On the opening weekend of the Olympic regatta Paul O’Donovan walked into the mixed zone flogging a punchline, mercilessly. In the draw, the reigning World and Olympic champions were just the third seeds. O’Donovan greeted every microphone with a stand-up riff he had composed earlier, pretending to be injured by the slight, or pretending not to be.
“I can’t even count how many names are above us [in the seedings],” he said. “We are just here to enjoy ourselves, do the best we can and take a few of the big scalps – all going well.”
O’Donovan’s self-portrait as an underdog was deliberately preposterous. It was the only gag in the routine. O’Donovan and Fintan McCarthy were favourites to win the gold medal, just as they had been favourites for every race they had rowed together for the previous five years. For them, being an underdog or not being an underdog had no consequence. They had a cold contract with each other to make the boat go faster.
For generations of Irish sportspeople, being an underdog had been a fossil fuel. In the popular imagination, winning was wrapped up with fire. Put ‘em under pressure. Boot and bollock. Stand up and fight.
It was a safe space where winning was optional and losing was available with a range of painkillers and rounds of applause. All of it was a cop-out.
In the Golden Age of Irish sport, winning has become intentional. Elite Irish sportspeople make themselves accountable to winning and losing rather than innocent hostages to the outcome. ‘If’ has been emasculated. O’Donovan and McCarthy were convinced they would become the first Irish athletes since Pat O’Callaghan to retain an Olympic title. They knew it was in their hands.
Gymnast Rhys McClenaghan and swimmer Daniel Wiffen were of the same mind, though they expressed it with chutzpah. “There’s some things you set out to do,” said McClenaghan a couple of months afte...
[Short citation of 8% of the original article]