On Saturday the 28th October I remembered to put back the clock. It was the increasing darkness of the evenings, during a very dark, dull and watery October that kept the fading daylight foremost in my mind. I suspect I am one of many victims of S.A.D., or “Seasonal Adjustment Disorder”. Those short evenings seem to paralyse and drain the energy out of many people. Somewhere in our evolution we are closely related to the bear.
However, the 31st October came with a burst of brightness and a glow in the sky that seemed to claw back the lost hour. The first of November Horse Fair brought wonder and excitement, colour and bustle in this Indian Summer. It lightened hearts and maybe a few pockets too; but on such a glorious day it was a glorious occasion. The 1st of November passed and I hadn’t started counting the days to the Winter Solstice; for the extreme optimist this is the date, 22nd of December, after which the days start to get longer.
It is also the time a few books start to pile up on the floor near the bed. I am not a prolific reader but I like to have an Atlas or Anthology of Poetry, “The Complete Works of W.B. Yeats”, a few books of quotations close at hand. It is one of my ploys to beat the Winter blues.
So I came upon Robert Frost a brilliant and famous American poet. I was fascinated to find that ten thousand people once came to hear him read his poetry. Inconceivable, I thought, a Rock Concert, a County final or a Heineken Cup game O.K., but a poetry reading.
Oddly, the first poem I encountered was called “Out, Out”, it told of a young lad whose hand was severed in a careless moment at the family saw mill. It was raw and disturbing image of a young boy pleading for his life as it drained away before his very eyes. I could not help but reflect on Seamus Heaney’s “Mid-term Break” where he is called home from boarding school, because his baby brother has been killed. The imagery, the human condition, the power of expression, the ability to make you wince is a gift and genius of these men. They seem to be able to stand outside and look in on their own lives, lives within and without at the same time. You could say that reading such morbid stuff exacerbates this “Winter Disorder”, but wait there is hope.
In his short poem “The Road Not Taken”, Robert Frost tells of a walk he took one day in a yellow wood, on his own. He came to a fork in the forest path and wondered which road to take. He saw little between the two but one was ever so slightly less trodden, he took this one knowing full well; though he suggested he might; that he would never be back to try the other. Many of the people participating in the Blitz this week will have played basketball and other sports; how many will ask themselves about “their Road Not Taken”. It seems easier and more normal every year to drop out of sport. The Annual Christmas Blitz is for many, the annual donning of the trainers, the annual fitness reality check, and the annual adrenaline rush. The enthusiasm with which one and all, “porter bellies”, “burger bellies”, “couch potatoes”, “fat arse club” and “nocturnals” embrace the challenge of the Yule tide “net fest” is a wonder to behold. Life and limb are offered, tempers flair, passions run high, life long bonds are formed: “Yea! I was one of the Hawks in ’79, will you ever forget ‘Dinny’ and the half-way liner”. The few days pass and like the ‘Begonias’ the runners are stowed away. The auld togs is getting tighter; off the beer in November and we might squeeze into it for one more joust. The years tick away.
Pat Spillane did his cruciate in ’81. The surgery was revolutionary at the time; a lot of excavation took place. Most who damaged the cruciate pondered their mobility in the future and the price of golf clubs. Not Pat. Pad did what Pat always did, he set about regaining his former glory. His regime was Spartan; his swims across Kenmare Bay legendary, if not exaggerated. But Spillane wanted more than ever to be the best player he could be, no matter what the price, no matter what the handicap. His reward, a bit part in the ’82 All Ireland Final and defeat to Offaly. If he had let the year pass, people would still be saying “If only we had Pat Spillane, we would have won 5 in a row”. But that was not his way, love him or hate him you could not be indifferent to him. He set himself up, put body and soul on the line, punch drunk or exhausted he always got up again. His self-confidence and self-belief would be hard to extricate or distinguish from arrogance but he always got up. “At the heart of the ridiculous the sublime”.
In every parish and village there is one who could have been a Pat Spillane or Jacko Shea, but for the dodgy knee, or gammy ankle or just the absence of a “Specsavers” in the area. Some no matter what conditions prevailed or what effort was expended would never be a Jacko or a “Gouch”. But those with special talent, special gifts must share a special obligation to be or at least aspire to be, the best they can be. There are no guarantees there is no perfect ending. Tiger Woods can’t play the perfect game. Sport is not and never was an “equal opportunity provider”. We don’t have the power of bi-location re-incarnation is not an exact science-you must play the hand you are dealt. It’s about “human beings confronted by challenges which change them because of what they face in dealing with the challenges”. Whether you are inside looking out like Spillane or outside looking in like Frost you must take up the ball and run with it. Don’t choose the line of least resistance don’t choose the “Primrose path of Dalliance”, because you know now, you have been warned, you won’t be back this way.
extracted from 2006 programme