AOIFE HERBERT
AMID the irregular blasts of summer sunshine, the most exciting events of the sporting world have exploded and left in their wake a trail of debate and discussion.
Safe to say the Ronaldo enigma has finally been solved then. So he is capable of offering a biting contribution on the biggest of stages, and although some of us non-Man Utd fans may question his ethics and abhor the cloud of arrogance that follows him, surely now there can be no doubt that the luminous Portuguese number seven is in fact the real deal. His tally of 41 goals is adequate enough a representation of his bewitching promise and that’s before you take into consideration the quick feet, the zippy stepovers and the eloquent touches. Finally, he has fulfilled the media’s colourful conception of his genius, and the only question left to ask is that of his loyalty to United.
Surely he must be at least moderately tempted to sample the flair of the Spanish league? I for one certainly hope so and wouldn’t be in the slightest bit sad to see the back of him.
From a neutral’s perspective, the Champions League final was immensely enjoyable and strange as it is to say it, I am actually glad United were victorious. Chelsea don’t rouse much common affection, and when you examine who led the gallant Chelsea team up the makeshift royal red and gold stand, it was easy to see why.
None other than Mr Materialism, Peter Kenyon, and despite its peculiarity, this seemed the best representation yet of what Chelsea Football Club has become. A club washed up by yacht owning, footballing deficient ‘men’ who view the heartthrob of soccer as a marketable product.
United on the other hand were led majestically by Sir Bobby Charlton. Stark contrast. Enough said.
The game itself had everything, from the exquisite Ronaldo header, the fortunate Lampard finish, the superior second half Chelsea to the villainous Didier Drogba. Green-eyed football fans outside the Chelsea/United contingent witnessed both Ronaldo and Terry missing spot-kicks in what was a fabulous depiction of the highs and lows of football.
Even the most icy Scouser must have felt a hint of satisfaction for the legendary Paul Scholes. Gary Neville, on the other hand, was nowhere to be seen, and thank God for that.
Moving north, Rangers will feel seriously aggrieved by the SPL regarding the rescheduling of their postponed games and the dismantlement of their attack. But they seriously lacked the motivation and cohesion of a truly professional side as the league came to a close.
They gifted Celtic the title with an inexplicable string of dropped points and the plainly obvious collapse of a winners’ mentality.
Celtic should have been rooted to second spot, but must be credited for their application, endurance and sheer embodiment of the saying that the harder you work, the luckier you get.
Gordan Strachan may be slightly lacking the charisma and dignified approach of his godly predecessor, but he must surely be credited for the Hoops’ massive turnaround. No identity crisis for Declan Kidney either, as the Munster men showed the true essence of team, unity and purpose in a hard-fought victory over Toulouse in Saturday’s gripping Heineken Cup final.
Munster are the epitome of graft, determination and cohesion, but it was the constant and persistently powerful fight for the inches that won the support and admiration of the entire nation.
They are the ultimate team, and the ultimate champions and deserve the double success which they have so diligently chased.
The real heat of the GAA championship is only around the corner as the old-school Sunday Game theme tune is gratefully restored to the box.
The croak of Pat Spillane, the green grass of Croker and renewed hopes for another year of Mayo football.
Happy days are just around the corner.
