05:21
The cheer from the Galway ranks blasts the clouds away. Sunlight pours onto the arena banishing the rain for once. Cats sigh in the Croke Park tumult. Upon their Kilkenny heads the deluge. Galway hurlers now have scored two goals in one minute of hurling time, in the bottom end of the second half of the All-Ireland semi-final. We are in the lead against all-powerful Kilkenny for the first time in years. We. Are. Winning!
Communing with my people at a glorious sporting event, The Tribe is enraptured.
Goals win games. Everybody knows that. But there is no time to ponder. The Cats can always come back.
My "Zen And the Art of Hurling Appreciation" manual states, "This IS happening" and "Live for the present moment." I'm calm. I'm happy. Even though I'm watching undoubtedly the greatest game of hurling ever played in my lifetime, I'm serene.
The Galway lead is growing. They are hurling with spirit. Dominating man-for-man by harrying like greyhounds, they keep the Cats at bay.
My Zen/Hurling manual states that this day is written and spoken of every day for generations to come. In one-hundredth of a second, in an action taken on the fly with all the pressure in the world, using strong hands, the Galwaymen tear down the evil spectre of semi-finals past, rubbish notions of the future and banish the lingering trauma of defeat to a backwards place.
As time drags towards the final whistle, heartbeat racing, I enter into a cosmic state of awareness. I sway in and out of every second as it comes, is and goes while another one comes, is, goes. Unable to comprise a thought, I resort to primitive intonations to articulate my epiphany into the enigma that is Galway hurling. Incohate calls of "C'mon Galway!" erupt from my mouth. The same pyroclastic fire bursts forth from the Tribesmen all around the magnificent stadium. As one, tens of thousands of us concur. “C'mon Galway!”
Misneach wins games. Courage. Aptitude and application. Body and soul. Honour throughout. That, and goals.
My Zen status is not given to sinful pride but I'm struggling. For those Galwegians who confess to mortal sin then be proud of this: sexy hurling wins games.
Galway 5-18 Kilkenny 4-18. They make music with sticks in Galway.
09:00
1994 French secret service's most wanted, Carlos the Jackal, captured in Sudan and brought to Paris to face terrorism charges
11:37
I've never heard so much dead air. It's criminal. People pay for this lazy shite with crap ads and rackrent licence fees.
16:14
August snow floats down wet and liquid. I can hardly see out the window for the rain.
23:22
Ooop the police on the bicycles went down the hill. That's the job I would have but apparently, it can lead to infertility, sawing in a saddle all day, which I'm not ready for not yet, at least, not mine own.
The cheer from the Galway ranks blasts the clouds away. Sunlight pours onto the arena banishing the rain for once. Cats sigh in the Croke Park tumult. Upon their Kilkenny heads the deluge. Galway hurlers now have scored two goals in one minute of hurling time, in the bottom end of the second half of the All-Ireland semi-final. We are in the lead against all-powerful Kilkenny for the first time in years. We. Are. Winning!
Communing with my people at a glorious sporting event, The Tribe is enraptured.
Goals win games. Everybody knows that. But there is no time to ponder. The Cats can always come back.
My "Zen And the Art of Hurling Appreciation" manual states, "This IS happening" and "Live for the present moment." I'm calm. I'm happy. Even though I'm watching undoubtedly the greatest game of hurling ever played in my lifetime, I'm serene.
The Galway lead is growing. They are hurling with spirit. Dominating man-for-man by harrying like greyhounds, they keep the Cats at bay.
My Zen/Hurling manual states that this day is written and spoken of every day for generations to come. In one-hundredth of a second, in an action taken on the fly with all the pressure in the world, using strong hands, the Galwaymen tear down the evil spectre of semi-finals past, rubbish notions of the future and banish the lingering trauma of defeat to a backwards place.
As time drags towards the final whistle, heartbeat racing, I enter into a cosmic state of awareness. I sway in and out of every second as it comes, is and goes while another one comes, is, goes. Unable to comprise a thought, I resort to primitive intonations to articulate my epiphany into the enigma that is Galway hurling. Incohate calls of "C'mon Galway!" erupt from my mouth. The same pyroclastic fire bursts forth from the Tribesmen all around the magnificent stadium. As one, tens of thousands of us concur. “C'mon Galway!”
Misneach wins games. Courage. Aptitude and application. Body and soul. Honour throughout. That, and goals.
My Zen status is not given to sinful pride but I'm struggling. For those Galwegians who confess to mortal sin then be proud of this: sexy hurling wins games.
Galway 5-18 Kilkenny 4-18. They make music with sticks in Galway.
09:00
1994 French secret service's most wanted, Carlos the Jackal, captured in Sudan and brought to Paris to face terrorism charges
 |
| Coolos, the dirty dog, is snared, 1994 |
I've never heard so much dead air. It's criminal. People pay for this lazy shite with crap ads and rackrent licence fees.
16:14
August snow floats down wet and liquid. I can hardly see out the window for the rain.
23:22
Ooop the police on the bicycles went down the hill. That's the job I would have but apparently, it can lead to infertility, sawing in a saddle all day, which I'm not ready for not yet, at least, not mine own.
