Howzat!

Being a true blood and soil supporter of the GAA, I have never had much time for cricket. Its colonial origins, ever present air of barely contained superiority, ridiculously complex rules and equally ridiculous terminology (wicket, crease, googly, overs, unders, Ian Botham, etc.) are seemingly designed to repel rather than attract the casual sports fan.

The closest I ever got to the game was the occasional summer evening spent on the sun dappled steps in front of the Pavilion Bar in Trinity College. There, overlooking the green swathe of the university's cricket pitch, I would attempt to engage in witty, Waugh-like banter with impossibly slim girls from the distant heart of south Dublin whilst desperately trying to hide my lowly DIT origins. In passing I would note white clad figures seemingly aimlessly ambling about the pitch, now and then toffing a cap to cries of "Oh, I say, well done Henry". All of them seemed to be called Henry. It must have been a membership requirement.

Later on, as the skies darkened, the game ended and the lights from the buses rumbling by on Nassau street reminded you of where you were and more unfairly, where you had to go, I would resentfully curse these Henry's as they ambled into the bar and effortlessly led Fionnuala from Foxrock away for a night of overs and unders.

But.

But after last night's remarkable events in Bangalore my hitherto staunchly republican heart now thrills to the sound of ball on bat, derives immense pleasure from a well executed drive to mid-slip, and I yell with abandon at an obvious LBW speared down the inside leg.

Cricket, yes cricket. You don't need to know anything about the game per se, just that right now, as of the 3rd of March, Ireland (cue Amhran na bhFiann) are better at that quintessentially English game than, well, England.

Scorer of the fastest century in Cricket World Cup History, Kevin O'Brien (or as he's fondly known around these nationalist parts, Caoimhin with the gruaig rua).