Joy

I can feel it rising. The excitement. The adrenalin kicking in. A surge of uncontrollable energy rips boldly through body and mind. Wild, wonderful, and completely free. A total loss of control. An absence of ego. An explosion of bliss. Greater than self. It goes beyond anywhere else. It used to come so quickly. It comes less often now. But when it does, it’s still capable of rocking my world.

Maybe that’s what getting older is about. I know it will take something considerable to shake my very core, but I am also aware that the waves on the far side of experience are calmer now. Maybe it’s because I know what’s coming. I’ve seen it all, felt it all, or so it seems. Every sharp rise to the top is inevitably followed by a slow descent down the other side of the mountain. There is no permanent high in the chaotic puzzle of ecstasy, only the inevitable plateau waiting for our descent beyond the far side of joy. Afterward, we find ourselves back down to earth in a moment. Maybe that’s why we remember the taste of defeat long after the sweet nectar of victory has passed our lips. Now we know what’s possible, but also what’s coming.

I think back to the precious moments in my life when there has been absolute lift-off. Eyes meet with mischief for the first time across a crowded room. A shy smile, followed by the inevitable avoidance, only to steal a cautious glance back again. That first kiss, every time. Someone different. Someone special. The first rush of love followed again and again by heartbreak.

Looking into Samuel’s eyes seconds after he arrived in a world that would never be the same again. A feeling of absolute unconditional love.

Alan Sunderland’s injury-time goal winning the FA Cup for Arsenal at Wembley in 1979. My first trophy. Mickey Thomas at Anfield 1989. My first league title. Old Trafford 2002. My fourth. White Hart Lane 2004. Invincible.

My first game in Croker. Barney Rock’s equalizing goal against Cork in the 1983 All-Ireland semi-final catapults Hill 16 into a blue blur of mind-blowing rhapsody. Stephen Cluxton’s kick in 2011, that ended sixteen long years of famine. Five in a row. The best team I’ve ever seen.

Bohemians doing the double under Roddy Collins. Mark Rutherford running down the wing. Paul Byrne pulling the strings.

Writing my first book.

Not surprisingly, none of it has anything to do with work. The hours that inhabit the in-between split only by the moments actually worth living for. They give two fingers to the mediocrity of the everyday.

It’s also contained in the places we visit. The buzz of New York with its restless, angry words, always seems at odds with itself. The uneasy energy of Berlin with a dark undercurrent of mystery lurking beneath the surface, another product of its history. London waking to another day. This feeling. It’s in a smile. Eyes meeting across a room again for the first, and maybe the last time. The forbidden fruit reaches out, only it has to be left untouched, leaving only the regret of possibility rather than disappointment. We don’t get to wrestle with these moments. They are of themselves. Separate. Alone and aloof. Emotionally charged. They overwhelm us with their simplicity. They require no thinking, as they wash over us, we don’t even see them coming. They are the closest thing to an out-of-body experience I have ever felt. An aftershock even before it happened.

The immortal words of the commentator Brian Moore burn forever in my soul. “And Arsenal come streaming forward in what will surely be their last attack…it’s up for grabs now.” I don’t remember much after that, except my brother Stephen telling me to calm down as I attempted to imitate Michael Thomas’s goal celebration on the floor of the house we were renting on London’s edge in Buckhurst Hill. Eighteen long years are blown away to smithereens in a moment. Liverpool 0 Arsenal 2. Sports can take us to those kinds of places more often than we can access them in real life. Paul Vaessen’s last-minute goal to beat Juventus in Turin. Fleeting moments of complete delight or awful heartbreaking desolation. Ryan Giggs winning goal in the 1999 FA Cup semi-final replay at Villa Park is also etched across my soul. Probably the worst moment of all. I knew it was coming. Too much had already gone wrong in the game for it to go right now. Dennis Bergkamp’s missed penalty goes hand-in-hand with it. A mere afterthought when the pain hits. It’s a goal that gets shown on TV a lot. A dagger through the heart. Time-and-again. There is no escaping it and the pain it brings, even now.

Watching Mum slip away.

Watching Dad follow her four years later.

Bono takes to the stage in Slane only a day after his own father’s passing. The crowd leans in to give him everything he needs. Collective empathy takes us higher. Soon we are soaring way above. The haunting melody of my favorite songs sends a tingle down my spine. Leaving New York by REM. One by U2. Lonesome Day by Bruce Springsteen. Glastonbury Song by The Waterboys. Brewing Up A Storm by The Stunning. Friends In Time by The Golden Horde. They touch something deep inside. An experience. A memory captured forever. Sometimes they make me cry with sadness or deeply sown joy.

Hanging on a knife edge. It can go either way. That’s what makes it so special. Victory snatched from the jaws of defeat. It’s over thirty years since Mickey Thomas’s goal at Anfield, but still even now when I watch it back I am catapulted back in time. I feel it all again. The screams of celebration from the houses and flats all around. The crazy realization that dreams do come through. That all is not lost, no matter what. That the end of a dream might only be the beginning. We learn to go on, no matter what.

Rocky Rocastle’s last-minute winner at White Hart Lane in 1987. Mayhem in the away end.

It happened again only recently. Arsenal who were 2-0 down to Bournemouth at home rallied to level the scores, but deep into injury time, they were still chasing what was proving to be an elusive winner. The manager Arteta had emptied the bench but to no avail. As Martin Odegaard prepared to take what would definitely be the last corner, Arsenal’s league title hopes hung in the balance. I had been sitting the whole afternoon, rooted to my armchair, my nerves going jingle bloody jangle as they got the better of me, but now and for the last few minutes here I was standing behind the chair praying for a miracle.

Martin floated the ball in only for it to be headed out to substitute Reiss Nelson on the edge of the penalty area, just to the left of the D. It was on. But he needed to execute everything to perfection. He took the ball down, and killed it in an instance, perfectly. The minute he hit the shot I knew it was in. I think that’s what made the moment even more special. The strike was so sweet. The absolute certainty that followed in what is usually a vacuum of doubt. I went crazy, dancing and jumping around the room in relief and disbelief. And as I did so, I thought to myself, there’s life in the old dog yet.

Ultimately that goal would be in vain when it came to winning the league, but it was important in sustaining the push for a Champions League spot. I’ve learned to lower my expectations as I’ve got older and more experienced, something that is necessary in the world we live in now. There is so much beauty to be found in the little things. I am happy in my own skin, and although dealing with the mechanisms of what is expected of us by society and the iron-clad fist of the state knocks me back from time to time, I’m able to resist the uncertainty and keep my head above water. So when the doubt kicks in, I think of Highbury, Croker, Anfield, Turin, Copenhagen, Old Trafford, The Emirates, and White Hart Lane.

I think of holding Samuel for the first time, his little eyes, his little feet, and the joy within.