Metaphors for the day that's in it, and the dark times that prevail. The first is the occasion of the 1990 Munster Football Final. At half time in the game, Cork were home and dry, hammering the best that their old rivals Kerry had to offer.

This was unfamiliar terrain for both counties. Through the 20th century, Kerry were the usual kingpins of Munster. Losing in the province was more exception than rule for the Kingdom. And through the 1970s and 1980s, the greatest of all Kerry teams had repeatedly dispatched Cork with some ease on the way to All Ireland glory.

Now, the guard was being changed, the old order disappearing. Cork weren't just beating their rivals, they were making fools of them.

It was all too much to bear for some Kerry folk. As the half-time music wafted across the stadium, the green and gold bedecked supporters began drifting towards the exits. Then a roar, loaded with the hurt of decades under the cosh, rose from the heart of the Rebel supporters.

"Shut the gates. Lock 'em in. Make them watch. Make them suffer."

So it goes with the passions of sport. A similar sentiment to that expressed by the Cork supporters on that occasion might be appropriate for the country at large today.

We are in the belly of a crisis. The principal element of the government is, to a greater extent, responsible for getting us into the mess. Word has it among Fianna Fáil backbenchers that they would prefer to be on the opposition benches right now, watching Fine Gael dishing out the pain and pestilence. A general election would facilitate such longings.

It must not be allowed. Shut the gates. Lock 'em in. Make them suffer the consequences of their actions.

The unfortunate loser in this particular game is the substitute sprung from the bench well into the second half, the poor Green party.

Since arriving on the pitch the Greens have battled well against the onslaught. Eamon Ryan has handled his brief with the adroitness of a good centre-half forward lurking on the 40. John Gormley is a gritty corner back who lets little past him. They brought energy to a team that was flagging, a hunger that had already been sated by their team mates in past performances. Now, as the scores mount up against them, a howling wind is set to blow down into their faces, while on the terraces the crowd bay for their blood. Shut the gates. Lock 'em in. Make them suffer.

It was all so different in the golden years. Winning grew into a habit for that great Kerry team that rose in the mid 1970s and prevailed until heavy legs and loyalty to old soldiers did for them in 1987. They mastered the winning of All Irelands by manipulating their fitness and form in order to peak twice a year.

Cork were the perennial opponents in the Munster final in the first week of July. The All Ireland in the third week of September was the second time that resources were maximised.

Fianna Fáil managed something similar in their golden era of the bubble years. Once victory was first achieved as underdogs in 1997, they knew that the time to peak was at elections, and twice over the following decade they did just that. In between peak performances, the Kerry squad might have enjoyed the odd pint, while the government played the economy like an accordion to ensure maximum electoral return at forthcoming elections.

As Mikey Sheehy practised his 14-yard frees, so Charlie McCreevy threw money wherever it would buy votes. Both were winners. In 1978, Sheehy turned the All Ireland in Kerry's favour by taking a free that caught Dublin goalkeeper Paddy Cullen unawares. McCreevy caught the opposition unawares with SSIAs, decentralisation, free medical cards, something for everybody in the audience, while simultaneously cutting taxes to the bone. He prospered through persistent fouling while the referee's back was turned.

Leaders are what winning teams really require. Kerry had Jack O'Shea, a man for all seasons. When they were under pressure, O'Shea was back on his own goal line, hauling balls down from the heavens. On good days, he was to be found sailing though defences en route to goal, a study in grace and power.

The Fianna Fáil XV had their own golden balls: Bertie Ahern. He peaked at elections, spreading out across the country, meeting and greeting, a simple workin' man in touch with the lives of ordinary people. He knew how to break a tackle, how to score from an acute angle. Like the Ulster teams that emerged in the last decade, he also knew how to deceive, by pulling in a tackler and throwing himself on the ground, innocence splashed across his face.

Whereas Jacko led Kerry from the front, Bertie more often than not led from rear, going missing for long periods of the game, blaming team mates when things went wrong.

They were the greatest team the game has known. They were the worst government in the history of the state. This afternoon in Croke Park we are entitled to compassionate leave from the darkness for a few hours. There will be no suffering and no locking of gates – unless Cork are handing out a thrashing. The froth of life awaits.

mclifford@tribune.ie