You know the way I’m mad into competitive sports?
OK, let me rephrase that.
You know the way I like to loll around looking for insignificant shit to get obsessively worked up about?
Well, today isn’t one of those days. Because it actually kicked off yesterday. In the moment I eye-rolled in response to a request from one of the relos to vote for a contender in the prestigious Donegal Player of the…(wait for it)…Week. Exactly. This is big shit. To one particular 14 year-old’s Da at least.
That was, until I dragged my lazy arse fingers round to the site for a blast of the button whereupon the sight of our boy in second place unleashed such staggering levels of indignation, the conversion from mild-mannered indifference to canvassing crusader was worthy of nomination.
If I’m going to succumb to this unfair and unregulated popularity contest, then I should at least back my lobbying up with 5 credible, if arbitrary, reasons why he should win, which are (in random order):
– he doesn’t take himself seriously
– he drives his Irish teacher mad by refusing to exhibit any fear of her
– he can hold his own in company of all ages
– he surprises me with parcels of ill-fitting sports gear he forgets to tell me he ordered for himself on Amazon
– he’s not averse to giving occasional sly hugs when no-one’s looking
Put me down for a vote!
Thanks, hen. He won. The power of ill-gotten votes. Predictably, it turned into a contest between another sibling and me to see how many votes we could bag. We eventually joined forces to retaliate against the opposition fighting back. I may have pulled a muscle.