If any writers, or producers of any media content, have ever experienced the following please drop a line down in the comments. On Sunday morning I started writing a piece relating to the two semi finals of the World Snooker Championship.
Specifically, the contrast between the two. The epic encounter between Luca Brecel and Si Jinhaui and the farce between Mark Selby and Mark Allen which could be patented as a cure for insomnia. Such was the quality of fare displayed by the former pair, none other than Ronnie O’Sullivan opined that it merited equal if not greater status than the 1985 showpiece between Dennis Taylor and Steve Davis.
The incomparable Dennis Taylor
An understandable conclusion to arrive at given that the obdurate and admirable Belgian Brecel came from 5-14 in arrears against the amazing Asian. But here’s the thing, after going through all that, including recalling my first time seeing Brecel as a 17-year-old playing in the International Open in Bournemouth, I changed my mind, highlighted the whole lot of it and hit delete.
Why? I’ve absolutely no idea really. Perhaps it was down to the utter volume of sporting activity going on today, trying to catch up with and staying astride of what had gone and was going on at the Crucible would require an alertness on my part that simply wasn’t there today.
As it was, there was more than enough to keep a mind occupied. Thanks in no small part to the GAAGO app, owing to which it was something of a dream for yours truly. Because it allowed the viewing of both games in Croke Park as well as the two hurling matches on RTE and the Armagh-Down match via the BBC. Even the racing in Sligo had to take a back seat.
So how, with all that going on, could this corner have ended up on a downer, I hear you ask? I’m sure some of ye will have heard of that beautiful, emotion stirring ballad Sunday Morning Coming Down. The best version of which was undoubtedly done by Johnny Cash.
Part of the chorus of which goes as follows: “Cos there’s something in a Sunday that makes a body feel alone”. Now, before Susie came into my life, that line had a different meaning to what it once did but the words are no less relevant.
At a most basic level more recently, that revolved around the two Leinster SFC semi finals in Croke Park. Pining for Meath to be there but absorbing how painfully removed from that level we currently are. Though it’s actually heart breaking to admit the following, there’s no way we would’ve given either of the two favourites as good a run as did the underdogs present.
However, on the day in question, greatest cause for upset was due to the manner in which one’s personal confidence has been decimated in the last short while.
Some – indeed the majority of – the reasoning for saame will most likely appear in this space in due course, but, even as somebody who is unforunately far too familiar to dealing with mental health difficulties, the speed and ferocity with which the black cloud descended this time. Even allowing for what was alluded to above.
To little fanfare, I had started exercising, insofar as is possible with circumstances, with weights and stretch bands (probably not the proper term for them) but since the last Bank Holiday weekend I can’t even look at them.
As bad as that has been, through my own doing, quite the kerfuffle was made about the resumption of my involvement with the club after a 15 year hiatus. Yet even that has, not exactly hit the skids, but certainly encountered a few potholes since the season started.
Exhibit A in demonstrating as such arrived during that most hectic of weekends when, with the Meath Ladies playing the Dubs in Pairc Tailteann, it wouldn’t have mattered if it was out in the back garden, these wheels couldn’t have been reved up to go.
So near, yet so far
If absolute confirmation of my being off colour was required, consider the following. My Latvian carer sent me the above photo from dashcam footage. The green giant out front being one of the multitudes en route to the Annual Tractor Run out of and associated with The Hatchett Inn at Barstown, Dunboyne.
She’s aware of my obsession with and love for all things tractor and machinery – it would be hard not to be, trust me – but, understandably, to her a tractor is just a tractor whereas a nut like myself could rattle off make, model, horsepower, primary functions and – if any of the local fraternity had one – registration number – of a given machine.
Well, talk about hitting the nail on the head. It would appear to be true that those whom the Gods wish to destroy, they first make mad. Remember now, the carer just saw the opportunity to send me a photo of a tractor not knowing the back story.
Whether it struck a chord or a hit a nerve could be open to debate given the current emotional state, but seeing the old beauty photographed above instantly brought me back to the most treasured and longed for time in my life. In farming terms anyway.
You see, the old Deutz is definitely a DX model. Most likely a DX 90 or 110, judging by the number plate and shape of her. The last tractor I ever sat in was a DX 6.05 and the first one I bought when starting farming in my own right a decade ago was a DX 4.51.
There are those who like to declare I’ll never sit in a tractor again, but with every ounce of pulse I’ve left in me, every sinu will be stretched making every effort possible to prove them wrong.
However, as the Sawdoctors once beautifully sang, it won’t be tonight.