattie had to say seriously. Hadn't listened to many this year. Gustav's occasional rabble and that's about it. Mattie was always worth listening too. The coherent Mattie, that is. He's still hanging in there. Fighting like the Irish boxing team at the Olympics. And after spending a little time here, he seems to be winning as well. Funny where he found his place. Back home. Where he probably always belonged.
   We said what needed saying and no more. I promised return visits as i packed to leave.
   'You're always welcome,' he said. 'I don't forget.' I knew he didn't. He was one of life's good ones. Rare. Occasional. Proper friends. 

The two boys in the squad car picked me up earlier today to run me to the bus. They had insisted. I'd got to know them by name. Larry and Larry. The two Larry's. If only Sonny were around. I made one last request.
   Within five minutes there I was. Standing in front of Enda Kenny's office. Jaysus, it's small. Bit drab. Depressing color. It seemed fitting. For the times that are in it.
   It was Sunday. I decided to take the chance that he wouldn't be in there. That he'd come out and tell the two Larry's that he wanted a word in me ear. Out the back!
   I got passenger Larry to take a quick snap of me. Outside the seat of power in the West. For prosperity. I giggled at that thought.
   They dropped me to the bus.
   'Add us on Facebook,' they said.
   'I'll do that,' I said, waving a backward five. Like we were buddies.  I know I won't. But, good lads. The pair of them. Doing their job in a jobless country.
   I felt a little less stooped as the bus made her way back to Dublin. Raining one minute. Sunny the next. Cars racing along - Galway flags trying to escape from car windows. Heading for Croker. Hundreds of them. Cris-crossing. Too and fro across the island. In no time at all.
   Great country.
   Lousy government.

I don't think Gus knows I'm back. I'll knock into him tomorrow. With his photos. Can't have him ruining the golf. I'd missed the whole Olympic games. We did good. For a little country with feck all going for her. Our athletes have rarely let us down. This team certainly didn't. In youth I'd have been absorbed in it. Everything. From dusk to dawn.
   Things change I suppose. As people get older.They say a change is as good as a rest. For once, I think they're right.

Go on Rory. Roll it in. Nah, I don't believe it. He has. Win by eight. One of the Golden Bears records seems safe as Tiger faded.  Just can't see him taking Jack's 18 now.
 With no-one really knowing who is claiming who this weather isn't it  great to watch someone as young as Rory McIlroy shove criticism back down his critics throats.

USPGA champ. Double major champion. Not bad, wherever you're from. 

  

50 Shades of Green

How often do you go to sleep and wake up feeling twice your age? I don't know what it was, but wave after wave of whatever it was slowly took any energy I did possess to places outside my person at the beginning of the week. I didn't feel particularly sick. Just aged.
   The stairs felt like Everest and attempts at writing were cast to the digital trash bin. By Wednesday morning I'd given up and took up residence on the sofa down on the first floor of the residence.
   I'd have went to the doctor but I don't think I'd have made it. There can't be many things worse than ending up on the broad of your back in broad daylight (and it would want to be pretty broad around here at times) on a public street and becoming the victim of wild story lines that plot their way around small places.
   I lie. There are far worse things that could happen - and happening.

The house seemed quieter than usual, it's hollowness more apparent as I cut a way through some deplorable daytime TV. I didn't want to eat. I couldn't sleep. When I did I came through, drowned, like a trip outside on an Irish summers day.
   By Thursday, even trips to the toilet were put off for as long as could be mustered from the rapidly declining stock of energy. Sometimes that bursting signal to go, just went away. That can't be good for you.
   Late in the afternoon I felt like my cognition was waining - like I wasn't processing much. Just sweat - by the large bead - cascading from wanton pores. For the first time I felt a little worried.
   As i caught the days happenings on the evening news, a press conference from Enda and Eamon had given caught my attention. After listening to what I thought Enda had said when defending James Reilly's glaring inadequacies when serving his department - in any department - I was convinced.
   I needed hospitalization - and quickly. My world had turned into a freaky cartoon, where the clouds were made of crows. Tall jagged shadows everywhere.  Delirium?
    Who'd have thought? Enda - saving my life.

I don't know what happened. I passed out. For fifteen hours. Woken only by my humming of an old Oasis song, bladder filled beyond capacity. I lumbered to my feet. I could feel them again. The walking wasn't as difficult as it had been the past few days. The relief, when i got there - majestic.
    Noise. Turning the toilet water amber. Whatever it was that laid me out was coming out of me. At length.
   I was glad there was no mirror to ponder into as i felt cold water soothe the worn-out pores of my face. That could have been enough to throw a reversal into the mornings good fortune. For better or worse, it looked like I was on the mend. I was going to survive, much to the lament of many.

Saturday saw a meeting with food again. It felt cramped at times. The final test came late that evening as I climbed the steps of the stairs. Then the more difficult attic ones in search of the last sole place of purpose I still had left. My bed.
   I woke this morning a little after ten. It sounded like a Sunday so I went back to sleep. It made more sense to energize. I'd worry about the stone-and-a-half I'd lost during the week later. Despite those good intentions, I'm staying on the ice-cream diet. For a few more days anyway.
 
Gus called in the afternoon. Worried. He'd noticed that my curtains had been closed all week.
   'You look like train hit you with a bus,' he said, after he explained all the things he had found 'unusual' in order for him to reach his conclusion that maybe something was up with me.
   Good job I hadn't succumbed to life. Like old Larry had. Maybe even worse. Dying with that Oasis song on my mind might have lead to an uncomfortable death scene for anyone entering it.
   'No, just run down,' I said.
   'Aw. Depressed,' he said.
   'Nooo,' I said, before loosing him as quickly as i could by explaining in detail, using words i didn't even know, to describe a mysterious bacterial infection - cum virus - called 'Knockthebolleekouttaya.'
   'It sounded serious,' he said, before saying he'd call again soon.
   'I'm meeting with Linda,' he said. I knew it already. I could smell it off him. I'll tell him later I was only taking the piss. I'm sure he'll get the humor in it.

I returned to my couch to sit out the return to normality and watched as Adam Scott headed off on his final round at the British Open with our own Graham McDowell. Prowling together behind the ultimate prowler, Tiger Woods, looking to end a streak of nearly four years without a major win.
   They were all jittery to begin with - Woods being the less of the three. As Woods made steady pars, both McDowell and Scott were swapping between bogeys and pars and the very odd birdie.
   The wind was rising on the Royal Lytham and St. Annes course after giving the field as easy a ride a links course could over the first three days. At least that was what the commentator said as I lay there watching 50 shades of green through worn and beaten eyes. Unable to see any shade of white.
   Woods was the first to concede ground, something he didn't need, as he tried in vain to chase down Scott - now caddied by Wood's ex-caddie, Steve Williams. Woods and Williams paired together in 13 out of 14 of Wood's major titles.
   Woods seemed to have a decent approach to the 6th, but plugged his shot into a green side bunker. After skillfully dodging his ball which rebounded off the face of the bunker in his attempt to get it out, Woods got down on his knees to somehow manage to get the ball on to the green with his second attempt - but three putts away. With a +3 on his card there was now serious daylight between Woods and the likable Scott seeking his first major title.
   McDowell made birdie on eight to reduce the gap between him and his playing partner to three. However, G-Mac's joy was short lived. He bogeyed the next three holes and with Scott himself steadying with a string of pars it looked for all the executions in Texas that Scott was about to become a major champion for the first time.
   There was no push from the pack, who mostly all struggled around the back nine. Woods continued to look frustrated as his driver appeared with little effect for the first time in the week. His playing partner Brandt Snedeker was gone by the turn. World Number 1, Luke Donald, posted a -2 total, but when Adam Scott birdied 14 to get to -10, Donald's score was never going to take the Claret Jug.

Enter...

Damn to how the universe operates at times. Damn the way the human body does also. As Stevie Williams and Adam Scott walked from the 14th green to smiles and applause, it was at least concrete in my mind that it was in the bag for the Australian.
   Just like that. Out, I went. I must have fell asleep because I haven't went out again since I woke to find Ernie Els hoisting the famous Claret Jug to the green side spectators who roared their approval at the now 4-time major champion. The second 42-year old to win the Champion Golfer of the Year in a row after Darren Clarke's own fairytale last year.
   Oh no! I was sick again. Back in that other reality I seemed to have been in all week. I jumped up from my stretched out position. Nope. I was like a cat. I wasn't dreaming.
   Ernie Els. Where had he come from?

Els hadn't caught my eye. He'd been flirting with the 'there or thereabouts' all week - but at the turn he was +2 for the day and half a dozen strokes behind Scott. Then Ernie's putter got hot. Apparently!!!
   Birdies at 10,12,14 and a little monster on 18, saw the South African card a 2-under-par 68 for a -7 total. Then, like so many other times in the sport of golf, absurdity stepped in to even tie the tongues of the David Feherty's of this planet.

Scott bogeyed 15. No big deal. He could afford that. In fact he could afford a few of them. Luckily. Right on the next hole he missed a three-footer for par. Another bogey. Lead down to one. Surely not?
   Bogey at 17. All square. Unbelievable. I'm speculating!
   As Scott stood on 18 he must have been barely able to grip his club. He needed to steady himself. A par for a play-off. Having practically lead since Thursday he deserved at least that. Didn't he?
No-one knows who the God of Golf is. All that's known is that he works in strange way and mysterious ways. Much like many Gods. For Adam Scott bogeyed again. For the forth time in a row. You wouldn't write it.
   And I slept through it all. Never did happen before. Only one-person to thank for being able to witness it. After the event! The person who invented highlights.

Els, ten years and a day since his first British Open success at Muirfield, finishes practicing putts for a playoff - champion outright without having to walk another hole. In hindsight all the signs were there. The decade since his first. His experience at winning majors. Same age as last years winner. A second and a third at the same venue in past Opens. His return to form in the past year. How the game of golf writes the strangest of stories. Good punter might have put all that together and had an old flutter. I certainly didn't. There was no book-making for me this week.
   There were none more joyed than Ernie - none so disconsolate as Adam Scott. He hid it professionally as watched Els hoist the famous trophy. Steve Williams wondering how his experience couldn't carry the Australian down the home stretch for what would have been his sweetest major of all. But like so many stories surrounding this strange game, it failed to produce the ending most expected. The times it does that is extraordinary.
'Part of the lure,' as Leon used to say - though he wasn't talking about golf!

I nearly slipped and fell up the stairs as I returned to the attic to write this and gaze out at the clouds as I work on getting a degree of cognition back.
   An envelope. It had slid across the floor and half under the bottom step of the stairs. Bit dusty too. Must have been there a while. I opened it.
   Nice. A €50 note. Was I delirious again?
A letter with directions to Mayo.

Come across sometime.
Mattie. 

No date. Bloody hell. That could have been there for... How long has it been since I heard from him? It definitely was this year sometime. Hope he doesn't think I just kept the money and ignored him.
   Why is it whenever I get the chance to get away it is always to Mayo. Not like the memories are the best I have ever had. What if I ran into Enda Kenny down there on his eight-week break from the Dáil with the other 165 TD's.

Love when that happens. Déja vu.
 Enda. Press conference. Dancing jagged shadows. Sweats.

Within five minutes I'd found it. That press conference. The one I thought was in my head when my head was everywhere else.
'Oh my sweet...'
Words do fail me sometimes.

I've come across some statements in my time. The ones from modern 'celebrities' are a source of amusement to some - distress to others.
    Some observant musings can spark a thought - for better or worse. Some too obvious to even consider vocalizing into sound.
Other that still do.  -

'Generally when people speak they use words.' - Enda Kenny

Profound, hey? Gives us great hope for the future. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Or get sick!  
   Though, I must stop projecting. I could have been causing a coroner a few awkward moments. If things hadn't gone my way. At least I've seen it into another week. Might get something done for a change. Maybe even head West when the weather picks up.

Mights and maybes.

Womble Don

Eat, write and sleep. Write, sleep and eat.
Odd menial chores.
Sleep, eat and write.
Bathroom breaks. Various lengths. Some tasks rhyme with write - others with behave. Others hiss.
Weekly excursion - visit old folks home.
Collect wages on way back.
Eat, write, sleep. 

'I think we need a hobby,' said Gus, already claiming his first week of paid leave from the supermarket. Linda was working. Coinciding holidays might give their little secret away. I mean, how dare they fall for each other contrary to company policy. Unwritten too. NO employee liaisons.
   'We?' I said, as Andy Murray, great British tennis hope, turned to his Mum, fist clenched, having just taken the first set in the Wimbledon final against Roger Federer. The time had come.
   'Yes. It can't be all working and no playing,' he said, grabbing two bottles from a box of top-end beer he had bought in a two-for-one children's allowance day offer at a rival store earlier in the week. Gus doesn't have kids. So, he doesn't get the allowance. But why shouldn't he, should we say, take advantage.
   'What's this?' I asked. 'Is this working. Sittin' here on a Sunday - getting slowly intoxicated?'
   'No. This is not my meaning,' he said, as Andy's Mum jumps forward, raising a loving fist at her son as he takes another game. I can't see Murray being denied. His time must be now. He's hitting it sweetly.

'Tennis?' Gus offered. I nearly choked on my suds.
   'You're kidding - right?' I said, recovering.
   'Do I look like I is for kidding?' He raised his right eyebrow. He didn't. Unfortunately.
   'Tennis isn't really my thing.' I said.
   'Then what? he asked. Break point, Murray. Looking like his day.
   No.
   A second one.
   No again. Fed ain't a six-time champion for nothing.
   'Then - how about we just watch the TV?' An extension of tone on the 'then.'
   'OK,' he said - ruffled.
   Menial conversations. On Wimbledon final day. Can't be having it!
   Another break-point.
   No.
   Murray would rue these. Minutes later he did. Federer wraps up the second set from no-where. Didn't see that coming. Neither did Murray by the looks of things. He's slumping. He has to hold.
   He does.
   Phew!
   Bottle.
   What next? The skies to open.
   Yes. Players off.
   'I must go,' Gus said rising. He took three bottles from the box and left them to the side.
   'Call in during the week,' I said. 'When you're off.' He picked the box up and put it under his arm. Clinking all over the place.
   'I is off now,' he said, waiting for a second.
   'Talk to you soon.'
   I jumped up myself, leaving Gus to let himself out. I'd bought strawberries. And cream. They're very green though. Must be the rain.

I shut the curtains over not long after Gus had closed the door. Soon after the roof went over Centre Court. Off, it would not come again. The rain hopped off it, rebounding out from the speakers on the TV. Quite the pour.
   As the players came back out to a longing British crowd, it didn't take long before they started to realise that Federer was hitting form, and try as he may,  Murray had no answer. Federer was coming in more, making Murray move, being more aggressive on Murray's second-serve. An error that had cost the Swiss the first set. Serving sublimely. Focused.
   The writing's on the wall. With all the grace and elegance that has made him the greatest tennis player of all time, Fed reels off the closing two sets to claim a record-equalling seventh crown. His seventeenth grand slam title. World number 1 again. At 30.
   As Murray reflected on his fourth grand slam final loss, the disappointment flowed from his eyes as he thanked those around him. Graceful in defeat like William Wallace on his final day in Hollywood.
   Time is on his side - but he is playing in the Federer/Nadal era. Throw in a Djokovic, and one can see why it is difficult for the Scot - the weight of an entire nation on his back. The burden of carrying the failures of his peers at the London Venue stretching back to the 1930's on his shoulders.
   What might have been...

I lay prostrate on the couch. Head tilted to the side. Catching the glow from the fire and glimpses of the TV set in equal measure. The fire - patching my face. The TV - parching my brain. To combat the boredom I did what all self-respecting practitioners of the state of elusiveness do. I fell asleep.

There I was. Driving Sonny to talk Andy Murray off the Wimbledon roof. It took a long-winded motivational appeal, but Sonny talked him down.
    Seconds later.
    We're all refused entry in The Fed's private party. Wimbledon champs only - and their agents.
    'Maybe next year,' said Mike Tyson to Andy. He was bouncing at the door. With Mitch!
    'I'm heading back to Italy,' Sonny said - telling Andy to keep his chin up. Andy thanked him for talking him down.
   'I do it all the time,' Sonny said, before shaking both our hands.
   'Nice to see you again, Don,' he said. He disappeared like the figment of my imagination he was.
   'Who are you again?' Andy asked.
   'Don Booker.'
   'Never heard of you, Don?' Don't worry about it kid. 
    But this was a dream. My dream. I could have fed him anything. Took advantage of the scenario.
   'Wanna get drunk?' he asked. A bolt from the tartan.
   'Shouldn't you be getting back to your girlfriend and Mum?'
   'They won't stop crying. You'd think I'd died or something.' He turned his head back a little and attempted to smile. 'Unless you have to get back to yours?'
   No. That certainly wasn't going to be a problem!

Somehow or other my face had found itself nestled, nose first, down where lost pennies go to hide in the couch. Among the stale crumbs and discarded hairs. Forensic nightmare!
   We found ourselves drinking a 200-year-old bottle of Jim Beam on the very couch I lay sleeping on. From his private collection.
    'Bit of a hole,' he said, looking around. He passed the bottle over.
    Cheap shot.
    'Tis. Writings a bit of a slow burner.'
    Think.
    'You must be devastated with your loss?'
    Cheaper.

   The mouth fulls pass.
   'Must be nice,' he said, offering his hand to take the bottle again. 'Being a nobody. Not that I mean any disrespect.'
    I handed Jim back over.  Us pair of slang-slingers. Probing.
   'It has its benefits,' I began - not able to list many. 'It's quite for one.'
   'Yes it is,' he said.

   We listened for a time. Passing the bottle too and fro. Commenting occasionally on its hidden nectar's - its values - its historical importance in times of male woe. Near its death, it came.
   'What do I have to do to win one of these damn things?'
   That's Sonny's field. I had no answers. I thought about giving his a few positives. Like he had got to final. That he had millions in the bank. Third best player on the entire planet. Or is it the fourth? I was never third at anything. Not even at egg and spoon. But I didn't. Like a seasoned voter, I knew it wouldn't make a difference.
   'You need a hobby, man,' I said eventually, after some serious thought. I wanted to help. 
   'You think?' he said, tipping his head as far back as it would go to drain the final drop of Jim down passed his mouth. It was an impressive sight.  'Like what?'
   Fuck. I should have just kept my mouth shut. I was stumped.

   'Do you read?' I asked. He looked at me like i had asked him something offensive.
   'Of course I can read.' Ignoring his hearing, I passed him the copy of my book which just happened to be in my hand.
   'Try that,' I said. I expected him to say 'No.' But he didn't.
   'Booker's World,' he said. 'Imaginative!'

   I don't know how long it took in dream hours, but he got through it in what seemed like the blink of a squinting eye.
   'And I thought I was a loser?! he said, breathing out, eyes bulging like he was stressing a fact.
   Bingo!
   'See,' I said. 'There always someone/something worse.'
   'I just needed reminding,' he said - shaking the empty bottle in hope. But this was not a fairytale. 'Thanks. Just what I needed.'
    I knew it would have its uses. Someday. I told him to keep the book.
   'Toilet reading,' I suggested.
   His Galaxy something sounded off. He took it out. Fancy.
   'It's the girls,' he said, passing it over for me to read.
   Sleek too.
   We've stopped crying now.
   'Guess, I gotta go,' he said, starting to rise. Thank fuck. The legs on which he sat were numb. I wasn't doing my own chest cavity much good either. So, I rose off me as well.
   'Do you think I can win a Grand-Slam?' he asked.  He disappeared before I told him he could. He just had to do it. I sounded like a Nike cliche. I was glad he didn't hear me.
    I woke from my slumber. Morning. Trying to cascade through those heavy curtains that served me  so well. I felt like an eighty-year old man having just done a 12-hour shift on a ground-roller over rocky terrain. Which isn't good. I'm no where near eighty.

I attempted to stretch. I felt a twinge. Jaysus, had I pulled a disc? No. I could walk. My blood turned to pins as it began to circulate.
   What was that noise?
   Skype? Upstairs. Who'd be calling at this forsaken hour? Through a simple process of elimination I realized who it was. Sonny. He's the only one in my Skype list. Ordered to download it. By him.
    I made coffee. Purposely strong. Those cheap bottles!

Ten minutes later I'd framed myself adequately and had Sonny on the other side of a computer screen. Bronzed as usual. Reminding me of those medals I never won.
   'I tried calling you,' he said.
   'I heard,' I said.
   'Why didn't you answer. It could have been important.'
   Not to me. 
   'Is it?'
   'Well, no...'
    I listened to him bang on again. Like his marriage counsellor. Amanda and Luke were fighting. Over how to develop the Italian enterprise to make Sonny 'fit in.' To make it pay for them all. So they'd never have to come back. I listened. Silently. Until he stopped for breath.
   'Do you think they're having an affair?' I said. I watched as the expected look fell across his face. The classic furrowed brow. Might as well give him something else to think about. Throw a little family triangle among those thorny Italian vines. Paint that. Abstractly.
   'I never said that?' he whispered - looking cautiously over his shoulder. No you didn't, Sonny. But now your thinking about it. Still - at least you have the sun down there.
   He convinced me there was nothing going-on. Not that he had too. Boredom's a wicked thing sometimes. My bad.
    Personal note to self - Must try harder in inter-personal relationships. Claim more sensitivity from universe. Must maintain friendships. Might need feeding. Someday.
   Eventually the conversation ended itself in its usual way. The connection died. Like it does. Not sure if he tried to call back. I'd sent the computer into hibernation and got beneath the bed covers. That's more like it for a Monday afternoon. I'd talk to Sonny soon.

Larry Mulligan used to say he'd ban days of the week in favour of a more 'floating' approach if he ever got into power. Not sure of the power he had on his mind - being the independent hippy of the wrong era he was. In the wrong town. In the wrong country. Contemporary California might have suited old Lar better.
   Me? I'd just ban Mondays. Make Sunday a 48-hour thing. Get the publicans on board.  Reclaim the beer from the supermarkets. An Irish revolution.

You'd miss certain people. Certain places. Things.
Maybe I do need a hobby.
Kite surfing? You'd need a kite for that.
Research the family tree? - No thanks!
A job? - If only.

I think Ireland has me withered.
Write, eat, sleep.
Eat, sleep.

Sleep.

Trapped

I had a dream. It turned into a nightmare. An eight day one. 
   Ten years is a long time. Especially when one waits on something. Like participating on the world stage in one of soccer's premier competitions, the European Championships. Sometimes things are worth waiting for - but over the past week and a half that proved to be nonce - proving that such sentiment has no place in the Irish soul.
   I'd given myself an unpaid holiday. I knew the start date - June 10 - the end, when Ireland were dispatched from Europe's top national competition. The first game was vital.
   Croatia - a superior team on paper - a result, a must. Less than two hours later Ireland's odyssey had begun. An odyssey that started as it ended - in a resounding defeat. While national governments and sporting bodies called for Fair Play awards to be lavished on the fantastic Irish fans, the players left the tournament with the worst record of a participating nation in the tournaments history - albeit sharing the accolade with a few others, namely Yugoslavia, Bulgaria and Denmark.
   Three damning defeats, eight goals conceded and just a solitary goal for the Irish supporters at home and abroad to force bouts of sporting ecstasy from a people in need of a lift. The team failed to respond to the challenges like teams of yesteryear who served us abroad. Simply, they were just not good enough.

In truth, but for a favourable play-off draw which paired us against European minnows, Estonia, we would not have been there at all. Thousands travelled to Poland and the Ukraine for the matches, but had to resort to renditions of The Fields of Athenry when shouts of support failed to inspire an aging, ill-managed team.
   Robbie Keane now plays his football in a Z-league in the United States and it showed. Fan favourites Damien Duff, Richard Dunne and Shay Given were equally disappointing. Not one of the squad provided a shred of positivity for the world cup qualifiers ahead. Dispatched after just two games, the manager had a chance to blood some new players. He remained loyal to the old - the tired and tested - the failed. Hardly instills a confidence in a manager who football philosophy is at best, dated.

Roy Keane had his now customary pops at Irish soccer - his inclusion of Irish soccer fans in his latest tirade - the spew of a bitter man now earning his living as a pundit living on controversy. Eamon Dunphy threw his weight behind the team and even backed them to get out of the group and to the knockout stages - a prediction with him walking Dublin's Grafton Street dressed as a clown.
   The only highlight was the fans. The best in the world. Too bad we don't give them much to cheer about. I'm pretty sure they have done more for Irish tourism in the past 10 days than Leo Varadkar could dream about doing in ten years. Yes, Leo was there. The Sports minister who knows little about sport. Appointed by Enda Kenny to his first cabinet it was the earliest sign of the new taoiseach's leadership qualities - or lack of as it turns out to be.
   But even I can't let the government take the fall on this one. The buck must stop with the manager - he picks the team. When those teams failed, he remained loyal. Poor management if you ask me. The players let him down. They let everyone down. I don't remember such a no-show from an Irish side in any of their five major tournament appearances since 1988.
   Should he stay? Who know? Though a near €3 million contract over the next two years suggests a certain level of extravagance the FAI are rarely noted for. We all remember Saipan and the 'facilities.' Ireland rarely has philosophies about things - soccer included. If we had one it would reap benefits within a generation. But like economic sovereignty returning, i just don't see it happening.

Summer!

Estonian Blue

A bad day for Labour but a great night to be Irish. Apart from this, I don't think I wrote much about the European Championship qualifiers over the past 18 months. Some will say I've turned me back on the team, others just glad i didn't offer much, as the old reverse psycology worked. It's actually surprising how much it does.
Ireland and Estonia drew 1-1 at Landsdown Road tonight, sending Ireland through to the European Championship to be held next Summer in Poland & Ukraine. The damage was done last Friday night in Estonia, when, after a sluggish hour, Ireland woke to run out comfortable 4-0 winners.
It's the first time Ireland has qualified for a major soccer championship since 2002. Ten years don't seem so far back - looking back. Gone in an instant.
It was hard not to grow a certain apathy after the way we did not reach the last World Cup after Thierry Henry's cheating and his following un-endorsement, the only person ever to have been demoted from Booker's own Hall of Fame. We were the best team on that night in Paris. Bitter pill to swallow.
All the memories of 2002 came back to life that night. How we played Spain off the park in extra time in the second round only to lose on penalties. This after Roy Keane's departure pre-tournament. We might have won that one, if the luck of the Irish actually existed. But there you go...

I was more hopeful than confident this campaign. No doubt about it the Irish team had heart. That draw in Russia? One of the great performances. We ran out clear second in the group after being seeded third, earning us the plum tie in the play-offs in the hopeful category against Estonia. The confident came after we went 5-0 up tonight. I guess it comes down to manager Trappatoni's ability to use what he has to their strengths and like it or not, we have qualified and that's better than sitting at home, a bitter spectator as Germany win it next Summer - captained by Lionel Messi.
We have a mean defense and if Robbie Keane can keep himself sharp after moving to Los Angeles we will always score a goal or two, so maybe I can dream aga... what am I saying? How do you call it, without even knowing the opponents yet? You don't!

Gives the place a lift. My best days were Ireland's best days. From 1988 to the present day. In '88, you couldn't write the script. Scotland beat Bulgaria away from home with a last gasp winner to send us through. Remember those scottish shorts. Gary Mackay. Never had to buy another drink again in Ireland.
Then woe and behold, England in our first ever game at a major championship. Then we won. Ray Houghton. It was the start of a new confidence for many, even though we didn't get out of the group, after a draw against Russia (Ronnie's scissors) and a loss to a Dutch goal that seemed to defy what a ball could do. Home we welcomed them as heroes. What an introduction to the big time.
Better followed in 1990 and 1994 and then 2002. The best of memories.

So it's plaudits all round. Still have a few issues with the governing body of the game. It's very corporate and riddled with accusation at World level. I don't think a footballer is worth quarter of a million a week. But hey, it creates the dream which props everything else. Could be worse, I suppose.
But damn we are making strides slowly in Ireland. The 8 million we pocket for qualifying hopefully won't be taxed and put into Anglo. Enda was there tonight. See what sport can do, Enda? For the old national psyche. Quit pissing the defenders of our nation around and leave them at their place of work and get them involved in turning our Olympic contingent for London next year into men and women of steel. Do what's right for Ireland.

Seems politics still has some principaled men left. Minister of State for Housing, Willie Penrose resigned his post today over the closure by government of the Army barracks in Mullingar. Soldiers stationed there will be sent to Athlone. 200 hundred years of history - gone,... because of banks and the two Brian's. Just like that.
Penrose opposed the closure and resigned his cabinet seat this afternoon. Penrose should now lead his way to the Indie side of the house and cause dissent which might eventually lead to a new party.
First-teamsters must be getting increasingly worried. Their pension.
Do they oppose the budget and go Indie themselves and have the possibility of a long Dáil career or do they take a chance that their future is better in government hands. It is a juicy sum of money after all. And times are tough.
This followed the disclosure by Labour MEP, Nessa Childers that she was threatened with expulsion from the Party for voicing her concern over the appointment of Kevin 'I miscounted 3-6 billion euro' Cardiff to the European Court of Auditors. Poor woman. She must be traumatized. I mean how dare she speak of her concern?
Oh, Labour. It has begun. The Gilmore Gale has long blown itself out. Wonder how they will come out once they vote for austerity?

Go Ireland.

Thorny Rose

It looked more like a local golf course on a drab September evening as Justin Rose walked up the 18th at the BMW Championship in Chicago last night to claim the third PGA tour victory of his career and play himself right into contention for the 10 million big ones on offer at the Tour Championship this coming weekend.
With no significant moves from the pack, Rose gave glimpses of wilting, but when it mattered he returned his game to the solid state it had been in all week and secured a 2 shot victory over Aussie, John Senden. Rose now lies third in the Fed-Ex standings and should he secure victory at the Tour Championship he will have earned himself a $10 million jackpot even he could not have foresaw even a week ago.
Rose will always be remembered as the kid who at just 17 and an amateur tied for 4th in the Open Championship in 1998. His head turned professional after that and many pundits questioned him when he missed 21 consecutive cuts at the start of his professional career.
2002 saw Rose win four time worldwide and establish himself on the European Tour.
In 2006 Rose switched alliances and crossed the Atlantic, but despite the transition managed to win the European Order of Merit the following year after winning the final event of the year, The Volvo Masters.
In 2010 Rose claimed victories for the first time Stateside with wins at the Memorial and the AT&T before last nights success. Rose has been very much a form player throughout his career. His victories have by and large come in spouts, and that is why he will be seen as a major contender this coming weekend for the biggest prize in Golf.
Webb Simpson leads the standings going into the Tour Championship, with Mr. Inconsistent, Dustin Johnson in the second ranked position. Rose is third, followed by Mr. Consistent, Luke Donald and Matt Kuchar making up the top-five who hold the destiny of the mammoth cheque in their own destiny. A victory by any of them secures the windfall. In the event of that not happening, the winner of the Fed-Ex Cup will be the best ranked player at the end of the 30-man event.
It may not be the strongest field ever assembled, but it is reward for consistency throughout an entire season Stateside. If I had money it would be on Rose. If I had Paddy Power's money it would be Jeff Ogilvy, and if i had sentimental money, it would be on Jason Dufner for the win at the season's finale - if not for the big cheque. So now you know who to avoid...

*************

Just 10 miles from here the Solheim Cup will be the focus of the women's game next weekend at Killeen Castle. I worked on that project for a few months panning the floors of the wealthy before rain interrupted play... but that's another story.
With ticket prices being as they are and no offer of writing work to cover the event, I'll be following the event on TV. Best of luck to all involved in bringing such a prestigious event to the County of Meath. Plaudits where plaudits are due.

*************

Congrats to Dublin who showed that metal counts in Sport yesterday when they overturned a 4 point deficit with eight minutes to go against Kerry to win by a point with virtually the last kick of the game - from their goalkeeper to win The All-Ireland football championship. After so long, I'm sure it was worth the wait.

Masterstroke?

I drove past a pub today and saw a DJ going in. It was mid-day, but some people were ready to party. I drove on and thought about some of those days. They were great.

Having got up to witness Ireland's drab win over a poor USA last weekend, I did contemplate not setting the alarm this morning. Then I discovered it was a later kick off, so the old alarm clock didn't get it's bi-yearly sound-out. I used to hate when it violated the ear like no ear should be violated at 5 o' clock of a bitter cold wet November morning. Next job I have, I hope I can work through the night in a quietish place. Maybe in planning or something.

Last week I wrote about how after 4 straight defeats in the run up to the World Cup, the signs didn't look great. After today's win against one of the tournament favourites Australia, whatever voices were heard in the Irish dressing rooms today were heard loud and clear.
When the full time whistle blew Ireland had beaten Australia by 15-6 and if Johnny Sexton had his kicking boots on it could very well have been more. Always the cynic when it comes to sport - being a Gooner and all - I was surprised to be saying to myself with a half an hour to go that we were going to win this. To a man the effort was fantastic. It had it all. Pride, passion and desire. The scrum, the lineout, the pack, it had everything. To see Aussie heads looking dismayed with 20 minutes to go told a story in itself. Gloating would be a very foolish endeavor given the record of Australia in World Sports over the past century, but even Chopper Reid would have a hard time denying the Irish this one.

Although on the other side of the Planet it felt like home in Auckland as 60,000 fans were treated to a game few would have expected Ireland to play more than a supporting role in. Whatever happened during the week was either the luck of the Irish or a carefully orchestrated psychological success from Declan Kidney and his back room team.
I looked at Kidney as the match progressed. He looked a pretty calm man - as great coaches are. But it was the look he wore at the final whistle which gave it away for me. He wore the look of a man who had got what he expected to get from the game. Who would blame the Australians for slightly taking their eye off the ball on this one, given the record going into it. And if that reaching suggestion is the case, then Kidney has pulled a master stroke in a sport where the psychological battle is a huge plus if played right. Whatever measure it was used in science now plays an important role in professional sports. But without men to believe in it, it's never going to work. I think Kidney has those men, many now in the hey-days of great careers which will have them talked fondly about countrywide for many years to come. Unlike soccer, with its overpaid diving fancies of late, rugby offer something a little more I feel to the sports fan these days - well to my generation perhaps. Or maybe that's just myself...

What does victory mean? Australia will now probably play another Southern hemisphere heavyweight, South Africa in the quarter finals, with Ireland, who will be expected to beat Russia and then Italy in their last group game, going the way of France and England on the way to the final. A game at a time Ireland are a match for all on their day. But the question will still be asked if they can now put another four wins on the board to contest the final on the 23rd of October.
It's a more positive draw, when one considers the might of the home based Kiwi's who also have their own critics to answer. Australia can bounce back though they now likely must beat South Africa and the Kiwi's to get there. Who'd bet against them as current Tri-Nation champions? All great champions tick the right boxes when they have too. I just know once again a sport mad writer is dreaming again.
Take this afternoon. Little 40. Boys are back in town, Webb Ellis in hand. Carried through a sea of arms past the Áras and on down the road, they are not dropped until seated at the cabinet table of Dáil Eireann. The present cabinet locked in the Dáil bar - literally - by the Gardai. The army threaten to intervene, but then call it off and as the nation makes its way to the capital for a month long celebration, those hoors over at Shell finally land that pipe on shore. But it's all OK, the boys will be down to sort it out. After the partay.
Then I woke up and Arsenal had been choked for four and i realised reality was more of a nightmare these days... but what's a dreamer without a dream?

Great day to be a Paddy, a Mick and sure, for one day only, let's throw in the politicians as well. Take note ye Masters of Ireland's Fate. What joy such days bring upon the land. That's what life is about. That's what Ireland is about. Sport and Art have been too short changed and for far to long but they both offer much more than any profit will ever bring.

'Tis a proud day to be Irish.

*************

Two years ago Irish Olympic hero, Darren Sutherland died in London. He was one of 527 people who took their own lives in Ireland in 2009. Worldwide 1,000,000 people died through suicide each year. These statistics should not be forgotten. The causes are many, but the subject hidden largely from view. These figures are not acceptable in any decent society. I hope the government of the day remember that come December. We've swept much under those carpets during the years, this problem should not be one of those.

Remember Ronnie

'Tis a windy night to be a swing,' me old mate Leon used to say.
Hurricane Katia's tail-end is supposed to hit shore sometime tomorrow evening with winds of up to 160km an hour, traveling across the country on into Monday, before making its way across the water. That's a pretty snappy tail in any one's terms and you just hope whatever is up there will suck it up. Maybe the ghost of Ronnie Drew? Knock the whip out of her because the country seriously doesn't need another weather event like the ones experienced over the last few years here in Ireland.
I'd have been a climate skeptic in my day, partially because of historical fact and partly because academics were caught manipulating the numbers. That kinda craic should get a Professor sent packing, but hey, it didn't take long for that story to disappear.
The one thing I am certain of is man's contribution to the current, shall we say, turbulence. The planet and the immediate outer space is being choked to death. I'm sure the Outer Space doesn't mind too much, as well, for all human purposes it's as dead as a .... but for us here down in Ireland, we like the mildness of our incessant rainfall and we'd like to get back to that.
I mean, what's the story? What's a planet without a human? I'll leave that up to the individual to answer. And why the hurry? What does all this money guarantee at the end of the day? It's definitely not to get off the planet anyway. With the amount of junk floating about up there, that would be a dodgy ride. It will probably be left to Richard Bronson now to clean it up. I'm sure he won't mind. He's Tthat kinda man.

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Today or yesterday, depending on where your reading from was World Suicide Prevention Day. This blog is almost two years old now. The first post recorded here dealt somewhat with the issue. It was around the time Irish Olympic hero, Darren Sutherland took his life. Every instance of suicide I come across always leaves me cold. Sense of disbelief, best swept to the back of the mind, in a place not often visited. Here's a few statistic's concerning the issue.
In Ireland it has been described as an epidemic. Long swept under the carpet which is down to multiple factors, the stigma is lifting, but as the statistics suggest, the efforts are to slow and although their was a decrease from the 2009 high, when it's human lives we are speaking of, it's an extremely weak Minister that will cut funding to vital services. It's too important an issue to be a minority issue. The constitution states a desire for an equal society. It's how those who wrote it wanted it to be.
I dealt partly with the issue in Booker's World. From the viewpoint of someone left behind and from a male standpoint. Terribly selfish of me, but there you go. Why I chose to write about it somewhat really doesn't matter. It was my interpretation of perhaps where some mind-sets perhaps are even in 2011. I think the problem can be addressed by continually making people aware that it is a serious issue that has scarred families, defiant of class and stature in every corner of this country.
A greater understanding as to why is important, but so too the feelings of those left behind who are left to carry the questions inside, sometimes on their own. There is great work being done and more is needed.
I also believe work toward a cognitive approach through the Arts can be of great benefit to someone reaching out. That's a personal opinion, but I think I've read enough material at this stage to laud some worthwhile benefits. To often people just get lost. To often we can be too busy to see. Too often we only see the signs when it's too late. Not that we didn't want to see them, but because life got to unmanageable keeping everything together under the stress and strain of daily living.
I hope James Reilly stands up and is counted on this one. He'd get a hell of a lot of good press here anyway if he did. Reilly for Taoiseach. I can almost see it now.
He got the poison chalice that is the HSE. Harney's legacy as she enjoys the fruits of her progressive democracy, or Independence, or whatever she counts herself as these days. There's many things Reilly has to address...and fast. Everything's against him. But on this issue he should not fail. Legacy can bring its own stigma and legacy stretches further than the in-club of the time. Though we know History lies even to this day, you'd have to say we are getting better at recording it for future generations to ponder over. As Leon Jackson once said, 'It's what you leave behind.'

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The three best sporting moments Ireland has delivered over the course of my own lifetime are recorded here. Opinions vary, as do reasons, but I'd still stand by them today.
In a few hours time Ireland kick off their Rugby World Cup campaign against the good ol' USA in New Zealand. Coming off the back of four straight defeats there is cause for worry. I got to be honest. Anything but a semi final and perhaps the money sending them there might have been better spent. But no point being negative, hey?
Sport throws up surprises and moments that unite people. It has the capacity for that. I hope whoever speaks in those dressing rooms over the coming weeks wakes a spark inside our men down there. The country could do with the lift.
At club level Ireland is a powerhouse. That hasn't reflected nationally despite the Slam in '09. When i again reflected after a drubbing by the French last year it was from a bath tub in Booker's World... but that's another story.
Maybe we can do a Denmark. Or a Greece. But with an oval ball. Sometimes it's ok to bleed for your country. Hopefully Brian, Paul and Deco can stoke a little national pride and give us all something to be proud of over the coming month. In language we can all understand too.

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It's 3-13 on a Saturday morning now. What the hell, I was always fond of a late Saturday night. A lot of good ones too, mixed in with the ones sometimes forgotten.
Things are calmer this windy weather. The wind has any cloud cover dispersed and it's as clear a night I have seen this year.
It's also the 10th anniversary of 9-11, an event that changed the world in so many bad ways. Just when perhaps we might of thought we'd move away from wars fought to show who had the bigger tech member, or who indeed were the brave souls high-fiving to the reign of a missile down on civilians from the safety of a calm sea.
A war on Terror, as a war on Drugs are not winnable. In my world, it's the sole reason they are fought. It may be our eventual downfall. That need in some for power and control. Perhaps genetics will explain much in the decades to come. Perhaps computers will provide us with the answers to much. It should - and could - be an exciting time in the history of things.
Perhaps ten years on we'll do more than remember those who died that day - however they died - and actually set the wheels in motion of restoring some sort of order to the economic and social mess we are in today. Maybe Obama in his final year in office will call it as it is and be that leader that promised much just three short years ago.

The world's a bit like Sky News and Sports. The world could do without one and couldn't possibly survive without the other. One serves the worst in us, the other the best.
Quotes often grab my attention. Today, two passed my way. They both just seemed to fit into the day that's in it. For this fictional has-been anyway.

'Enjoy life now .. it has an expiration date.'
Thanks John F. Kennedy for that one. I lie not, for the F is not Fitzgerald, but a noble practitioner of life all the same.

'Better to write for yourself and have no public than to write for the public and have no self.'
Thanks to Damauri Dreved (more later) for that one. He advised me it was Cyril Connelly who bestowed such profound wisdom on us lesser mortals. It kinda fits in to the realities of the day. But such are the joys of the absurd path. You get to create your own meaning. And there's no greater freedom than that.

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The Focus on Form

I've bombed out posting of late. Weary of highlighting the wrongs and woes of the country recently and let's face it, with little changing there seems little point. Started the research into the visa process for Oz. A mine-field to say the least. It may take a little longer than I expected at first.
There's a few new websites I have been tuned into recently. One of them is the journal.ie. A host of subject matter with polls on some subjects.
Politics in America and corporation trend setters rely heavily on what's known as the Focus Group. Well here's the new type. OK, fair enough, I engage sometimes. I'll give my opinion to access the results, just to see what little old Ireland is thinking. And it's an opinion war that will remind politicians in this land that focus group politics won't be a winner anytime soon here. We're a very conflicted race on a range of issues. The weather doesn't help, so perhaps a timeout is really needed.

Regular readers know I'm a fan of golf. Monday night golf is not something that figures, but due to Labor Day weekend stateside, the latest round of the Fed-EX Cup had a Monday finish.
Chez Reavie became the latest victim of a minor meltdown when he somehow managed a six at the last after being on the fairway in two, needing just a five to take the title, opening the door for Webb Simpson - a first time winner two weeks ago.
Simpson is the latest young gun to emerge from the pack with his first win on the PGA Tour at the Wyndham Championship two weeks ago. Last week, having grounded his putter on the 15th in the last round of The Zurich, his ball moved costing him a one-shot penalty. He eventually lost to Bubba Watson in a playoff.
It was Watson who led going into today's final round, but it was Simpson who proved that once you get that winning feeling in golf, it can stay with you for a time. Simpson downed a 20 footer in the first playoff hole to tie, before securing the second win of his career at the second playoff hole, leaving Reavie wondering how it could have all been so different.
Simpson now leads the Fed-Ex standings heading to the final two events - taking over from Watson. No matter what happens from here on in, Simpson is unlikely to forget the past three weeks in a hurry.

In Europe it was a Great Dane who took advantage of form. Having won the Johnny Walker last week, Thomas Bjorn hit a spectacular 62 to win the Omega Classic - the first event on the European Tour to count toward next years Ryder Cup. It was the popular Dane's third win of the year and 19th in total in his career. It is also the 28th time a golfer has recorded a back-to-back victories on the European Tour.
It threw me back to 1998 when Mark O'Meara, then a 41-year old won his two major championships - The Masters and The Open. And Darren Clarke this year. Perhaps it is true, that life begins at forty. I sure hope so...
Of course it looks like no-one will match The Golden Bear - who won his 18th Major at the age of 46.

I'll finish off with a stat that could have Golf studied as a subject of the Absurd. Dustin Johnson this week ranked number 1 in driving distance and driving accuracy - the first time in history it has happened. His reward - a tie for 42nd.
I never liked golf much in Ireland. Too much of a real test. I'm sure Oz offers, should we say, a more fair-weathered approach. It's badly needed, trust me.

The Man With Two First Names

I've been asked in the past where is the enjoyment in watching grown men chase a small white ball around a golf course. I'd begin to explain the history of the game, but soon the questionnaire would be asleep, leaving me free once again to watch in peace. These days I prefer watching behind a locked door. Less questions. More golf.
Tonight on the 15 th hole at the Atlanta Athletic Club, World number 80, Jason Dufner watched as Keegan Bradley scuffed a pitch from the rough and roll the ball off in search of a watery grave. After a drop and two more putts, Dufner lined up his drive with a five shot lead. Having played the notoriously difficult final four holes in three under par for the week, Dufner must have felt his first major championship was in the bag.

Bradley, who at last weeks World Golf Championship in Akron fell apart after leading at 11 to eventually finish in a tie for 15th, birdied the next two holes to finish out at -8. Dufner, who never looked nervous, bogeyed 15, 16 and 17 before paring the 18th to also end at -8. It was the biggest turnaround late in a major golf championship since Jean Van Der Velde's capitulation at Carnoustie in 1999.
This time though it was more to do with Bradley's nerve than anything Dufner did wrong over argueably the toughest finishing four holes in golf. Bradley, must have walked off 15 fearing a repeat of last weeks collapse and must have felt he had blown his chance.
Both went for the jugular early in the 3 hole playoff and it was Bradley who delivered the first blow when he birdied after Dufner missed following two great approach shots. Bradley was two up after 17, after Dufner bogeyed the par three to Bradley's par.
With nothing to lose, Dufner followed Keegan's approach into the 18th before holing for birdie. But it was too little to late when just seconds later, Bradley secured his first major title when he rolled a tap-in for par.
What makes the victory more astonishing is this was the Rookie's first outing at a major championship. He is only the second golfer since 1913 to do that feat. In winning the final major of the year, Bradley also ended a seven-major drought since an American victory. Oh throw in he's the first to win a major with a long-putter too.

There were four first-time winners of majors this year and the seventh in all since Big Phil won the 2010 Masters. Perhaps we are on the verge of a new golden age in golf, following the collapse of Tiger Woods game following his little bout of humanism. In an effort to leave the past behind him, Woods sacked faithful caddie Steve Williams three weeks ago, only to see the New Zealander partner Adam Scott to last weeks World Golf Championship.
This week Woods failed to make the cut and offered little by way of a sign of a return to the Tiger who loved chewing up competitors on a Sunday for fun for over a decade. Just four short of equaling the great Jack Nicklaus Major record of 18 wins, if Woods doesn't turn things round soon, his 15th might be a while coming around yet. Golf is full of stories, so who knows...

It's been a great year in the Majors. Rory McIlroy's Masters meltdown, followed by his genius at the US Open. My golfing year belongs to Darren Clarke who at the ripe old age of 42, won the British Open Championship for the first time.
But just one week after his crumbling at Akron, Bradley made his point tonight in McIlroyorian fashion by proving that he has what it takes in a sport which is as much about the mental side of things as it is about talent. That may mean more to the 25-year-old in the long run than any other single factor.

Next big golf is the Fed-EX Cup Playoffs which culminate with the Tour Championship in late September and the race to Dubai which ends with the Dubai World Championship in December. World Number 1, Luke Donald is aiming to become the first man to win both in the one season. But without major championships, the history books just never read the same. Ain't that right Monty?
Who am I calling it for? Hey, I called Dustin Johnson on Thursday (missed cut) and Dufner today as it went into the back 9. What the hell would I know...

Daz's Daze

I wrote this post a few weeks back when Rory McIlroy decimated the field at the US Open. I called it Fairy Tales. Though I can be far reaching at times with my comment, I didn't expect that it would be outshone, so soon, and for many reasons.
Yesterday, Darren Clarke, at the age of 42 won the British Open Golf Championship, winning his first Major in the process. He also became the third golfer from Northern Ireland to win a major championship in just 13 months. I'm sure any fiction writer pitching that tale to a would-be publisher would have found themselves laughed from various offices across the globe in the past few years. But today, it is reality.
Clarke, a multiple winner across the globe and also winner of two World Golf Championships - on when he mauled the Tiger - always had the pedigree. But most, myself included, always thought Daz's Day had passed.
Few will ever forget Clarke at the 2006 Ryder Cup at the K Club, when he moved personal mountains to help Europe secure a famous win. Clarke's wife Heather had died from Breast Cancer just a few short weeks before. He asked to play and was given a wild-card by European Captain, Ian Woosnam. In a roller-coaster of a tie, Clarke shone in all quarters before finally succumbing to the emotion of it all as the tie reached a climax.
Things changed after that for the popular Dungannon man. Left with two boys to care for, Clarke's world ranking sunk lower with each passing year. There were two wins on the European Tour in 2008 and another one earlier this year, but Clarke showed he wasn't finished just yet, as he led the field from start to finish at Sandwich over the weekend.
Valiant efforts from Phil Michelson and future Major winner, Dustin Johnson, were not enough to deter the Ulsterman who remained the personification of cool throughout the four days. As he sunk a half-footer at the last for a 70, Clarke's moment had come at last. As he claimed the adulation of the crowd, few would have offered a more popular winner on the day.

The win comes just weeks after Rory McIlroy's win at the US Open and Graham McDowell's win there the year before to make it an historic hat-trick of Major wins from Northern Ireland. Add Paddy Harrington's wins and one can see that Irish golf is in pretty good shape.
I've always loved the history of golf and the stories that whisper from its history books. But no matter how much dreaming can be done sometimes, this is beyond even the most wildest of imaginations.

Darren Clarke, Champion Golfer 2011.
Endorsed.

Fairy Tales

Sport throws up some strange stories sometimes. For 4o years no European golfer won the U.S Open. Last night as Rory McIlroy sauntered down the 18th at Congressional, days after having left the field behind, he wore the look of a man who had come of age at the tender age of 22. Not since Tiger Wood's demolition of the field in 2000 at Peeble Beach has a Major witnessed such a dominance by an individual. McIlroy not only won, he broke many of the records Woods claimed on that occasion.
Not only is McIllroy a European winner for the second year running, but he is also the second man from Northern Ireland to win the US Open after Graham McDowell's coming of age moment at the same event last year. I'm not a stat guy, but the probabilities of something like that are to say the least, extremely unlikely. I'd love to set some Math dude loose on coming up with odds/percentages/whatever on that happening.

Few would have predicted McIlroy's dismantling of the field at the notoriously difficult Congressional Course as he made his way off the green at the 18th at Augusta just a few months back having blown a 4 shot lead before disappearing down the field.
I don't think anyone can doubt his metal after last nights win. I doubt McIlroy doubted it for more than a few hours after his Augusta collapse. All great champions can do that, but for one so young, it's rare.

Fred Daly was Ireland's first Major winner back in 1947. A lot like waiting on Arsenal to win the Champions League, or Ireland the World Cup, another Irish major winner was beginning to look like visions from night time dreams, before Dubliner Paddy Harrington stepped up and won back-to-back British Opens and then added a PGA Championship to make it three major wins in six outings back in the noughties.
Since then Harrington has fallen away somewhat, but it's a game that produces few capable of life long longevity when it comes to consistently winning Major championships.
When Tiger continues his trickle down the World Rankings it seems that golf has been crying out for a new dominant figure, but talk of McIlroy being as dominant as Woods is premature. Is McIlroy capable? I think there is little doubt about that. But 14 Major wins and 70 wins worldwide is a long way off just yet. McIlroy's victory on Sunday was just his third career victory. McIlroy seems to be someone capable of learning from every experience and if that continues the world is his oyster for the foreseeable future.

European golf is strong at the moment. There have never been so many Europeans in the top ten. Westwood and Donald are currently swapping the number 1 spot after Tiger loosened his grip after his marriage feel apart. He has rarely shown signs of the dominant force he once was since. Will he get it back? Personally I don't think he will. He will win again, but he'll never be as dominant again.
What golf longs for is some good old fashioned rivaleries again. Shoot-outs like when Nicklaus and Watson would go at it down the back 9. There's a lot of consistentely good golfers emerging. Likely looking Major winners have to include Donald, Westwood and another few from Kaymer. In America, Bubba Watson and Jason Day should also win majors over the coming years. And while McIlroy currently holds the throne on the new kids on the block, Italian teenage Matteo Manassero has already won twice on the European Tour, so who knows what he is capable of.

It's good to see Ireland achieve on the World Stage, be it from a national from our nearest neighbour. Ireland has a proud pedigree in golf and has played the sport as an island for decades with a win in the World Cup and multiple Dunhill Cups.
With so little money being put into the development of sport in Ireland, moments like this do make one wonder if the effort was stronger perhaps, a spirit of national pride could be felt more. The sacrifices made by parents and clubs up and down this country, regardless of what type of sport is involved is a credit to them.

I doubt none would have felt that more than McIlroy's Dad as he watched his son hoist the trophy on Sunday evening on a Father's Day. You'd find it hard to write that...even in fairytale, but it's a nice feeling to know that once in a while, they can happen...

When Class Is Pure

I could easily have dedicated a blog to being a long suffering Arsenal fan if Nick Hornsby had not already written the definitive book of the 'joys' of that particular experience. Over the past two years I have written about their nemesis' Barcelona when it comes to Arsenal's pursuit of Europe's top prize, the Champions League. The trophy is one that has yet to grace the trophy cabinet of the North London club and I'd be delusional if I thought it was coming any time soon.

Barcelona tonight won their fourth Champions League when they simply played Manchester United off the Wembley pitch that played host to a master-class in total football.
While Arsenal honour the beautiful game with their approach on how to play it, they never quite manage to secure the players that can deliver the promise of playing their own particular brand of total football. Barcelona, on the other hand can get them. They are, quite simply, the best footballing team I have ever seen.
Their talisman Lionel Messi again delivered the goods with a commanding display worthy of any final and was ably assisted by the players around him, players that believe the ball belongs to them and only them. When not in possession they hunt in packs to get it back, before effortlessly easing back into their pass and move philosophy, ready to exploit fully even a momentarily switch off from the opposition.

They surpass the invincible Arsenal of 2004 and even the treble winning United of 1999. Even the great Liverpool teams don't compare and Real Madrid, for all their history in the competition, lag behind when it comes to the practice of how football should be played.
I've seen the Brazil team of the 1970's but they were not of my lifetime. This Barcelona team are. They refuse corporate sponsorship and instead brandish the name UNICEF on their shirts. Their fans own the club. Tonight they not only showed their class on the pitch, but off it as well.

Defender Eric Abidal lifted the famous trophy tonight. Two months ago he had an operation to remove a cancerous tumour from his liver. Captain for the night Xavi and club captain Puyol stepped aside to allow the man a moment he truly deserved having faced such adversity to be there tonight.

There is no substitute for class of the purest kind.

Iceland Day

It's the final round of the Masters tonight. As the final nine holes begin for the final pairing, it has been Tiger's day so far, but Rory Mc is hanging in well.
I went through over 30 years without ever seeing an Irishman win a major golf title, but if Rory does come home tonight he will be the third I have seen doing it. It will also be the fifth major by an Irishman over the course of my lifetime, all of which have occurred over recent years. Ireland could do with a lift, so my imaginary money is on wonderkid McIlroy.

Iceland went to the polls yesterday to decide whether to pay back the UK and Dutch governments money they reimbursed savers in their countries who lost savings when rogue online bank Icesave went belly up at the start of the Financial Crisis.
It was the second time the honourable, intelligent and courageous people of Iceland have said 'No' to bailing out the losses of gamblers within the high ranks of Finance. I'm glad that the savers didn't lose out. American savers were not so lucky when Bernie was swindling his billions.
The UK and Dutch governments are now intent on suing Iceland through some world courts I have absolutely no clue about. Not sure where it will go from here.
Invasion perhaps?

The sum, less than €4billion, is like loose change when compared to the astronomical figures the Irish have been subjected to. We won't be given a choice of course. The government of the day wouldn't trust us with making such an important decision. Why there is a decision to be made at all is beyond me.
I read a fellow Facebooker ask today if her losing bet on the Grand National would be reimbursed to her because she lost yesterday. For me, it hits the nail on the head. It's what is being allowed to happen here. We are being screwed right, left and centre, bailing out gamblers who are held to no account.
I sometimes wonder why Icelander's stand together and quell injustices but we remain rather stagnant on the issue. We are a rebellious enough race of people, yet it would seem that we are going to take all that has been ruthlessly forced on us since we had our own belly-up.

I'm sure the Icelanders will sleep sound tonight. As will I. Super weather all weekend, half moon in a clear spring night, stars a glowing in the sky.
As I close another 'blog week' there are five tied for the lead down the stretch on one of Earth's natural pieces of art. It's Iceland's Day, and as Rory falls behind on the turn in at Augusta National, even if he wins, he won't be able to take that from them tonight.

As they say in France, Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité!
They should be proud.