In late February, I spent a weekend in west Cork. Ireland was playing Wales and I watched the match in a traditional local pub that looks like it hasn’t changed since Michael Collins was a boy. The proprietor, a lady in her 60s, stopped by my table to tell me how well Jack was playing. She didn’t need to use his second name. We both knew who she meant. There was genuine pride and affection for a young man who, in all likelihood, she probably doesn’t know.  An elderly gentleman was sitting in front of me. A crewman in off…

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