Sometimes we watch sports in order to appreciate that we share the same basic species with those among us who can dunk, shoot an under-par round or dismount from the rings without breaking their ankles. And sometimes we watch fairly sure that whatever that poor sap is doing, we could probably do it too, if we ever cared to. Those saps are called kickers.
Things are not going well in Irish football. Giovanni Trapattoni is probably not to blame for all of it. Just the overwhelming majority.
Baseball is a sport that -- perhaps more than any other -- brings with it a history that carries as much weight as its present. As an outsider stepping into that world, it can daunting, or charming; because there's a kernel of familarity that can be found in the juxtaposition of the immediately knowable and the initiates' prerogative. Also, Buck O'Neil and Spaceman Lee are pretty fun to watch.
When is a goal more than a goal? When does it become one of those sporting moments possessed of such imagination and daring that it seemed to require outside confirmation of its actually having happened: from your viewing companions, from random internet people, from oh your God ... did you see that?
When the world's No. 1 golfer, and sports' most visible Northern Irishman, Rory McIlroy, brought his allegiances for the 2016 Rio Olympics -- the first to include golf since St. Louis in 1904 -- into question after years of playing under the Irish flag, wounds long thought healed were reopened. But when picking a country to play for, is the onus on the athlete to represent us or themselves?