The Last Straw: Invading the pitch at Croke Park last Sunday, I was alarmed to hear the PA announcing a coded message: "Plan B in operation!" For a terrible moment, I thought they were going to shoot the Monaghan supporters who had run on to the field.
Instead, stewards reacted to the announcement by surrendering to the invasion. They even started helping people over the barriers, clearly realising that some of us were out of practice at this sort of thing.
Plan A, presumably, was to prevent pitch incursions (in what must have seemed the unlikely event that anyone would get excited about winning the National League Division Two Championship). But the miraculous nature of the victory - by a goal from a Hail-Mary free kick in the dying moments - produced an outpouring of joy that neither Monaghan hearts nor Plan A could contain. Instead, the GAA chose the life-affirming option of letting us enjoy a rare moment in the sun. And the sun really did shine as the winning captain delivered a speech worthy of an All-Ireland final, vowing that the team would be back again here soon, for bigger things.
Incredibly, Monaghan's victory was not the only miracle I witnessed last weekend. The first was arguably bigger - 8lb 7oz, in fact. And he too provoked an outpouring of joy among the (somewhat smaller) attendance at the National Maternity Hospital on Thursday. When doctors handed him to me, I felt like making a speech - thanking the selectors, the sponsors, my mother and father, and so on. But I decided against it, because my wife would have been traumatised by the bit where I vowed we'd be back again on the third weekend in September.
The truth is, some of us were out of practice at this sort of thing too. It was sobering to recall beforehand that our existing children both dated from the late 20th century. We'd got used to having just the two, and for a variety of reasons we thought that might be it. So amid the excitement of learning that there was another on the way, I had to make a few adjustments as well. It was as if there was a little PA announcer in my head saying: "Plan B in operation!" This one was a whole new experience. For one thing, there were two small people that needed to be briefed. The reaction of Patrick (5), who was finally about to lose his title of baby-in-residence, was particularly important. But he was very mature about the pregnancy, with the minor qualification that if it were a girl, he would "put her in the bin". We laughed nervously, while making a mental note to hide all sharp objects when the new child arrived. Roisín (6) was less of a worry, except that whatever the baby's gender, she was planning to put dresses on it.
The other novelty was that the impending arrival was coming the wrong way round, and refusing to be rerouted. As a result, he would have to be delivered - in the obstetrical term - "through the sun-roof". On the plus side, this meant that I would not have to advise my wife to push, or to breathe in and out, in that order (I've always been worried I'll get the directions mixed up). But it did mean a visit to the operating theatre, dressed like an extra from ER. And it also meant I would be minding the baby during his mother's recovery period, which took ages.
So there I was on Thursday, pacing the room with my new-born son, who came out hungry and was apparently under the impression that I had bosoms hidden somewhere. He wasn't the only one starving, either. But the protective instinct told me I must not leave the child in any circumstances. It also told me that my car was parked on Merrion Square, which is the worst place in Dublin for clampers. So after dashing out twice to feed the meter, I resumed holding the baby, and he resumed sucking my face and neck, hopefully. At least I could feed the meter, I thought. It was a big relief when the parent the child was looking for finally turned up.
After the baby had docked with the mother ship, I left to fetch the other kids. We went to a café first where I formally broke the news, by telling Roisín she was going to be "even more special" from now on. It was a corny line, but she fell for it anyway. En route to the NMH, we stopped off to buy flowers and an "It's a boy!" balloon. And then, with Patrick waving the balloon like a team flag and excitement unbounded, we invaded the hospital.
