Arms raised. A nation’s wildest dreams ascended.
“Ireland, baby… we did it!”
6am [Irish time] and the halls of Leinster House were deathly quiet. Sunday silence.
A conga line snaked around the MGM Grand as sweet, blissful reality sank in for the UFC’s new, undisputed champ.
Always quick to spread the credit around, Conor McGregor posed for pictures and thanked those who had helped him rise.
Asked about his remarkable prediction of the Jose Aldo KO, McGregor smiled.
“Mystic Mac strikes again.”
Shortly after 7am. Ireland’s leaders slumbered on.
In Las Vegas, en-route to a triumphant after-party, The Notorious posed for pictures with fans and signed autographs.
High on life and a newly unified belt for company.
For onlookers, it was a gratifying, inspiring sight. Time for every fight fan that asked for a slender sliver.
The people’s champion – a hero for thousands of Irish that travelled over in hope and, for some, expectation.
A working class man from Dublin who went from collecting the dole to dethroning the best pound-for-pound UFC fighter on the planet. Dreams are possible. They’re allowed.
On his fact-defying ascent, McGregor preached:
“If you can see if here [points to his head] and if you have the courage here [points to his heart] to speak it, it will happen.”
9am now and life stirred on Merrion Square but no words, or tweets of congratulations.
Were they watching? Was Enda Kenny, that sports mad Mayo man, informed over his morning Muesli and diced mango?
If so, there was no dictat. No tweet. No press release drafted.
Form is temporary, class is permanent – good man @padraig_h
— Enda Kenny (@EndaKennyTD) March 2, 2015
Congratulations @KatieTaylor! A true champion. You make us all proud 🇮🇪 #Baku2015
— Enda Kenny (@EndaKennyTD) June 27, 2015
The exultant Dub kept a promise and headed along to his celebration brash. DMX’ ‘Ruff Ryderz Anthem’ rang out and McGregor was handed the mic.
The smiling faces on the ballot papers – they’ll be the ones you see next Spring on Election Day – they probably think of it as rap guff.
The lyrics speak to a generation of Irish forsaken by promises to bond-holders and financiers who left us in tatters.
“Home of the brave, my home is a cage
and yo I’ma slave til’ my home is a grave.”
Not reserving criticism for the government here, yet no pigeons have been released from the white-washed roof of Áras an Uachtaráin.
Yes, our nation is beset with floods. No need to wax lyrical in a ranging press release but would it be too much to ask for a line? Or a word? An emoji.
McGregor was in a cage until he dug down and bounded out, flipping the finger to those that stood in his way.
He is Ireland’s first undisputed UFC world champion, celebrated by the greatest who have ever set foot in the octagon.
He has brought us to terrific tears in the dead of night.
And still, at 5pm on Sunday evening, the only thing coming from the gilded halls of those power-brokers is something McGregor’s generation are achingly familiar with.
SILENCE.
“A working class hero is something to be.”
