The play’s the thing

Samuel Beckett is one of the most highly respected dramatists ever, his bleak, nonsensical doodlings fascinating critics and bewildering everybody else. But old Sam probably wouldn’t have been the best man to bring GAA to the theatre. We want people to show passion and vim, not stare glumly into dying embers and proclaim the universe to be meaningless. Like, that really puts a dampener on post-All Ireland celebrations.
Contrary to popular presumption, though, Oscar Wilde would have been a great man to chronicle Gaelic games on the stage, and indeed, a great man to have in the dressing-room. He was a big, hefty fella, not averse to throwing a few punches if ticked off, which is always a good start. He was also quite a zealous nationalist. His witty repartee would alleviate any pre-match tension and help strengthen that crucial team bond, while he’d never be short of a piquant quip to direct at an errant referee.
Oscar’s razor-sharp mind and sparkling dramatic skills could combine to produce a penetrating portrayal of the GAA. With a few smart lines thrown in to amuse the plebs.

The Importance of Getting in the First Dig
by Oscar Wilde (aesthete, genius and All-Star corner-back 1894)

Scene: A dressing-room in West London, decorated in the sumptuous, baroque stylings of the age. Two louche young men loll about on chaise longues, smoking impossibly long French cigarettes and gazing absently into the distance. They are dressed in frilly, Spandau Ballet-type shirts, frock-coats and white togs with a stripe down the side. Their boots lie on the ground. Suddenly, one stands and begins to pace the floor, rapping the ground with his hurley.
Lord Dorian McAfee, First Baron of Ballyswaggart: I say, pumpkin. We should really be out there warming up, don’t you think?
The second man sighs in a very effete manner.
The Right Honourable Michilín ‘Bowsey’ Crinklington: Oh, sit down, for God’s sake. The only thing worse than being talked about for missing training is not being talked about for missing training.
Dorian: Quite so, Bowsey, quite so; but Coach Huffingford-Maison will not be pleased. I fear four extra laps to be our punishment.
Michilín (swishing his cigarette smoke through the air): Ah, but there is the nub and the rub, my dear Dorian. The coach is afflicted with the peculiar malady of the middle classes; to wit, the inability to recognise that the condition of perfection is idleness. I myself never put off until tomorrow what I can possibly leave until the day after.
Dorian: Hmm…all this sounds disconcertingly familiar. Almost like you were quoting someone famous… But anyway, the crux of the matter is this – we have a game to play, and The East Indian Tea Company Sarsfields are out there now, ready to play it. Do we want this wan badly enough, Bowsey? Do we want it!?
Michilín (leaping up and grabbing his Micro helmet): Well, why didn’t you put it like that before? There is only one thing I cannot resist, my dear Dorian, and that is temptation. Let’s crush them like bugs!!
He runs out the door screaming wildly, followed by Dorian. Close curtain.

Scene: Dorian and Michilín limp in, covered in cuts and bruises, with glum expressions. Dorian holds a radio from which is heard, ‘That’s right, Michael. Like, we were never at the races. Sarsfields had obviously watched the Lumière Cinematographe footage of the last day, and done what they had to do today.’ The two friends slump onto their chaise longues.
Dorian: You didn’t stay for the post-match analysis, then, Bowsey?
Michilín: No. Nothing bores me quite as much as my own business. I am only interested in the business of others.
Dorian: Well, anyway, it would appear that all our hard work has come to naught.
Michilín: Quite the opposite, pudding. We may be lying in the gutter of championship dreams, but we are looking at the stars…of next year.
Dorian: Yeah, right. Make sure to tell that to my bookie when he comes to break my thumbs, won’t you?
Close curtain. The end.