My holidays went very well, thank you. I was in the very south of Kerry, though the exact location must remain a secret for all sorts of reasons.

I mention those holidays because they offered an intriguing glimpse of the Irish sporting public.

What exactly you can deduce from the sporting activities of people on a beach I’m not sure, but that lack of certainty/small sample size has never stopped me speculating wildly before.

For most of my two weeks away the sun was out and so were greyish bellies of the middle-aged Irish male, myself included (none greyer, says you). And of course, because the sun was out the sporting accoutrements were out also.

Which is where I came in.

For instance, why is that when two lads break out hurleys and a ball on a beach, one of them always looks like he’s warming up to come on and turn the tide in the last quarter of an All-Ireland final, while the chap he’s pucking around with looks like he picked up a hurley for the first time five minutes before?

I was curious about the total imbalance in quality until, of course, I picked up a hurley myself and realised that if there is a less flattering playing surface than sand for the older hurler (cough), then I have yet to find it.

All video evidence of my findings has been destroyed, since you ask.

On the other hand, why is it you never seem to have just a couple of lads kicking a soccer ball to each other? It always seems to be a mob of a dozen or so kids, often marshalled by a couple of adults.

(Part of me believes some of those same adults are trying to implant Kennedys-in-Hyannisport-playing-touch-football type memories in the kids. A bit like the movie Inception, but without the Hans Zimmer soundtrack.)

Fair enough, but I am prepared to go to court to swear I heard one of those adults, so-called, say in a game taking place near me, “Dylan, track the runner,” at one point.

Detail: I would have estimated this Dylan to be no more than eight years old.

At least no one was asked to play in the hole: given the amount of excavation undertaken by that very same under-nine demographic, it could have gotten quite literal, and dangerous.

Other sports?

More than once I saw a few teen boys with a rugby ball. Not playing with a rugby ball so much as with ball in tow. In fact, in the fortnight I was on the beach I never saw anyone kick or pass a rugby ball.

What I did see was groups of three or four teenage boys walking the beach, with one of them bouncing the ball from the ground to his hand a la Ronan O’Gara preparing for a drop-out — but never actually kicking the ball.

I am not stupid, despite quite a lot of contradictory correspondence. Such small groups of boys are by definition on the look-out for equivalent groups of girls, and the rugby ball is their version of a small, furry dog, or (in our days) a bag containing an LP.

A conversation starter.

Alas for the knot of kids roaming our beach, I never once heard “Do you play rugby?” as an opener. Better luck next year, lads.

Tennis is still a popular beach sport, I notice, but I did register a tendency among under-pressure players (parents) when younger, more energetic opponents (children) were getting the upper hand.

A subtle but noticeable tactic among the parents was to slowly edge the playing area towards the lapping waves, and when the ball, inevitably, landed in the drink, a theatrical throwing-up of the hands presaged a tactical postponement.

If any sport brought me up short, though, it was the game of cricket being played on the beach one afternoon. Numbers were small, and accents were English, but I was still surprised to see a wicket in place.

Next year: how my summer holidays were spoiled by Dylan’s mastery of the offside trap.

New York will mourn Kerryman

Sad news last week in New York, with the passing of Noel O’Connell at his home in Pearl River.

Noel spent most of his life across the sea from his native Caherciveen but always stayed true to his roots and remained a keen follower of the club scene at home, as well as staying involved in the club scene in his other home.

He was a major force in Rockland County GAA for decades and passed that interest on to his daughter Maeve. In her time she played Féile for New York: given her father was the coach, that’s hardly a surprise.

The news came through in time for a tribute to be paid to him in Gaelic Park ahead of Friday night’s fixtures, but a fuller tribute came earlier in the year.

It was good that Rockland had a tribute night for Noel in June, that there was a chance to let him know just how he was regarded by his clubmates. New York will be poorer for his absence: ar dheis Dé go raibh sé.

A Messi exit

Are you a Messi fan?

I ask because it seemed for a couple of years that every child under 10 had a Barcelona jersey with the Argentinian’s name across the shoulders. Dylan (see elsewhere) was a fan, no doubt.

Maybe it was the fact that in his pomp, Messi looked like a kid himself: small with busy feet under a resolutely untrendy haircut.

The latter-day adoption of tattoos and beard always seemed a little forced, as though someone had advised Messi that signalling his edginess would somehow… what? Increase his appeal? Improve his striking?

I can’t say I’m a Messi fan. The lack of focus on the player being treated with human growth hormone has always been surprising to me, particularly given the hypersensitivity in all sports when it comes to illegal substances.

I caught the end of Barcelona-Bayern Munich the other evening, though, and it surprised me to realise Messi was 33 in June, suggesting the end of the road is in sight. Perhaps that was the logic behind the beard and the tattoos, to disguise his impending retirement.

It’ll be interesting to see the hot takes on Messi’s career when that retirement eventually comes. I won’t be joining in, mind you.

And now the meaning of life…you’re welcome

I enjoyed a couple of good reads on holliers, Don Winslow’s Broken among them (as anticipated here a couple of weeks ago, it was terrific).

Now that we’re back in harness, as it were, I was thinking of Time of the Magicians as a follow-up.

Not obvious, I know (the subtitle ‘Wittgenstein, Benjamin, Cassirer, Heidegger, and the Decade That Reinvented Philosophy’ doesn’t suggest a lot of car chases) but Wolfram Eilenberger’s book (translated by Shaun Whiteside) is getting some rave notices, and looks to be a handy account of a crucial decade in Western thought, which is something you could say about every decade in Western thought, ho ho.

There’s an Irish connection in that Wittgenstein spent four months in a cottage in Connemara but you hardly need that incentive, right?

Contact: michael.moynihan@examiner.ie