Farewell, man with the plan
And so the giddy highs and the crushing lows of Irish life continue. And let's face it. We wouldn't have it any other way, would we? We live for the wild exhilaration of the impossible dream, that we could be the greatest little country in the world for something. And in a strange way, we enjoy the crushing defeat too, the crash back to reality.
For a week or two, briefly, we were the best little country in the world for rugby. And as that dream was fading, we had the consolation of being the best little country in the world for amateur boxing. We all prepared to switch our temporary expertise from the oval ball to the boxing ring, in anticipation of a boxing frenzy and the greatest Olympics ever next year. It's like a pared-back version of UFC, we told ourselves. UFC with fewer martial arts. And let's face it, if we could get behind UFC we could hail anything as the most important sport ever.
And then we screwed up again. We lost the man with the plan.