Unleash Hell!!!

My boys have their sports day this week. Not that they’re fiercely competitive creatures, unlike myself, but they do take the whole thing quite seriously. This could have something to do with the pressure piled upon them by the hands of history.
You see the O’Neills have a long and colourful history throughout Ireland as fabulous warriors and chiefs. If you happened across a chieftain in ancient Ireland, chances are he was an O’Neill, or at least knew an O’Neill who taught him all he knew. He may not have got his title by winning an egg and spoon race, but he was top dog nonetheless. And the Breslins, or the Brehans as they were known back in the day, were ancient lawmakers, strategists, thinkers and were pretty darn cool in their own right.
The battlefields may have changed from the windswept, bloody fields of old Tyrone to the ‘big green’ behind the canteen at our primary school, the weapons no longer swords but eggs and spoons, but the eyes of their ancestors are upon my boys, and they must uphold centuries of honour and win.
The O’Neill boys, that's them above training for the three-legged-race, are certainly bull-headed, determined and fiercely proud. Take, for example my middle boy Caolan. During last year’s nursery ‘five times round the football pitch’ bike race the child was frontrunner until the sun reflecting off sparkly handlebar tassels on a nearby princess bike temporarily blinded him. The resulting bike pile up left several children slightly injured, shocked and dazed. My boy abandoned his mode of transport, untangled himself from the mess of bruised knees and cut elbows and ran, bloodied knee, ripped trousers and busted lip to the finish line. That, folks, is a shining example of the O’Neill perseverance.
This year, as always, I shall be dishing out a pep talk before the big race. Something along the lines of….
“Right lads, this is a historic day. The eyes of your forebears are upon you this fine, but slightly overcast morning. Just as the ancient O’Neill warriors took to the battlefields of Ireland in centuries gone by you, my brave sons, are taking to the modern battlefield of the green behind the canteen.
“Those O’Doherty and Sweeney lads might think they’re something special, and those McLaughlins and Coyles think they own this day but just remember this – on a sunny summer’s morning in 2002, in a small chapel overlooking Donegal Bay (and a Shell petrol station) the historic union of two ancient Irish families – the Brehans and the O’Neills occurred. You, my sons, were born from that mystical and magical union. Consider yourself Gods – Gods amongst men. Poseidon and Zeus have diddly-squat on Daniel and Caolan O’Neill.
“Remember, when you are tearing down that field with a colourful bean bag on your head, that your ancestors are running behind you, they’ve got your back, they are propelling you forward through time and history to that finish line. For O’Neills always win, sons. As in like, always.
“Recall the sacrifices of your ancestors as you muster the strength to beat your classmates at the egg and spoon race. Your forebears may have proudly wielded shiny swords of iron and you may this day wield shiny spoons borrowed from the canteen, but the aim is still the same – beat your enemies and bring home the glory in the name of all things O’Neill!
“Now take this blue poster paint, paint your faces and backsides blue. Frighten your opponents with scary faces, growling noises and crazy behaviour like your ancestors once did. The sun will not set on this day if you bring shame on the O’Neill name. Show no mercy! Win me that three-legged-race, bring me home the trophy for 100 metre sprint, beat everyone at the egg and spoon, and run like the wind to the finish line in the sandbag on head race…. or don’t come home at all.”