Menu
Ireland's political and cultural magazine
Olé, Olé, Olé bounced
around the arena. It was just like the old
days. Bernard Dunne, the diminutive world
champion, was their darling. The fighter on
top of the world here to show how truly great
he was. Not ten minutes into the opening
defence of his title and he lay stunned on the
canvas, beaten and knocked out after falling
three times in just the third round; an equally
shocked silence hung in the air above the spec-
tators. It wasn’t meant to be like this. We
were here to see a world champion, our world
champion, cement his stature and reputation.
Instead, he lay bleeding and dazed on the floor.
The audience stood rooted to the spot, unsure
what to do next. They had barely settled in
their seats when it was all over. Nothing to
see here folks, time to move on.
If Dunne was a good boxer, not a great
boxer, then his fall from grace was ordained.
Marty Morrissey on RTÉ told him over and
over that “in our eyes, you’re still a world
champion”. But he wasn’t. Not any more. As
Dunne spoke to a dazed and upset Morrissey,
appreciative roars from the crowd shouted
back, encouraging him on for the next time.
But there won’t be a next time. And still
the crowd urged him on. Be a champ for us.
Show us we how good we think we are. Not
how good we really are. In all walks of life.
We laud our GAA stars feting them as all-
conquering heroes. Stars within our own
boundaries. But that is stardom enough
for us. Beating our own always served its
purpose more than anything we could try
to achieve beyond these shores. “Not men
but giants”, the hyped-up advertising cam-
paigns proclaimed. Revelling in our self-
satisfied status as big fish in small ponds.
We were content, in early October, when
Italy’s soccer players equalised in the last
three minutes, pushing Ireland into the
World-Cup playoffs. Late equalisers are
rarely flukes: they signal superior expec-
tations. We avert our eyes and bow our heads
when Irish Olympians come home having
struggled once again to compete. National
records and personal bests are the sum
of our achievements and the plucky little
island is lost, submerged in a global sea of
record-breaking ambition and glory.
An Irish cricket team gets beyond the
group stages in the World Cup and we are
all born again cricketers. For in the Bible, it
says that, “with the judgment you pronounce
you will be judged, and with the measure you
use it will be measured to you” (Matthew,
:-). We measure ourselves not on great-
ness but in the surprises we spring on our-
selves. And when we do the unthinkable
and achieve, we fool ourselves into believ-
ing we truly are the greatest. The blip, the
exception, the punching above our weight
drowned as we excel in patting ourselves on
the back. We done good. And so it goes.
In the excessive bliss of the Celtic Tiger
years, we believed in our house of cards. We
were the model to the world, the exemplar
of development coming from the dark into
the sheer blinding light. We were the great-
est at Gaelic games. Now we are fumbling
in the dark again. Our designer labels torn
from our backs, and our fake Georgian man-
sions crushed mercilessly to a rubble. We
have dark days ahead of us. Years of unset-
tling debt and negative equity to hang over
us while we scramble around on our knees
for the light once again.
Our champions fall quickly from grace.
But we cannot accept the fall any more than
we can accept the Emperor never had any
clothes. We may have fallen, but we are
great, truly great and we will rise again.
Roy Keane will transcend Ipswich en route
to revived ascendancy at Man United. And
so the faint cheers of Olé, Olé can be heard
still reverberating around the emptying
arena. Some have moved on but most seem
too shocked to make the decision to leave.
All they know is the one song.
“in our eyes,
you’re still a
world champion”
We are schizophrenic
about success
d a i r e w h e l a n
village_oct_09.indd 69 27/10/2009 15:39:47
