In the grand pantheon of sports, few tales are as gloriously tragic as that of the often-overlooked left wing-back. Beyond the glimmering floodlights and roars of the crowd lies a realm where the true unsung hero toils—drenched in sweat and frustration, wielding his hurley like an artist with a spatula while the world gapes in awe at the forwards’ flamboyant dances of glory. Enter Jason Cleere, our modest champion from Kilkenny, who, in the opera of hurley, remains forever stuck in the chorus, yearning to steal the spotlight that seems perpetually reserved for the flamboyant front men. Imagine for a moment the hurley pitch—a verdant stage of dreams. There stand the forwards, preening like peacocks, waiting to sink their elegant strikes into the net, basking in the applause that rains down like confetti at a wedding. Meanwhile, lurking in the shadows is Cleere, who must first deal with the unceremonious drudgery of defending against these self-aggrandizing go-getters. Where they see glory, he sees a job description. Ah, to be a left wing-back! One might argue it is the sporting equivalent of being a stagehand for a theater production—essential, yet tragically underappreciated. Our protagonist hails from Bennettsbridge, a name that sounds more like a quaint English village than the breeding ground of a hurling sensation. Yet here, amid the idyllic meadows, he honed his craft, not for the accolades of the Guardian or the never-ending Twitter feeds buzzing about his prowess, but to ensure that other, more glamourous players can bask in the light of adulation. What a noble pursuit! Indeed, one might liken him to a fine wine or an artisanal cheese—sophisticated enough for the connoisseur yet gravely ignored by the masses who prefer a trendy craft beer or mainstream cheddar. As Cleere dons his club colors, prepare for the heartbreaking juxtaposition of expectation versus reality. While the world discusses the latest point scored by the charismatic forward, no one seems to care that Cleere just executed a majestic block or a textbook tackle. It’s the worst-kept secret in sports folklore: the more glamorous one's role, the more history remembers them. And so poor Cleere, encapsulated in his role, shuffles about with the grace of a misunderstood artist, pouring each ounce of passion into a craft that earns him little more than a polite clap from the spectator wielding a lukewarm pint. The real tragedy of Cleere’s existence comes in the inevitable realization that he remains a cog in a much larger wheel. As he taps his hurley on the sideline, hoping for just a smidgen of credit for his defensive acrobatics, the crowd’s eyes are glued to the ball as it flits past him, a comet blazing after a star attaché. Caught in the cosmic overshadowing of glory-stealers, he navigates life’s field with a heavy heart, knowing that even a monumental championship victory will likely see him relegated to the “also played” bullet points in history’s annals. Consider the absurdity of it all: the relentless sweat equity, the early morning practices, the ruthless training—only to receive the dreaded “team player” moniker instead of the far more coveted “star.” One would think the accolades could at least be evenly distributed among the players; yet, it is the forwards who shine bright, casting him in a perennial shadow. “Ah, Jason Cleere,” the commentators might muse, “the reliable left wing-back,” as if his existence were akin to a well-functioning toaster—necessary, appreciated only when it breaks down, yet largely dismissed when all is well. So let us raise our glasses, not just to Jason Cleere, but to the legion of unsung heroes who toil away, forever caught between necessity and obscurity. Here’s to the left wing-backs of the world, displaying courage and resilience while navigating the perils of inferiority complexes and a competitive spirit that demands far more than they could ever hope to be acknowledged for. May we one day bask in the glory of these defenders, hoping that, somehow, they might snag a moment in the sun before slipping back into the crucial anonymity that defines their tragic yet magnificent saga. Cheers!