With the smell of drying paint in my nostrils and freshly-laid grass under my feet, I giddily surveyed the new Lansdowne Road stadium when it swung open its just-hung doors recently.

The elegant structure floats above the capital’s skyline and is as impressive inside as out. There’s room for 50,000 sports fans – and space for 50,000 pairs of legs to stretch out towards the sideline in the wide, comfortable rows of British-racing green seats.

The Aviva – if you’re going to call it that – boasts better media facilities than Montrose, Shane MacGowan will no doubt write stanzas about the length of the bars and the pitch doesn’t look too bad either.

However, like Gaudi’s famous Sagrida Familia cathedral in the heart of Barcelona, it’s beautiful but is unfinished. Or seems (italics) unfinished, at least.

Like a Celtic Tiger imagining of Hill 16, one end offers a mere 3,000 spaces, which are framed by a glass-like wall behind. Many a drop kick or wayward Leon Best shot will bounce back onto the turf after hitting its transparent tiles.

Compelled to fold the new stadium into an existing patch of expensive real estate in Ballsbridge the architects cut their cloth to measure. But though the flow of the undulating structure is broken at one curva by the shallower end, at least the opposition will feel the warm breath of Ireland’s soccer and rugby fans on their necks when they visit Dublin’s southside.

I spoke with two economists this week who explained – very slowly – to me, research that which showed that referees officiating in stadia with running tracks around the pitch are less likely to give hometown decisions and play less added time when the home side is drawing or losing.

Croke Park is magnificent obviously. But when the tenants from D4 lined out in an area too big for their specific purposes, some of the atmosphere was lost. It was only – I’d suggest – the Italy and France games last autumn that saw the football crowd find their full voice at last in Drumcondra.

And as that immeasurable commodity – atmosphere – is leaked into the dark Dublin sky, so too the referee is less affected.

Last month, I wrote of research that Robbie Butler – a lecturer in the economics department of University College Cork – and his brother David, a commerce student in the college had presented to the FAI on the effect a child’s birth day has on participation rates in soccer. The response from readers was impressive.

So when Robbie offered to talk me though their work on so-called Fergie Time, we put on another pot of coffee.

When the Aviva hosts its first soccer game in less than two weeks’ time, Alex Ferguson will be patrolling the touchline. A meaningless friendly against a Damien Richardson-managed Airtricity League XI, the Manchester United boss is unlikely to spring from the bench after 90-odd minutes and point at his famous wrist watch. When he goes – for he must someday – surely the statue outside the Stretford End they’ll erect of him outside the Stretford End will be cast in a wrist-watch-tapping pose.

Nevertheless, it was this habit of constantly querying additional minutes – and United’s perceived talent for scoring late, late goals, in particular Federico Macheda’s vital winner against Aston Villa – that prompted Robbie to examine the economics of added time.

“What we did is collected data from the BBC website for the 2009-2010 Premier League season,” says Robbie, as he leafs through pages of datea he’s thrown on the table in front of us. “It’s all there. So that’s every match in the season, that’s the amount of goals in the game because we thought that was important. It’s all the home teams first — who was winning, drawing, losing on 90.

“What the score was at 90, the margin, the actual outcome, the amount of subs, the amount of added time.

“It took me a few weeks — I should’ve been doing my PHD maybe but I enjoy doing it,” he laughs.

The new Aviva Stadium at Lansdowne Road

And, after hours of slogging over a hot keyboard and collating data neatly and carefully, the results were instructive.

“What was very interesting was what we found if you look at the tale when the home team is winning; on average, there was four minutes, 22 seconds added. When they were losing there was four minutes, 27 seconds and when they were drawing there was four minutes, 30 seconds. And that’s what you’d hope to find — that suggests there’s no bias. They’re playing roughly the same amount of time whether you’re winning or drawing or losing. So we were really happy when we found that. The next step was asking do the big teams get a bias?”

Robbie and Spurs fan David’s ‘hunch’ is backed up by the stats. “You want to get more time when you’re drawing obviously and look at who we have,” he says pointing at one end of a bar graph, “Arsenal, Man City, United, Chelsea, Tottenham. They get over five minutes when they’re drawing.

“And then look at the graph for when they’re losing — Arsenal, Hull (they had Jan Vennegoor of Hesselink knocked unconscious for 10 minutes and Jimmy Bullard broke his leg – skewing the figures, interestingly), Spurs, Chelsea, Man City, and Liverpool. Again the bigger teams get more time when they’re losing.”

So the myth is true. Fergie time exists.

“Ferguson and (Arsene) Wenger are the ones unhappy with the situation regarding added time, amazingly, and the exact opposite should be true,” says Robbie. “Ferguson is beyond rules. He’s untouchable and to be fair to him, he’s created that himself. He once said ‘we don’t lose a game we just run out of time’.”

But it takes the sands in United’s hourglass that bit longer to run out, we now know for sure.

adrian.russell@examiner.ie Twitter: @adrianrussell

This column first appeared in the print version of the Irish Examiner newpaper

Like boxing, America’s Game is one that lends itself to great sports-writing. And it entices some of the best to huddle here with us in the damp, shadowy corners of the back pages.

When John Updike – one of the bold-face names of 20th century literature – gambolled into Fenway Park one sunny afternoon, he unknowingly sat into the bleachers of the famous old chocolate box of a stadium on the last day of the legendary Ted Williams’ career at bat.

The smiling writer watched curiously for the duration and was ultimately so exercised by the theatre that played out in his lap that he submitted a now-celebrated piece to the renowned New Yorker magazine.

Updike sketches wonderfully Williams’ curmudgeonly farewell speech to Boston, before he typically spits a final rebuke to those in the press-box or “the maestros of the keyboard up there”.

Ultimately, Updike explains how Williams dotted a full stop in his cartoon-strip career with a final, predictable home run.

“Like a feather caught in a vortex, Williams ran around the square of bases at the center of our beseeching screaming. He ran as he always ran out home runs – hurriedly, unsmiling, head down, as if our praise were a storm of rain to get out of. He didn’t tip his cap. Though we thumped, wept, and chanted ‘We want Ted’ for minutes after, he hid in the dugout, he did not come back. Our noise for some seconds passed beyond excitement into a kind of immense open anguish, a wailing, a cry to be saved. But immortality is nontransferable. The papers said that the other players, and even the umpires on the field, begged him to come out and acknowledge us in some way, but he never had and did not now. Gods do not answer letters.”

Gods do not answer letters. Home run, John.

(Incidentally, Ted Williams – the greatest they ever saw in Boston – died in 2002 . Sparking a very messy legal mud fight, two of his children froze his head cryogenically. Some insisted that the signature they insisted franked his approval of this unusual request was merely an autograph. Sports Illustrated writer Rick Reilly visited the icy head once, starting his subsequent column: “Hung out with Ted Williams the other day. Pretty cool. He’s spending his time in a one-storey cement building in a warehouse district next to the Scottsdale, Ariz., airport, frozen, upside down, waiting for science to bring him back from the dead.”)

Some time ago, I wrote here of Clare man Flan Marsh. A roofer by trade, he filled the now yawning days in his workshop at the end of the garden where he developed – slowly but surely – a hurley, that like himself, does not break.

His patent-pending technology involves lacing the hurley – still an authentic piece of ash – with a filament that holds it together safely as it cracks in the white heat of battle. This grit in the oyster prevents the familiar sight of half a hurley spinning dangerously into the summer sky.

I drove up to Broadford and stood in the centre of the club’s field before witnessing a full-blooded demonstration. It works.

So… here come the fast-talking Americans in ten-gallon hats and smelling of crisp dollar bills. A friend of Marsh’s in the States read the article online, opened up the Gmail account and fired off an email to baseball’s biggest of wigs.

Ten minutes later, a reply dropped in from ‘the Office of the Commissioner of Baseball’ on Park Avenue in New York. Now we’re in business.

This morning in Broadford in east Clare, the out-of-work roofer is waiting on 60 bats to arrive from the MLB.

It’s estimated – in the big leagues alone – that players go through approximately one bat every 50 at-bats. Where these sharp, fast-travelling missiles land, nobody knows. A firm of New York lawyers are kept busy with law suits caused by broken bats spiking into the cheap seats. With his new technology, Marsh will send the suits to the Hamptons early.

He plans to pump the bats with his silver lining and bounce them back to the new world where they await inspection in a lab by MLB’s experts. In the meantime, he’s kept going with the hurleys in his shed.

On Tuesday he bumped into former Banner manager Ger Loughnane and pressed one of the sticks into his hand. The Sunday Game pundit swung it around, examined the unusual spine with the intelligence that won two All-Irelands and offered Marsh his congratulations.

When Christy Cooney, GAA president, was in the county for the Feile na Gael last week, so too he was treated to a new hurley.

“I’m delirious. It’s very exciting,” he said this week. “The bats are made from ash – same as the hurleys – and we can fix them no problem at all.

“I’m run off my feet with the hurleys too – more than ever – and that’s great. But the baseball bats could be massive; they have a problem – and I can solve it.”

God may not answer letters. But he replies to his emails pretty quickly.

adrianrussell@examiner.ie Twitter: @adrianrussell

Right, just read Ian Curtis is 30 years dead today. Can’t think of a sport angle – apart from Love Will Tear Us Apart being the tune for a Ryan Giggs chant and also soundtracked a Heineken football ad – so here’s Transmission.

Watching Kerry’s Kieran Donaghy pluck the ball out of the sky over Thurles today like he was under a backboard, Cork fans might have thought the Rebels could do with LeBron James in and around the small parallelogram this summer.

Luckily, it looks like The King is to leave Cleveland this summer for either New York (the Knickerbockers) or Chicago (Bulls).

If the Nike franchise guy does exit for one of the bigger markets, his last outing as a Cavalier will be a humbling defeat to the Boston Celtics. He has not yet won a championship.

Check out this cool ESPN retrospective on his career to date.

When the Dallas Cowboys blew up their old stadium recently, they placed inside a high-tech, 360-degree camera.

Turn up the sound.

Noel Gallagher looks back in anger (phnar!) at his World Cup memories.

I suspect if they asked Liam, it would’ve been more focused on the neat blue piping on the 1982 Brazil shirts. Or the trendy Admiral zip ups the England team sported in the Mexican heat in ’86, rather than Gazza’s histrionics .

Oasis, of course, refused to pen and sing the Euro 96 anthem for England as they insisted ‘we’re Irish’. It should be noted Noelie didn’t pick any memories from Ireland’s time at World Cups. But his knowledge is fairly impressive. Shine on you crazy diamond…

(H/T Balls.ie)

With my collar pulled above the nape of my neck to shield myself from a sheet of the wettest Kerry rain, as I shuffled along the road between Killarney and Tralee before 8am on Saturday morning, I realised getting to Croke Park was a journey not dissimilar. But it’s more a case of thumb, thumb, thumb.

It started out as a journalistic experiment to gauge – as ‘The Recession’ casts a long shadow over our depressing summer – how cheaply one could get to Croke Park and take in one of the ever-present highlights of the season – the championship action.

And in doing so I was to cross the border from Cork, under cover of darkness, and join the Kerry fans’ winding their way to Dublin, and perhaps unravel one of the Association’s great mysteries – if it is a mystery – why Kerry supporters don’t travel before September. Like St Patrick crossing the Irish Sea to convert the masses, a Corkman, perhaps, needed to show his neighbours the way to Croker. Letters to the editor at sport@examiner.ie.

I was to do this by reeling in the years, to a day when the Celtic Tiger was but a cub and people stopped along the road to offer much-needed lifts to those thumbing on the highways and byways of our little country.

I was to achieve this though, deep behind enemy lines in the Kingdom, on the day their footballers played a much-anticipated All-Ireland quarter final against Galway in HQ, while wearing a Cork jersey.

I quickly realised a day I thought might resemble a particularly interesting episode of O’Gorman’s People mixed with Up for the Match, was about to descend into what No Frontiers might look like, if Kathryn Thomas developed a crippling crystal meth addiction amid the Indian sub-continent’s most violent monsoon. It was to be the longest day, and I’m certain no one coming out of Kerry – not Gooch, Donaghy, no one – worked harder than me to get to Croke Park on Saturday.

A national radio station last week heralded the death of the hitch hiker in Ireland, insisting the practice is extinct – partly, perhaps, thanks to our new-found wealth and busy lives etc. Certainly, my teenage sister, when told what I was undertaking, was confused as to what exactly we were talking about. “Hitch? Hiking?” Thumbing a lift is not on her radar.

Presumably she thought the ribbon of scruffy looking youngsters, she may or may not have noticed down the years, who dot the nation’s road network with their thumbs cocked, were just congratulating my father on his impressive driving.

The radio station’s argument became all too real to me on Saturday morning. Walking from Killarney, out the road towards the county’s biggest town, I was passed by car after flash car. Some drivers offered half-apologetic shrugs, one a heart-felt two-finger salute, more still just ignored the idiot in the Rebels’ 1984 jersey. Money spent: cup of tea and breakfast bap: €6.50

Like a child on the night before a school test he hasn’t prepared for, promising to study if it just snows during the night; I vowed I’d pick up any old vagrant waving a sign for Rosslare in the future, if I just managed to get in next to someone’s car heater for a while.

Eventually – and after, in fairness, just am hour of feeling like the ignored wallflower at the parish disco – the glorious flash of an indicator signalled acceptance at last and I skipped giddily after the stopping van.

The driver was a Romanian man, living in Killarney for the past few years, who seemed more preoccupied with the weather than even your average Irish native. He was going about his business delivering refrigerated goods around the county though he wished he was back at home, he admitted, on the ivory beaches. He knew the English for ‘topless’, but not, for instance, ‘war’. A lover; not a fighter, clearly.

He didn’t know anything about Kerry’s trip to Croker, but explained he hasn’t watched any Gaelic games since his arrival. He brought a TV receiver from home and watches Romanian channels only.

As we careered wildly towards the next leg of my journey, which I had suddenly found new enthusiasm for, he revealed an almost Tourettes-like habit of offering a little, sexist beep of his horn anytime we passed a perceived-attractive woman, accompanied by a sharp yelp – as if he was in pain.

When I enquired gently about this custom, and how it has gone down here, he admitted that he honked and hollered unconsciously on the way to bringing his pregnant wife for the scan in hospital recently; which provoked a loud and sustained attack.

My new friend kindly dropped me at the bus station – I didn’t have the heart to explain my complicated modus operandi – and continued with his working day.

After a 30-minute-or-so spell walking around the town, and then out towards Limerick – which seemed like the way I came, to be honest – I was happily picked up by a young lad on his way to look at a car for a friend in Limerick. An apprentice mechanic, he was full of chat, curious to know too why I didn’t get the bus.

Though grateful for the spin and glad he wasn’t an axe murderer, I would’ve almost taken my chances on the road again, after a few miles listening to the ridiculous dance music he obviously felt was ambient. When given the option to jump in Newcastle West, I bailed with thanks.

From the picturesque town, I happily scored a lift with a girl called Aine, who was happy to take me a lot of the way to Dublin. It was before noon still and I was confident of striding, like Phileas Fogg, entering Leicester Square, into a packed Croke Park to a standing ovation.

But as we edged through the throbbing traffic, I realised this would be tight. Outside Portlaoise we came to a complete and sudden standstill. After hours on the road – and having a good run at it – I was to be undone it seemed by an inconsiderable accident.

Cars emptied, as Kerry jerseys filled the road, while more still pulled U-ies and rushed elsewhere. At last at 1.50pm we were ushered through the bottleneck.

The 2.06 train to Dublin from Portlaoise was now the target as no lift would get me to Drumcondra in two hours realistically, and that’s even if I got one at that stage. We made the train. Aine said she felt like Anneka Rice. I could’ve done with a helicopter. Money spent: 6.50 + 10 for train ticket = 16.50.

From here I thought it was easy: I folded myself into a seat and promptly fell asleep only to be awoken by my own snoring, to be greeted by the faces of two visibly upset children. But we had arrived. I shared a cab with a father and son from outside Tralee all the way to Croker.
Money spent: €16.50 + €5 for taxi = €21.50

Picking up a match ticket wasn’t as easy as envisaged. A wave of Armagh fans were washing out of the stadium, while their championship hopes were shattered. With them came a crest of tickets that looked fine but had already been scanned. So I bought one from the box office and took my seat. Money spent: €21.50 = €35 for ticket = €56.50

And what a game we were treated to. It made the slog worth it but, as we know, reaching the summit can be the easier part compared to the unglamorous descent. And so it proved, as every cloud that chased me all day, opened up directly above Hill 16, I think you’ll find, and unleashed hell. Jones’ Road flooded, taxis disappeared, buses were full. How was I to get home? €56.50 + €9 for hot dog and beer = €65.50

I waded through the city to Busáras to find there was no room at the inn; I made it to Connolly station to find the Luas stop is closed for the summer. Who knew? And when I ultimately made it to Hueston, I had no qualms about handing over the money for a train ticket.

Now I truly was behind enemy lines. I peeled off my soaked Blood and Bandages – everyone was stripping down – to the loudest cheer of the day. From there to Killarney again, it was banter all the way. But I’ve been invited back for the semi-final, where it’ll be same seats again apparently. Money spent: €65.60 + €33 = €98.60.

And so I made it back to Base Camp Killarney, having spent less than €100, feeling like Jack Kerouc’s Sal Paradise character in On the Road as he sees the bright lights of San Francisco after bumming his way across the great American continent – all the way from the shadow of Carnegie Hall in Manhattan – to the rhythm of the beat generation. My Saturday has been more green and gold, than star spangled banner but a day on Ireland’s highways proves the Road to Croker is invariably full of incident and character.

This article first appeared in the print version of the Irish Examiner

I watched the first episode of new RTÉ comedy Val Falvey TD starring Ardal O’Hanlon tonight. And promising enough it was too.

The former Father Ted star presented a really good series of programmes, some years ago, on football rivalries called Leagues Apart. They seem to be on YouTube for anyone interested.

The clip above, however, is the highlight. Here, Father Dougal (essentially) chats to the always-stylish Gazzetta Football Italia legend James ‘AC Jimbo’ Richardson about the Rome derby. Crikey.

Andy Roddick fired off a 103-mph serve at David Letterman this week.

The sun never set on the British Empire they said, and the same can now be said of TV’s sporting world. A particularly dedicated coach potato can view a bottom-of-the-table clash in the Brazilian league, and then take in an interprovincial camogie game before lazily flicking to horse racing in the north of England. But is it now possible to watch – for 24 straight hours – live sport on the television? I tuned in and turned on to find out on Saturday.

With American broadcast heavyweights ESPN taking on the muscular Sky, the BBC seemingly beefing up their coverage of major sports events this year and RTE continuing to punch above their weight, one can now sit in your front room on any given day and watch as-it-happens action bounce into your sitting room via a series of spinning satellites.

For some assignments in journalism you wear a flak jacket, a look of authority and a St Christopher’s medal. And if you’re expected to turn your back on a war zone to deliver a crisp 120-second piece-to-camera, maybe you don’t hit Beirut’s disco-bars ‘til the sun come up over Lebanon.

For other reporting jobs, the preparation can be less Woodward and Bernstein and more Doheny’s and Nesbitt’s. How many of us have set the alarm to rise early on a weekend morning to watch a match half the world away, under the familiar fog of a hangover? It was with a very real sense of journalistic integrity then, reader, that I too undertook my task, shackled to a very sick head.

Therefore, I cannot vouch for the authenticity of everything I am about to relay to you. My notes were hastily scribbled on the back of an eircom phone bill. The line has since been disconnected.

However, I will faithfully and earnestly attempt to retrace the steps of my journey through the cathode ray tube, to a full day of sporting entertainment. This is post watershed stuff. As they used to say on Dragnet, only the names have been changed to protect the innocent.

Nice to see you, to see you nice: Australia v New Zealand, Sydney
8.00am: When we were in school and encouraged to undertake the 24-hour fast at Easter, the trick was always timing. You don’t want to miss two dinners, the perceived wisdom went; no, start after Home and Away and you’ll be back on the Wagon Wheels by tea-time the following evening. Such logic is also valuable when trying to pursue the live sports action throughout the planet for a day, like Saharan nomads chasing the sun across the desert. So we start early with the Bledisloe Cup clash.

I could not begin to tell you how good the All Blacks are! This is because I nod off throughout. But New Zealand ultimately snatch victory at the death in Stadium Australia and as the antipodeans wind down for the night, we’re up and running for the day.

You loves ya baby?: West Brom v Ipswich Town
12pm: If Roy Keane was a TV character – as if he isn’t already – he’d be the maverick cop who doesn’t play by the rules – but he gets results. If he’s the tough-talking sergeant with the heart of gold, swarthy West Brom boss Roberto Di Matteo rides a powerful motorcycle in a gleaming white uniform around the California highway system alongside Erik Estrada.

This time, however, Keane fails to get the result. Cut to the Ipswich boss chasing a terrified-looking pimp down a dark and familiar alleyway as the credits roll.

Well, holy God: The Athletics World Championships
All day: Amongst all the Wii World Cups and one-day conker internationals that are now available to us, the athletics coverage on the BBC from Berlin is an event that I could have watched decades ago. In the black and white days of old, families gathered around the TV set, adjusted the rabbit ears carefully and watched home-grown heroes put names on maps. These moments were a like a Kennedy funeral; sporadic yet important affairs.

The voices of Steven Cram, Brendan Foster, Sue Ryder and John Inverdale are like a warm, familiar blanket and we can forgive them their Team GB myopia today.

What chu talking about Willis! The Solheim Cup
The tournament is broadcast throughout the day on Sky. The sight of American women fist-pumping, whooping and hollering stateside is exactly what I do not need. I’m not saying it’s un-ladylike, but Sue Ryder isn’t doing it. I flick over to Big Brother for a bit (the whole bit). This is a sport too, I decide. We’re only six months from pay-per-view monkey boxing, anyway.

Missed it by that much: AC Milan v Sienna
10pm: While many tuned into the chips and cheeseburger Match of the Day, I got smart and opted for a supper of antipasti and tiramisu with Serie A calcio on ESPN, with a side order of the Cincinnati Masters. Milan took on lowly Sienna and ultimately won 2-1. I flicked back and forth to MOTD and saw no goals in either, but plenty Lineker and cattenacio.

Stop the lights: LA Galaxy v DC United
12pm: As well as bringing a lot of American sport to the table this year, ESPN also let us see the Yanks give the beautiful game the apple-pie treatment; this tie – which took me into Sunday morning at last – was peppered with ads for next week’s Superclasscico. Barca and Real aren’t meeting already – they call the Chivas v Galaxy derby the same name. It’s akin to labelling the Munster Senior League the world series.

I’m sorry but I, once again, channel hop to RTE2 where they’re showing the classic comedy-drama Almost Famous, which tells the exotic tale of a budding journalist on the road with an imploding rock band. It’s like watching my life reflected back at me as you can imagine.

Just one more question, ma’am: Phillies v the Mets
3am: Baseball isn’t a sport for TV. To experience America’s game one should taste the hot dog, smell the stale beer and catch the foul ball. I take in some of the Phillies’ win over the Mets in the magnificent Citi Field which is as good a sound stage for any MLB drama after their move from Shea Stadium. But then, in the small hours of the night, the real action got under way as those of us still awake and watching at this hour – insomniacs, serial killers, insomniac serial killers – are treated to the Little League World Series on ESPN. Think your local street leagues hosted in Las Vegas and televised and broadcast like it’s grown up professionals on the diamond and not tweens. It’s like those paintings of dogs dressed as humans and made to play poker.

After 18 hours of live sport this is the twilight zone I always knew I’d reach.

As we approach the 18-hour-or-so mark and the All Black stars are dipping their toes in the pool in a posh Sydney city hotel during their recovery session, the live action, mercifully, at last winds down. I rub my eyes, pull open the curtains and, yawning, reflect on a day’s journey into night.

Then I click the Sky plus, fall back into the sofa and watch back stage two of Tour of Ireland. Thankfully, these days, for us telly addicts, those between the white lines throughout the world, are always in our time zone.

this column first appeared in today’s Irish Examiner newspaper