All hail Obama, the leader of the free hurl

SIDELINE CUT:The warm glow of Monday's visit by the American president will all be forgotten by the time some great sporting tribes go to war tonight, writes KEITH DUGGAN

WHAT A mixed up old week. After a few days of make-believe and huckstering, at least today’s sports schedule promises something of substance. Munster versus Leinster, Manchester United versus Barcelona and Armagh versus Down all coming at us hot and thick: it isn’t possible to get any more global and parochial in one evening.

Like many people, I felt a quick shiver of pride when old Barack gamely took hold of the hurl he was presented with by Enda Kenny and held it uncertainly, before finally settling for a baseball grip. He didn’t look entirely “at one” with the hurl, which raised the immediate question: just what kind of Offaly man was this?

Still, it was startling, given the context, to hear him quip that the stick would come in useful if people weren’t behaving themselves at Congress, which brought to mind the surreal image of the big O showing up at the GAA’s annual festival of rule-changing and vote-taking. He was, of course, talking about the other Congress – the political mob on faraway Capitol Hill.

And it didn’t take long to see that Barack wasn’t really all that fascinated with the hurl and that he had other things – peace in the Middle East, getting re-elected, the Bulls trailing the Heat in the NBA conference finals – on his mind even as he charmed the populous of this very green, very cold, very wet and very broke island, which his ancestor left a century-and-a-half ago.

Mr Obama’s rapport with the hurl compared poorly to other distinguished guests, such as Muhammad Ali who, when given a hurl during his 1972 visit to Dublin, actually had a bit of fun with the ball. It would have been marvellous if the American president and the Taoiseach could have had an impromptu game of hurling on the lawn.

Although, in hindsight, that scenario could have been a disaster because Mr Kenny was unquestionably up for this particular State visit. You could tell the Taoiseach was “pumped”, as the GAA analysts like to say. An excited Mayo man in possession of a hurl is a volatile combination at the best of times.

There is the distinct possibility that in his enthusiasm for the moment, Mr Kenny might have pulled across his guest and badly damaged the shins of the Leader of the Free World, thereby causing him to hobble his way across Europe and almost certainly scupper whatever slender chance there is of negotiating a financial rearrangement.

But during the few seconds Obama held that hurl in his hands, it felt like he was taking hold of the very country and that therefore the country was – for those few seconds – in good hands. Then he had fled the place, just like his grandfather four times removed had done, not even spending a night under Irish stars. So reality returned and now it is still ludicrously cold and there is nothing much to look forward to except the sport.

But what sport. There is something of the clash of civilisations about today’s rugby final between Munster and Leinster. The Celtic League final is probably not the talk of rugby bars in Brisbane or Paris right now, but it offers a perfect conclusion to another memorable season for Irish rugby. And this is the quintessential meeting of two tribes: City and Country, East and West, Blue and Red, Sexton and O’Gara, Lager and Stout, Jags and Masseys, the Chaps and the Lads.

To the innocent eye, the profile between the Leinster and Munster crowd offers little in distinction: both look relatively prosperous, they wear their replica jerseys and shades with panache and sing at the drop of a hat. But those surface similarities mask a simmering tribal tension.

This is the Leinster fans’ moment to crow. For years, they have been derided as dilettantes, lacking the passion and the “soul” of Munster’s Red Army, whose self-appointment as the greatest fans in the world enabled them to bore everyone to tears with how they took this boat and that camper van to see “the lads” play in forsaken, off-the-Sat-Nav places like Cardiff and Galway.

The Red Army ate its dinner in the middle of the day, drank stout and passed the time in airports with rousing tales of being on the lash in those southern French hotbeds of rugby with ex-Munster gods like Claw and Gaillimh.

For years, Leinster’s idea of fanaticism appeared to extend no further than draping an “In BOD We Trust” banner over the railing at the RDS and texting pals telling them to meet in Café En Seine later. So this is their moment. Now, they support the best club side in Europe and they have even eclipsed their local rivals at their trademark trick: the miraculous comeback. So Munster people will be sore today. The rivalry was fine and fun when they were winning: now, it may be about to become personal.

Once that match is over, though, the main ambition of all in Thomond Park will to be to extend the evening by watching the Champions League final. For one thing which Munster and Leinster undoubtedly have in common is a big percentage of Manchester United fans.

And this match against Barcelona promises to be their apotheosis. Everything is right with the world for United fans if they have just won their 19th title and are playing Barcelona at Wembley while, down the motorway, Liverpool are hopeful of perhaps signing Stuart Downing.

If the Champions League final were not enough for the old GAA to contend with, they also have to compete with that other global vice: rock ’n’ roll.

Most of us never expected to see the name Kings of Leon appearing in the same sentence as “Armagh County Board”. Never thought about it much either, but, still, it comes as a bit of a curveball. But it turns out the Tennessee rockers, due to appear in Slane tonight and whose Irish roots are as yet unknown, are causing something of a conflict of loyalties among those Ulster Gaels who like to rock out.

One of the great charms of the GAA lies in their unshakeable belief that their show is always the best show. It is said that upon hearing Bob Dylan had been booked for Nowlan Park a number of years ago, a Kilkenny hurling official innocently inquired if he was related to Pa Dillon, the great Kilkenny fullback of the 1960s.

That is why it was almost humbling to read the acknowledgement from an Armagh official that the American rockers had an appeal that might just compete against the hardy sons of Ulster leathering into one another and the strains of The Star of the County Down sounding brassily through the half-time drizzle. “All the young ones are going to it,” was the morose concession from the Armagh County Board about the gig in Slane.

There is a rumour that Anthony Followill, lead singer with the Kings, is going to keep the Slane crowd updated on the score from the Athletic Grounds in between songs. (But it is only a rumour.)

By then, everyone is going to be addled anyway: Saturday night, the pubs getting busy, Thomond empty, Wembley on every television screen and Sunday yet to come. Obama, everybody’s favourite Irishman for a day, is already a fading memory.

Did he even bring that hurl with him?