Yesterday it was the turn of Irish rugby player 24-year-old Peter O’Mahony. It started with a tear as the camera hovered over him when he was standing in line, belting out Amhran na bhFiann and then Ireland’s Call before the match with Wales. Then there was that moment early in the first half when he stood up and let out a primeval roar having poached the ball off Wales, a pattern which he repeated throughout the match which saw him deservedly being deemed Man of The Match. He played every minute as if it was his last. His passion for rugby and, through it, life, is breathtaking, inspring. I cried with life-reinforcing pride.
Earlier this week I heard that Lucy Stack, the 27-year-old wife of Fozzy Stack, from a highly respected racing family, had taken her own life. In a last letter to friends which was read out at her funeral, she spoke of this being her destiny, of how no phone call or chats over wine could have changed what was about to happen. I cried when I read this. Here was a beautiful young woman, who apparently had so much going for her, was so loved and loving and respected, yet the pull to leave this world was greater. I cried, for the loss to herself, those close to her and what lies in store for them. Life can be so fragile.
Today, O’Mahony will be battered and bruised but his family and friends will be bursting with pride. The hearts of Lucy Stack’s family and friends will be bursting too, but with an incomprehensible grief.
May she rest in peace.