We will see this out with a story from around 50 BC - or 50 years before corona. You wouldn't know these days if it's all right to write of happy times.
That's just me maybe.
Inside I'm hurting, but we still have to fight on. I wasn't reared to give up on love and laughter. I wasn't brought up to give in.
On Saturday, the first day of the shorter walkabout, I saw a small boy kicking a ball against the gable end of a house near our pub.
The boy was wearing rubber gloves. The boy was happy there in the spring sun. The boy brought me back to when I was a boy.
The gable end is perfect for training drills.
You can go for goals down low or points up above the window sills. The rebounds are great practice for high fielding. The balls that fall short or ricochet away from failing masonry build up explosive speed and anticipation. There are hurling walls now in many GAA clubs but here today we will start a campaign for the building of high gables.
Every house should have a gable end from now on. County Councils must stick in a condition in every planning permission that makes them compulsory. The planners should ensure all houses are at least three storeys high with no gable windows.
My boyhood gable end was fronted by outhouses, toilets and sheds. My Mam, who was a country woman, kept a pig in the back yard. He was a lazy pig. All he did every day was snore. He was also a scuttery pig and if the wind blew in a certain direction our house and pub would smell like a piggery.
It wasn't the pig's fault. A good portion of his liquid intake consisted of old porter slops. We were into sustainability a long time before the Greens. But he was a happy pig. The mother gave up keeping the pig because the bacon was pale and soft.
We played football out the back when the pig was eaten. Us kids kicked in between the rusty red sheds and the empty bottles in their coffins. The games were ferocious. I was playing against two Kerry minors. My baby brothers, Conor and John, both wore the green and gold.
But there was another reason why my Mam got rid of the one-pig piggery and it was because of the double-gusset knickers. The wind blew the smells onto the clothes-lines. There were no tumble driers back then. My Mam had to climb like a Sherpa over our roof and she had hands as strong as a quarterback from wringing wet clothes on the corrugated glass washboard.
It was the custom in those times for the older women to wear huge pink and blue double-gusset knickers which were elasticated below the knee for purity.
We lived upstairs over the pub in a space no bigger than a small flat. Sometimes I would look out my parents' bedroom window and there they'd be, the double gussets, blowing in the wind like a sailing ship coming in to a great harbour.
In between were the smaller panties of the younger women. The clothes-lines were a short history of Irish women and feminism.
It was the 1964 All-Ireland final between Kerry and Galway. The women of William Street got behind the team. My Dad called me in to the bedroom at the back of the house. I climbed up on the mounted part of the window. Dad and me climbed on to the V on our roof.
"Look out at the lines, Bill," he said, and he in stitches laughing. The flimsy panties and the double-gusset passion killers were green and gold and they blew in the wind like the flags on the Hogan Stand.
The next day I was lifted up over the turnstiles in Croke Park. It was my first All-Ireland final. Kerry, which included the great Mick O'Dwyer, were beaten by the mighty Galway team that went on to win three in a row. I cried and cried. My Dad said, "We'll rise again." We did, and with the help of Micko.
His words came back to me while I was writing here this morning upstairs over the pub in our old home. I thought it might be appropriate to write my last sports column for the time being while sitting at my Dad's desk.
We have had a writer here writing away over this little pub every year for the last 65 years. Not that I'm comparing myself to Dad, but I did my best to keep the tradition alive in the lower leagues.
I have been put on snooze and no blame to anyone. Space is tight and the ads are scarce.
Newspapers are struggling the world over. Please keep on reading. You can get a month online here for less than the price of a cup of coffee. The papers are still in the shops and we nearly always get it right, especially so in these times when online lies cost lives.
Maybe we might even give you the odd laugh as I have tried to do here, for better or worse, since I started out in the year of the foot and mouth outbreak in 2001. That was over 1,000 columns ago and some said I'd be gone in a week.
Thanks to the readers for putting up with me and to my colleagues in this great paper who intercepted my mistakes on their way to you.
Dad was right that day in Croke Park in September 1964.
We will rise again. Ireland will rise again. We always did and we always will.
Manchester City midfielder Ilkay Gundogan believes Liverpool should be crowned as Premier League champions if the current season is not completed due to the coronavirus pandemic.
Greetings from the deserted circus, we trust that you still have some bread. Indeed one hopes that we will always have a crust to eat for sustenance and comfort. As long as there's a loaf on the table and a drop of tea in your cup, all is not lost. Things would be a whole lot worse if there were plenty of circuses and no bread. So, for now, the great global carnival that is organised sport has abandoned ship and left it floating unmoored in its own infinite silence, like the Mary Celeste.