It was fairly novel to see footage of world title boxing without being made aware of the frizzy-haired presence of Don King, but not even that old curmudgeon could have influenced the bout between James Corbett and Bob Fitzsimmons.

Those heavyweight sluggers featured in the first filmed title showdown, on St Patrick's Day, 1897. The quality of the fight was just marginally better than that of Sky Sports and the clientele were pretty much par for the course: the sheriff collected some 400 guns at the door and Wyatt Earp observed events with a stony eye from Corbett's corner.

The first episode of An Dorn Cheilteach documented the birth and rise of Celtic boxers and their prolific success in America, which coincided with a new wave of emigration. Its opening sequence was all Raging Bull, with grainy images and classical music, but the story was earthy and, for the most part, saddening.

"I think we are tougher than the Anglo-Saxons," commented Barry McGuigan, standing in a musty, cobwebbed gym. "The Celts were born to fight," agreed Eddie Thomas, "if not in the ring, then outside of it."

The Irish, as the narrative had it, placed a lot of store on physical prowess: oppressed and poverty-stricken, they needed to protect what little they had. The boxing racket quickly took a grip on the turbulent, multi-ethnic cities of North America, and the stream of desperate Irish immigrants easily established themselves as having a voracious hunger for bare knuckle fighting.

As with basketball and American football today, youngsters from the slums were promised fortune - an escape - by devoting themselves to the game. The most remarkable fighter in the latter half of the 19th century was John L Sullivan, a gregarious, hard-hitter of Boston Irish stock. "He was the first sports superstar in the history of the world," offered sportswriter Herb Golden.

Sullivan was seen, through flickering, speeding images, lathering the life out of some poor fecker back in the bare knuckle days, when you just stood and swung until someone dropped. It was pure attrition. Sullivan, though, provided the link between the bare knuckle game and the Queensbury rules, going on to become a revered heavyweight champion who also fought and conquered alcohol.

But it wasn't all fairy tales. He was fond of proclaiming that he had "never fought a black and never would", a vow which gained currency in the sport. So bitter was the animosity towards black boxers that when Jack Johnson finally got a title shot, and won, there was fatal rioting across the States and footage of the fight was banned in Britain.

Against this hazy history, An Dorn Cheilteach reminded us of more modern calamities, including the death of Jim Murray following a British title fight with Drew Doherty. "Things like that make you wonder should we even be in the game," offered Eddie Thomas, "but as I said, Celts were born to fight."

Glamour Celt Eddie Jordan had a fighting glint in his eye prior to yesterday's German Grand Prix, delighted that his two drivers had managed to find their way to the track, at least. "It's four-and-a-half miles of torturous concrete," howled Martin Brundle, and for a moment you wondered if the Formula One lads had decided to run the whole show on the main road from Virginia to Cavan.

But no, it was Hockenheim, and with Ralf and Damon sitting pretty on the grid, Eddie was, understandably, in high spirits. Asked if he ever wondered about the wisdom of signing the Killiney resident, Eddie asserted that this season he had more frequently pondered the wisdom of being in racing, given that he had come "close to slitting his wrists about 50 times".

By lap three of yesterday's race, he must have been tempted to reach for the razor again (wish he'd kill those sidelocks while he was at it), after a bizarre strategy saw Ralf Schumacher abandon third place for a costly pit-stop which left him languishing somewhere around midtable. But gradually he recovered, and maybe there was some method behind the move after all.

The basic strategy behind the Connacht football final seemed to be to blaze as many wides as possible. The match was played, according to RTE's Marty Morrissey, in a jazzily named and hitherto unknown ground called "The Hyde". Most of the fans seemed to have found their way to the "Hyde", but the new venue seemed to unnerve the players a little, prompting some lamentable kicking over the course of an entertaining clash.

Finally, by the end of Liverpool's game against St Patrick's Athletic, new manager Gerard Houllier looked like a man who had been asked to go 15 rounds with big John Sullivan. Ashen and withdrawn, Houllier seemed a little astonished at some of the play he'd witnessed.

Maybe nobody told him about David James. Early in the second half, the bould David lathered a hasty clearance all of three yards, straight into Phil Babb's head, leaving the Irish defender temporarily punch-drunk. Could be a long season.