Jennifer O’Connell: To escape the grim reality of 2016, look to the sporting gods

They say sport is a great healer. They say so, and – as someone who first invested in a tracksuit at the age of 30, and only then because I was pregnant and truly able to appreciate an elastic waistband – I have mostly taken their word for it.

In truth, until this year I’ve never really understood the allure of watching a bit of inflated polyester being lobbed from one end of a field to another. I’ve never got why sport is allowed its own dedicated section on the news, while other, just as meaningful, things – such as arts and culture, health, or even baby iguanas getting chased by killer snakes – are not.

But if anything was likely to convince me of the escapist power of sport, it is the start-to-finish car crash of a year that has been 2016. You’ll have read lots of words by now about whether this was really the worst year in history.

I won’t repeat the evidence, but let’s just say it will be remembered like a narcissistic distant relative who rocks up at Christmas to eat all your food, drink your best wine, insult your family, overstay their welcome and fall asleep in a puddle of urine on your new sofa, leaving you with a past-its-best-before-date box of Roses, out of which someone has mined everything except the coffee creams.

By way of consolation for its grim legacy, 2016 left us with a few rushes of raw dopamine. Annalise Murphy. The O'Donovan brothers. Thomas Barr. Victory against the All Blacks, Australia and South Africa in rugby. The Euros. The Special Olympics. Conor McGregor. Dundalk. Connacht. They didn't make up for all the bad stuff, but they made it seem less overwhelming for a moment.

Lunch

I thought about this after a lunch in a Dublin restaurant recently. (Tip: don’t eat lunch alone during the Christmas party season, unless you don’t mind being seated beside the loos with all the other unfestive-looking types. The window seats are reserved for millennials waving selfie sticks. On the other hand, if you’re nosy, being seated beside the loos with all the other unfestive-looking types is perfect.)

I was squeezed into a space between two tables occupied by pairs of glum-looking men. Between bites of burger, the pair to my left were discussing how 2016 needed to be taken to a clinic in Switzerland and euthanised. The table to my right was silent at first.

“I think those are our f**king burgers,” one of them hissed after a moment.

In unison, they took a gulp of wine.

“It’s the silence I can’t stand,” the other said, after a moment. On cue, the millennials at the window broke into a roar of delight.

“The silence is a killer,” the first agreed. He stood up. “That’s it. I’m going to call.”

I thought I was going to have to miss my train, it was so long before he came back. He dropped his phone on to the table.

“It’s not happening,” he said.

I had to lean across until I was practically in their laps as I pieced it together. There was something about Bucharest. Something about section-one something. Millions of euro at stake.

“A lunch in Shanahan’s is not going to fix this,” the second man observed.

“Two. Point. Eight. Five,” the other intoned slowly, shaking his head like the child Santa forgot. They ate silently, and with little enthusiasm, as I wondered whether 2016 had pulled off yet another cruel twist and catapulted us back to 2006.

Then the second one looked up.

“Will you get over to Anfield this year?” he asked.

“Probably,” the first one replied, still miserable. Then he brightened. “Woodburn is showing a bit of promise, isn’t he?”

“Unbelievable.”

And they were off.

Opium of the masses

This is it, I realised. This is why they say sport is the opium of the masses. One minute you’re two point eight five down; the next you’re discussing the latest soccer hotshot, and everything is right in the world. This may be why they tack a sports bulletin on at the end of the news, as a moment of national respite at the end of a long black tunnel of wars, death, disputes, disasters and hatred.

This year may be about to slink off into the filthy night, but there will be more misery, ugliness and despair to come. So strap yourselves in, and if you can’t fix it, you can always briefly escape it.

Sport, as I've discovered, truly is a great healer. The arts are better again. But do whatever works for you. Watch a match. Go to the theatre. Read a book. Turn on Planet Earth II. Go to a gig. Run. Have an actual conversation.

My plan for tackling 2017 can be summed up in three sentences. Share less, experience more. Save the outrage for the things that really deserve it. When it all gets too much, take the opium.

Who knows, 2017 may even be the year that I actually put that tracksuit on.