THE headline on the front of The Guardian’s Life and Style section this week went as follows: ‘GWYNETH PALTROW BROKE DOWN AND ATE BREAD DURING QUARANTINE. WHAT WAS YOUR LOWEST POINT?’

The world is awash in mumbo jumbo. We are in danger of becoming clinically insane. Thinking nonsense. Talking nonsense. Believing nonsense.

Alex Ferguson, one of the greatest coaches, spoke in an interview last week of using his instinct and insight to assess players, games and tactics. “As a manager, I depended on my memory. You see today managers taking notes and relying on notes, even during the matches. I never did that. I always depended on my memory and in the dressing room that was very powerful for me. I can’t understand why anyone would make notes during a game.”

In our game nowadays, even at club level, any serious coach and backroom team has a headset and microphone, a statistician who is sending him in-game statistics, and a laptop close by. This indicates seriousness. Without this, he will no longer be taken seriously. More importantly, he has an eight-man defence (at least), his team does not kick the ball (save in an emergency) and there is a lot of pointing.

After Master Niall Brolly poached two goals on Monday night for Bredagh against a very lively Liatroim u-13 team, there was an intense discussion on the sideline and the Liatroim full-forward was ordered back to play as a full-time sweeper ‘on the edge of the D.’ What had been an entertaining game quickly deteriorated into a farce and with 10 minutes to go I was at home drinking tea.

The previous day I watched Bredagh and Carryduff minors in the league, two good strong teams with plenty of talented players. Again, multiple sweepers, lots of pointing, solo running and handpassing. No kicking. Halfway through the second half, in perfect conditions at the wonderful Cherryvale facility, the score was 0-6 to 0-3 and I headed for the exit.

We are living in bizarro world. A highly-regarded Irish sports guru tweeted modestly last week that his podcast “is like mental medicine. Hope you get a chance to download and listen.”  Then “tune into Radio One, the Brendan O’Connor show tomorrow to hear more from me on developing your resilience, emotional fitness and well-being.” And then, bewilderingly, “Optimism is a muscle, and the easiest way to develop it is through gratitude.” 

I hadn’t heard of the optimism muscle, so I rang the Musculoskeletal Science Department at Trinity College school of medicine ( I kid you not) to learn more.

Q. Hi, it’s Joe Brolly here. I have a question.

A. Hi Joe. Shoot.

Q. Where in the human body is the optimism muscle?

A. The what?

Q. The optimism muscle.

A. The optimism muscle? As in the state of being optimistic?

Q. Yes.

A. Are you having me on?

Q. No.

A. There is no such muscle.

Q. You are certain?

A. Definitely not.

This hollow, dull and frankly ludicrous faux philosophy has swamped our games and is part of a process of boredomification that is taking hold in society in general. Spoof science has replaced passion and spontaneity, invention and original thought so that if someone doesn’t use this language he or she is finding it harder to be taken seriously.

A budding manager can no longer rely on native cunning, imagination, insight into players, tactical understanding and emotional intelligence, unless he can clothe it with gobbledegook.

A discussion about Gaelic games must sound like a Ted Talk or the Daily Politic before it can be taken seriously. It used to be that we giggled at the jargon in American sport, the endless minute explanations of things we could see for ourselves, and the recital of dull statistics. Now, we are doing it ourselves and woe betide the analyst or coach who doesn’t. 

I recently patched in to watch a webinar given by a coach/sports scientist to a club team and coaches. It was a masterpiece of blandness. “Growth mindset” and “building emotional resilience” and “visualisation” and “intrinsic and extrinsic motivators” and “enshrining the positive thought ” and “actualising the decision-making process.”

The presentation was delivered fluently, by the numbers, without reference to the individual players or club. He could have been addressing an audience of bankers on a work jolly. When he finished, he was thanked by the organiser and we patched out, none the wiser. It was 45 minutes of meaningless jargon, buzz words and banal statements of the obvious.

What surprised me was the number of people who were impressed by his expertise. “He knows his stuff,” said a friend of mine. “What in particular did you learn?” I said. “Well, it was just, you know, I thought it was an impressive presentation.” “I get that. But what was impressive?” “Just in general.”

Thing is, if you aren’t fluent in this bullshit nowadays, and able to make a Powerpoint presentation complete with motivational statements, pie charts, and statistics, you will find it difficult to be taken seriously. The players and board members go away content that this man “knows his stuff”. They are of course none the wiser, and do not understand it (no one can), but that is precisely the point. It is not meant to be understood. The entire purpose of it is to create the impression that this is mysterious and important stuff that only experts can get their heads around.

Once you have achieved this level of bullshit, you can expect a lifetime of gainful employment as a GAA coach. Results are irrelevant. Corofin will still win the club championship and Dublin the Sam Maguire.

But today’s results, as any coach worth his salt will tell you, are not how we define ourselves. They are merely an opportunity to develop our growth mindset. Defeat is merely victory in disguise.

In turn, this formulaic tyranny means that training regimes are enforced from junior to senior, Carlow to Down, which are the same. The same endless fitness testing. The same monotonous drills. The same running. The same strength and conditioning. The same strategies. The computer chips. The number of touches. Kilometres run.

In turn, the boys get bored and work hard but go through the motions. The game becomes duller and more cynical. The debate becomes duller and the experts all sound the same.

Alex Ferguson would never make it as a manager nowadays. Throwing a football boot in Beckham’s face in the changing room, staring down Roy Keane, coaxing, cajoling and protecting Paul McGrath as his alcoholism worsened. Having a laugh with the players. Insisting that the game be played with passion and adventure and character.

All of these things would disqualify him. The board would say “How could we control him?” “He doesn’t have a sports science degree.” “He didn’t even do a power point presentation.” And (sniggering) “He said he relies on his memory and instinct.”

In the end, surveying sadly what our game is becoming, all we are left with is our optimism muscle. Which thankfully, can never be coached or take instruction. And whose only growth is not mindset.