Sport

A scud missile that never fails to hit the target: Postcard from Rio

Bom Dia!?

Scud. Jonah. Jinx. Just some of the names I’ve been called in recent days. 

Things weren’t exactly going brilliantly for the Irish boxers before I touched down at Rio’s Galaeo airport late last Thursday night, but I certainly didn’t bring any luck over from the Emerald Isle, to be sure, to be sure. All the shamrock and shillelaghs in the world wouldn’t have been enough to put a stop to the steady decline in numbers that materialised over the following days.

One thing I’ve learned since coming out here is that, if there is such a thing as luck of the Irish, it’s bad luck. 

Brendan Irvine was the first to go on Saturday afternoon. Steven Donnelly followed little over an hour later.

“You’re playing a blinder here,” read one text as if I had been in the squared circle myself or, worse still, sat at ringside in a white shirt and black dickie bow checking Twitter on my phone before randomly picking which fighter I thought had just won the previous round.

Sunday brought a first win since Donnelly’s victory on Thursday, courtesy of Michael Conlan. With just him and Katie left, the good times were surely about to roll. I could feel it in the water on my bedroom floor.

But no, a winning streak of one ended swiftly - and shockingly - on Monday, Taylor bounced out at the quarter-final stage. Christ. Katie out? After her first fight?! All bets were off from this point forth. Minutes later, beep beep.

“Good work. Can you please stay away from Mick Conlan’s fight tomorrow? Thanks.”

If I didn’t have to be there, I would have seriously considered not going. 

Despite having every confidence in Michael Conlan’s ability, there was a serious sense of foreboding among a war weary press corps as we left the media tent and headed up the steps towards our seats in the Riocentro Pavilion.

“It’s like being taken to the gallows,” remarked one of our number, the horrifying vista of having to cover golf and modern pentathlon almost too much to bear.

And so the final, bewildering act played out before our eyes. Conlan, after boxing the head off Vladimir Nikitov in the first, still lost the round. The writing was on the wall.

When we heard the word “azul”, signalling a win for the blue-vested Russian, heads hit the desk below. So… who’s this diver then? Where’s he from again? 

“Bigger Jonah than me that man,” tweeted one friend who single-handedly cultivated a worldwide reign of terror, with natural disaster after natural disaster strapping on a backpack and following him on his travels.

Another went to the trouble of researching flights for an early return to Belfast, while a third simply recited the stirring chorus from Les Miserable/George Best’s funeral’s Bring Him Home.

Therefore it was with a sense of trepidation that I made my way to the Olympic Stadium for Tom Barr’s 400m hurdles final yesterday. Up against a competitive field already, the last thing the Waterford man needed was a scud missile with his name on it.

After a slow start, Barr came on strong at the end before just missing out on the medals. Glory in defeat? I’m taking the credit for that.

Until next time, ate lago,

Neil Loughran