Tour de Farce. Sacre Bleu! It has been a trying time for those who love their sport, love the pursuit of excellence.

The cycling fest that is Le Tour has been turned into a quagmire of cheating. No other sport has been laid so bare, exposed, warts and all, as the famous race for the Maillot Jaune.

It has made fools of us. We watched it this year, day by day, hoping, believing, that it had finally cleaned up its act. No more cheats, no more dopes.

But we were wrong.

Sport, at its purest, is about the pursuit of human excellence. It is supposed to be devoid of any artificial assistance. May the best man win and all that, leave your syringe at the door.

It’s an interesting part of life, sport. Some suggest that it has taken on a role out of proportion to its relevance. Wars have been started because of sport – international sport has been termed ‘war without guns’.

What drives it, the whole show and paraphernalia around sport? For 365 days of the year the industry trundles along in all corners of the globe. Television channels are devoted to sport. Newspapers are devoted to sport. It seems that at times sport is the only thing that now unites us.

The industry is made up of many facets, each important and necessary for it to grow and sustain itself. You need history, tradition, money, superstars, drama, tragedy, joy. Throw all that together and you have a narrative that is unparalleled in modern life.

Think about it. Nothing else is as unpredictable as sport. Everything else seems premeditated, choreographed. Music is written and then performed, we know what to expect. Politics has become airbrushed to within an inch of its life. Films are, by necessity, written and pre-ordained before they are acted.

Sport is different. Once the arena is entered by the combatants we are not sure what to expect. Last Sunday, as the British Open was playing out its last day, nobody watching could fail to be enthralled by the drama that they were witnessing. Each shot played was something new, unique. Nothing was scripted, the end was in doubt until, well, the end.

De Scribe, and this may seem weird or unusual, has at times, in the middle of a big championship match, while standing on Hill 16, wondered to himself what it’s all about? Why are over 80,000 people packed into a coliseum, focused on a round white object being chased by 30 men? That’s what it comes down to – think about it.

But it makes perfect sense. It represents an escape from the humdrum of life. Nowhere else can I go and be surrounded by so many people in one confined specific space, engrossed in something that has such intrigue and free spirit attached to it.

We are all there, watching, shouting, living it. One moment that stands out in my memory as the epitome of the uniqueness of sport was in last year’s All Ireland semi-final between Cork and Waterford. It was approaching the end of the contest and Waterford were trailing by a solitary pint. That’s all, just one, miserly point. But they couldn’t get it.

Standing on the Hill I witnessed a moment of such intensity and passion, and pure simplicity, that it was a privilege to be there. The ball was on the Cork endline, right in front of the heaving terrace. I think it may have been Brian Corcoran who was shepherding it, cajoling it to stay away from his team’s goalmouth. I can’t recall who was chasing him, but it doesn’t matter.

What matters was the sheer intensity of the moment. Two men, one small ball, thousands of eyes focused on it. Why? Why was it so important, in the greater scheme of things, whether that ball went wide, was cleared, went over the bar? What difference would any of these acts make to a person’s life the next day, or years ahead?

I don’t know. I don’t know why we put such store in sport. I’ve wondered is it because sport is the only way to truly express ourselves in this day and age? It is true that the only occasion where a man will accept the embrace of his fellow male is during the heat of a sporting battle.

Here, it is the only true way that a place can express their uniqueness, makes themselves heard, joining together as one. I am from Clare. No other occasion allows me to join with my fellow county men in force, other than a hurling match!!!

Nothing else allows me to express my ‘Clareness’ as strongly, nothing comes even close.

This weekend, when you are in you seat or on the terrace, watching your county battle in the coliseum, pause for a second and think what it’s all about…