Scenes from a sporting life

THE MAN-CHILD

Pivoting out of an attempted tackle, Jimmy Barry-Murphy started swaggering towards goal. As is always the case with the very best players, those around him seemed frozen as he soloed on the spot before nonchalantly firing home his second goal of the 1973 All-Ireland final and finishing off Galway. The audacious shot was a tribute to manager Diarmuid O’Donovan’s bold decision to blood a teenager that summer. The tall, thin youth with the crew-cut raised his arms in triumph, once after the ball hit the net and again as he trotted back to his position. Each time, the crowd noise in Croke Park grew progressively louder and louder and somewhere in the cacophony of a September afternoon, a star was born.

“He used to arrive into the dressing-room with a skinhead haircut and wore all the gear – the short denims above the ankles, the denim jacket and wide braces, the Doc Martens, the lot,” wrote Billy Morgan. “Some of the older county board men couldn’t make head nor tail out of it all and that gave the players no end of pleasure.”

THE MAN

There is a popular, old photograph of JBM and Christy Ring deep in conversation at a training session in Pairc Ui Chaoimh. It isn’t quite the Ring-Mackey shot, yet for a generation, it is a picture that draws a line between the different eras, one sepia, one technicolour.  Nine minutes before half-time in the 1976 Munster hurling semi-final at the Gaelic Grounds, Barry-Murphy was sprung from the bench. It’s difficult to imagine now but that’s where he was. With their defence dominating, Tipperary had controlled proceedings to that point and the Cork selectors, among them Ring, felt his introduction might liven up the forwards.  Which it did.

A couple of months later, now a starter, Barry-Murphy was struggling in the All-Ireland final against Wexford. It was decided to move him from wing-forward to centre-forward where Mick Jacob had been imperious to that point. Barry-Murphy rattled over three points in 15 minutes to put Cork clear, Pat Moylan added another and the first step had been taken towards three in a row. At the final whistle, Ring ran onto the field, sought out Barry-Murphy and embraced him. A Glenman hugging a Barrsman in the middle of Croke Park, the icon of all icons giving his stamp of approval to the newcomer.

THE GOAL

When John Fenton gathered a handpass from Dermot McCurtain in the second half of the 1983 All-Ireland hurling semi-final against Galway, there didn’t seem a whole lot on. Looking up, he drove the ball towards the 14 yard line where Conor Hayes was marking Barry-Murphy. The forward always thrived on the low, intelligent ball usually delivered by the centre-fielder but this time Fenton sent the ball in head high. Already a couple of steps behind the full-back, Barry-Murphy muttered, “Feck yeah, Fenton” as he noted the trajectory. Better-placed than his man, Hayes went up to block, at which point his opponent’s stick came across him in a flash and somehow directed the ball to the back of the net. It moved too fast for any television camera of that time to pick it up properly but RTE’s viewers voted it goal of the year anyway. A cameo of brilliance for the ages.

“In the following weeks – and years – there was no scarcity of sciolists to maintain that it was all ‘luck’ or ‘chance’,” wrote Kevin Cashman. “It is pointless to explain to such people about the patience and practice and concentration and the unique natural gift of co-ordination of limb and eye which went to make that stroke.”

THE MANAGER

After the final whistle of the 1999 All-Ireland hurling final, after Mark Landers had welcomed back Liam McCarthy, Barry-Murphy walked over to Hill 16 with his players. He clambered up the railings and, with one hand clinging to the fence, the other was raising the trophy in front of a sea of red and white that ebbed and flowed up and down the terrace. Minutes earlier, in the culmination of four difficult  years, he’d managed the youngest Cork team ever to win an All-Ireland, something that had seemed such a distant prospect just months earlier. The identity of the architect of the triumph, of course, just served to burnish the legend.

“If Landers made it clear just how much Jimmy meant to us, Jimmy then made it clear to us just how much we meant to him,” wrote Brian Corcoran of the pre-match ritual before that final. “He came over to us one by one and presented us with our jersey with a shake of the hand first then a hug. It was simple, spontaneous, special.”

 

THE SECOND COMING

Never go back. One of the old truisms of management appeared to be borne out by much of what has happened during Barry-Murphy’s second stint in charge of Cork. Controversy, something he studiously avoided throughout his playing and managerial career, has been a regular visitor. The county has hummed with rumours and whispers. There has been too much talk of falling-outs and acrimony. Forty summers ago, there was no Twitter to fuel intrigue and spread rancour.  Forty summers ago, there was a lot less hype. It’s a long way from impromptu choruses of “Six foot two, eyes of  blue…” washing across the field to radio stations blaring a song called “Do the Jimmy Barry-Murphy.”

Yet, as he takes charge against Clare this Sunday, not everything has changed. In the style of hurling played, in the way that new stars have come in, announced themselves and taken ownership of the jersey, we can see the handiwork of JBM and the imprints of those he worked with in times past. This is obvious too in the way he has conducted himself. Never reacting to the criticisms made in the media, his conduct after every game (win or lose) has been exemplary. No excuses. No buck-passing. And, on the good days, no desire to gloat at the critics. Some call that classy. Others might describe it as doing the Jimmy Barry-Murphy.

 

Scenes from a sporting life

THE MAN-CHILD

Pivoting out of an attempted tackle, Jimmy Barry-Murphy started swaggering towards goal. As is always the case with the very best players, those around him seemed frozen as he soloed on the spot before nonchalantly firing home his second goal of the 1973 All-Ireland final and finishing off Galway. The audacious shot was a tribute to manager Diarmuid O’Donovan’s bold decision to blood a teenager that summer. The tall, thin youth with the crew-cut raised his arms in triumph, once after the ball hit the net and again as he trotted back to his position. Each time, the crowd noise in Croke Park grew progressively louder and louder and somewhere in the cacophony of a September afternoon, a star was born.

“He used to arrive into the dressing-room with a skinhead haircut and wore all the gear – the short denims above the ankles, the denim jacket and wide braces, the Doc Martens, the lot,” wrote Billy Morgan. “Some of the older county board men couldn’t make head nor tail out of it all and that gave the players no end of pleasure.”

THE MAN

There is a popular, old photograph of JBM and Christy Ring deep in conversation at a training session in Pairc Ui Chaoimh. It isn’t quite the Ring-Mackey shot, yet for a generation, it is a picture that draws a line between the different eras, one sepia, one technicolour.  Nine minutes before half-time in the 1976 Munster hurling semi-final at the Gaelic Grounds, Barry-Murphy was sprung from the bench. It’s difficult to imagine now but that’s where he was. With their defence dominating, Tipperary had controlled proceedings to that point and the Cork selectors, among them Ring, felt his introduction might liven up the forwards.  Which it did.

A couple of months later, now a starter, Barry-Murphy was struggling in the All-Ireland final against Wexford. It was decided to move him from wing-forward to centre-forward where Mick Jacob had been imperious to that point. Barry-Murphy rattled over three points in 15 minutes to put Cork clear, Pat Moylan added another and the first step had been taken towards three in a row. At the final whistle, Ring ran onto the field, sought out Barry-Murphy and embraced him. A Glenman hugging a Barrsman in the middle of Croke Park, the icon of all icons giving his stamp of approval to the newcomer.

THE GOAL

When John Fenton gathered a handpass from Dermot McCurtain in the second half of the 1983 All-Ireland hurling semi-final against Galway, there didn’t seem a whole lot on. Looking up, he drove the ball towards the 14 yard line where Conor Hayes was marking Barry-Murphy. The forward always thrived on the low, intelligent ball usually delivered by the centre-fielder but this time Fenton sent the ball in head high. Already a couple of steps behind the full-back, Barry-Murphy muttered, “Feck yeah, Fenton” as he noted the trajectory. Better-placed than his man, Hayes went up to block, at which point his opponent’s stick came across him in a flash and somehow directed the ball to the back of the net. It moved too fast for any television camera of that time to pick it up properly but RTE’s viewers voted it goal of the year anyway. A cameo of brilliance for the ages.

“In the following weeks – and years – there was no scarcity of sciolists to maintain that it was all ‘luck’ or ‘chance’,” wrote Kevin Cashman. “It is pointless to explain to such people about the patience and practice and concentration and the unique natural gift of co-ordination of limb and eye which went to make that stroke.”

THE MANAGER

After the final whistle of the 1999 All-Ireland hurling final, after Mark Landers had welcomed back Liam McCarthy, Barry-Murphy walked over to Hill 16 with his players. He clambered up the railings and, with one hand clinging to the fence, the other was raising the trophy in front of a sea of red and white that ebbed and flowed up and down the terrace. Minutes earlier, in the culmination of four difficult  years, he’d managed the youngest Cork team ever to win an All-Ireland, something that had seemed such a distant prospect just months earlier. The identity of the architect of the triumph, of course, just served to burnish the legend.

“If Landers made it clear just how much Jimmy meant to us, Jimmy then made it clear to us just how much we meant to him,” wrote Brian Corcoran of the pre-match ritual before that final. “He came over to us one by one and presented us with our jersey with a shake of the hand first then a hug. It was simple, spontaneous, special.”

 

THE SECOND COMING

Never go back. One of the old truisms of management appeared to be borne out by much of what has happened during Barry-Murphy’s second stint in charge of Cork. Controversy, something he studiously avoided throughout his playing and managerial career, has been a regular visitor. The county has hummed with rumours and whispers. There has been too much talk of falling-outs and acrimony. Forty summers ago, there was no Twitter to fuel intrigue and spread rancour.  Forty summers ago, there was a lot less hype. It’s a long way from impromptu choruses of “Six foot two, eyes of  blue…” washing across the field to radio stations blaring a song called “Do the Jimmy Barry-Murphy.”

Yet, as he takes charge against Clare this Sunday, not everything has changed. In the style of hurling played, in the way that new stars have come in, announced themselves and taken ownership of the jersey, we can see the handiwork of JBM and the imprints of those he worked with in times past. This is obvious too in the way he has conducted himself. Never reacting to the criticisms made in the media, his conduct after every game (win or lose) has been exemplary. No excuses. No buck-passing. And, on the good days, no desire to gloat at the critics. Some call that classy. Others might describe it as doing the Jimmy Barry-Murphy.

 

The night the "Gorgeous Gael" fought in White City

“I want to fight like you and sing like John McCormack,” said Jack Doyle the day he met Jack Dempsey.

“Wouldn’t it be just too bad,” replied Dempsey, “if you could only sing like me and fight like John McCormack.”

Pompton Lakes, New Jersey, 1935

 

The traffic around White City was so bad that with half a mile still to go, Jack Doyle had to get out of the taxi and walk to the stadium. Well-wishers clapped his back every step of the way and one over-zealous female fan even clipped a lock of his hair as a keepsake. By the time he reached the dressing-room, Doyle had been made almost giddy by the atmosphere, laughing, joking and reading the plethora of good luck telegrams he’d received. Outside, 70,000 people were teeming into London’s one-time Olympic venue to watch a 19 year old from Cobh challenge for the British heavyweight championship.

A raw talent that first became apparent in frantic childhood fistfights in his hometown quarry, he now stood six foot five and weighed just above 15 stone, wearing glamorous green satin shorts with his initials embroidered in gold along the side. Numerous impromptu punch-ups on the most famous waterfront in Ireland and a devotion to studying Jack Dempsey’s instruction manual “How to Box” had put him on top of the bill on a night when, win, lose or draw, he’d pocket (pounds)3000, quite a sum when the average industrial wage was just over 3 quid a week.

The first sight of him entering the arena elicited huge cheers that grew louder still after he climbed through the ropes, stripped off his robe and unveiled a golden torso to compliment the handsome face. He chatted casually to the referee Pickles Douglas but after a few minutes the small talk gave to way nerves. As champions often do, Jack Petersen had let Doyle stew in the spotlight until he was good and ready to make his entrance. By the time Douglas brought the two boxers together, the challenger’s early anxiety had given over to anger. He wanted to make the cocky Welsh champion pay in the same way he’d inflicted punishment on his previous ten professional opponents.

There was only one problem with that intention. Peterson was better than anybody he’d ever faced before and, even more importantly, Doyle should not have been anywhere near a boxing ring that July night in 1933. He was suffering from a bad dose of the clap – history has yet to confirm whether it was gonorrhea or syphilis – that had left him in no physical condition to go 15 rounds against a tough, unbeaten veteran of 23 fights. Apart from anything else, the venereal disease he contracted earlier that summer (reputedly following an encounter with a woman he met in the West End) had seriously affected his ability to train properly. In the days before penicillin, his title chances had been effectively destroyed the moment he entered a shady late-night establishment called Murray’s Club.

Still, ever the game competitor, Doyle went on the offensive from the first bell. He knew his only chance was to put Petersen down early. Even before incurring his STD, he’d never been past the second round in a professional contest before. His method was unorthodox, raining punches on the Welshman from every direction and headed to every destination. A huge number strayed below the belt but Doyle didn’t heed the repeated warnings from the referee. A frantic first round culminated in the pair of them duelling toe to toe in the centre of the ring.

The sort of action beloved of spectators, it nonetheless brought Douglas to the Doyle corner before the start of the second round. Any further punches below the belt would merit instant disqualification, he was warned. Less than a minute of the second round had elapsed when Douglas called a halt to proceedings. He had a reputation as an officious referee and another stray Doyle punch south of the waist had persuaded him to invoke the rule book. The fight was over. Doyle had lost. The decision was greeted by a sustained chorus of boos in the stadium. Back in Cork, the thousands gathered outside The Examiner’s offices in Academy Street were stunned when news filtered through the local boy had failed ignominiously in his attempt to take the title.

“I fouled Petersen in the first round,” wrote Doyle in the Sunday Pictorial, some years later. “I admit that now freely. I was warned that I should be disqualified if I persisted. I did persist. I fouled him again in the second round more than once. I was ordered back to my corner, disqualified and disgraced. Why did I do it? Why did I ignore the warning I got? The plain honest fact of the matter is that I was ill, so ill I should never have been in the ring.

“I could have refused flatly to go in the ring at all. I put the public first. I did not want to disappoint the tens of thousands who were waiting for the ‘match of the century’, not just the huge crowd who watched, remember, but the peoples of Britain and Ireland. I knew I had only one chance. A knockout in the first two rounds. My strength would not last beyond that.”

There was a chaotic aftermath to the bout as the British Boxing Board of Control ordered Doyle’s purse withheld, pending their investigation into the circumstances surrounding his disqualification. Eventually, they suspended him for six months and required him to forfeit (pounds)2,740 of the money due to him. The rest was to be paid, at the rate of a fiver a week, to Doyle and to his mother back in Cork. It was a Draconian penalty, far in excess of the usual punishment levied for such an offence. Worse again was that after taking the case to the High Court and winning, the BBBC had that decision subsequently overturned on appeal.

Doyle would box again after Petersen but really, his time as a genuine contender in the ring had already passed.

 

 

(NB) Anybody interested in Jack Doyle should read Michael Taub’s classic book “Jack Doyle: Fighting for Love”.

The night the "Gorgeous Gael" fought in White City

“I want to fight like you and sing like John McCormack,” said Jack Doyle the day he met Jack Dempsey.

“Wouldn’t it be just too bad,” replied Dempsey, “if you could only sing like me and fight like John McCormack.”

Pompton Lakes, New Jersey, 1935

 

The traffic around White City was so bad that with half a mile still to go, Jack Doyle had to get out of the taxi and walk to the stadium. Well-wishers clapped his back every step of the way and one over-zealous female fan even clipped a lock of his hair as a keepsake. By the time he reached the dressing-room, Doyle had been made almost giddy by the atmosphere, laughing, joking and reading the plethora of good luck telegrams he’d received. Outside, 70,000 people were teeming into London’s one-time Olympic venue to watch a 19 year old from Cobh challenge for the British heavyweight championship.

A raw talent that first became apparent in frantic childhood fistfights in his hometown quarry, he now stood six foot five and weighed just above 15 stone, wearing glamorous green satin shorts with his initials embroidered in gold along the side. Numerous impromptu punch-ups on the most famous waterfront in Ireland and a devotion to studying Jack Dempsey’s instruction manual “How to Box” had put him on top of the bill on a night when, win, lose or draw, he’d pocket (pounds)3000, quite a sum when the average industrial wage was just over 3 quid a week.

The first sight of him entering the arena elicited huge cheers that grew louder still after he climbed through the ropes, stripped off his robe and unveiled a golden torso to compliment the handsome face. He chatted casually to the referee Pickles Douglas but after a few minutes the small talk gave to way nerves. As champions often do, Jack Petersen had let Doyle stew in the spotlight until he was good and ready to make his entrance. By the time Douglas brought the two boxers together, the challenger’s early anxiety had given over to anger. He wanted to make the cocky Welsh champion pay in the same way he’d inflicted punishment on his previous ten professional opponents.

There was only one problem with that intention. Peterson was better than anybody he’d ever faced before and, even more importantly, Doyle should not have been anywhere near a boxing ring that July night in 1933. He was suffering from a bad dose of the clap – history has yet to confirm whether it was gonorrhea or syphilis – that had left him in no physical condition to go 15 rounds against a tough, unbeaten veteran of 23 fights. Apart from anything else, the venereal disease he contracted earlier that summer (reputedly following an encounter with a woman he met in the West End) had seriously affected his ability to train properly. In the days before penicillin, his title chances had been effectively destroyed the moment he entered a shady late-night establishment called Murray’s Club.

Still, ever the game competitor, Doyle went on the offensive from the first bell. He knew his only chance was to put Petersen down early. Even before incurring his STD, he’d never been past the second round in a professional contest before. His method was unorthodox, raining punches on the Welshman from every direction and headed to every destination. A huge number strayed below the belt but Doyle didn’t heed the repeated warnings from the referee. A frantic first round culminated in the pair of them duelling toe to toe in the centre of the ring.

The sort of action beloved of spectators, it nonetheless brought Douglas to the Doyle corner before the start of the second round. Any further punches below the belt would merit instant disqualification, he was warned. Less than a minute of the second round had elapsed when Douglas called a halt to proceedings. He had a reputation as an officious referee and another stray Doyle punch south of the waist had persuaded him to invoke the rule book. The fight was over. Doyle had lost. The decision was greeted by a sustained chorus of boos in the stadium. Back in Cork, the thousands gathered outside The Examiner’s offices in Academy Street were stunned when news filtered through the local boy had failed ignominiously in his attempt to take the title.

“I fouled Petersen in the first round,” wrote Doyle in the Sunday Pictorial, some years later. “I admit that now freely. I was warned that I should be disqualified if I persisted. I did persist. I fouled him again in the second round more than once. I was ordered back to my corner, disqualified and disgraced. Why did I do it? Why did I ignore the warning I got? The plain honest fact of the matter is that I was ill, so ill I should never have been in the ring.

“I could have refused flatly to go in the ring at all. I put the public first. I did not want to disappoint the tens of thousands who were waiting for the ‘match of the century’, not just the huge crowd who watched, remember, but the peoples of Britain and Ireland. I knew I had only one chance. A knockout in the first two rounds. My strength would not last beyond that.”

There was a chaotic aftermath to the bout as the British Boxing Board of Control ordered Doyle’s purse withheld, pending their investigation into the circumstances surrounding his disqualification. Eventually, they suspended him for six months and required him to forfeit (pounds)2,740 of the money due to him. The rest was to be paid, at the rate of a fiver a week, to Doyle and to his mother back in Cork. It was a Draconian penalty, far in excess of the usual punishment levied for such an offence. Worse again was that after taking the case to the High Court and winning, the BBBC had that decision subsequently overturned on appeal.

Doyle would box again after Petersen but really, his time as a genuine contender in the ring had already passed.

 

 

(NB) Anybody interested in Jack Doyle should read Michael Taub’s classic book “Jack Doyle: Fighting for Love”.

Desperately seeking ticket to ride

Dear Most Holy Chairman of the County Board,

I know you are probably inundated with letters from so-called fans now that we have reached the All-Ireland final. Obviously, you don’t know me unless you remember that time I roared “you useless bollix” at you after our ignominious departure from the provincial championship last year. Or unless you’ve traced my IP address in order to discover who’s been posting that stuff about you on message boards. But, look, that’s all in the past now. I need to be in Croke Park and I deserve to be too. Why? Well, let me count the ways.

 

I deserve a ticket because I was the only fella in the pub in February talking up our chances of going to the final. It was shortly after I mocked two die-hards who were heading up the country to some god awful place for some match at a pitch opening. I remember distinctly that just after making fun of their interest at seeing how the new young fellas might fare in their first outing at senior level, I turned around and said: “Those boys are only wasting their time, you lads are only wasting your time and that team is wasting its time.” But that was only having the crack.

I deserve a ticket because I told everybody before the first round we’d see the sky over Croke Park come September. Now, there are some close to me who might tell you I said, “We’ll be watching Sky Sports instead of games in Croke Park this September.” Those fellas are liars. I like a bit of Sky as much as the next man and, made no mistake about it, I will be stopping off in the pub on the way to Croker to watch the United game on the big screen. But to suggest I sneered that we’d be watching the garrison game instead of the county team is just plain wrong.

 

I deserve a ticket because I’ve been going to the matches for years. Well, I’ve been going at least since the corporate market opened up and I started getting the freebies off my buddy who’s high up in Guinness. And then that guy who worked in the dodgy bank that dare not speak its name got that corporate box in Croker. I never tasted canapes like that before or since. That’s got to be ten years or more I’m going to these matches. And I haven’t missed one apart from the days when it was raining, when the pundits reckoned we didn’t have a chance or when the fixtures clashed with the Irish Open golf.

 

I deserve a ticket because I’ve always supported the games in the county. My track record at club level speaks for itself. I bought a raffle ticket that time the club were running the draw for the Mitsubishi Pajero. I went to several end of year dances back when I was going out with your wan whose father was on the committee. I bought an ad in the programme for the pitch opening and that was at a time when the club needed the money. That was 2002 or 2003 and fifty quid wasn’t easy to come by then I can tell you. And did I ask for anything in return? No, I did not. Until now.

 

I deserve a ticket because I went to school with several lads who played for the county. Sure I used to take the mickey out of them all when they were heading out training after school in the driving rain and the biting wind. I used to knock great fun out of their inability to come out on the lash with the rest of us because they were always either training or preparing for some game or other. That was character-building stuff. Do you think they’d have made it where they are today without the likes of me helping them find inner reserves of strength? I don’t think so.

I deserve a ticket because I go to all the big events. I never miss a rugby match as long as the media convince me it’s an important one or if it’s on somewhere good like Paris or the south of France. I used to go to all the soccer internationals back when that was the done thing. Oh yeah, I was part of Jackie’s Army and all that. There are some around here who’d tell you that it’s not a sporting bandwagon unless I’m on it so the county board would want to think of that when they consider my application. It’s not a serious to-do unless I’m there tweeting pictures of myself.

I deserve a ticket because I’ve invested at least 150 euros in replica shirts over the past two decades. I’ve bought at least one every time we’ve reached an All-Ireland final. If nobody believes me they can come around to the house and look at the back of the wardrobe where all of them have remained in a heap gathering dust since I returned in a drunken state those Sunday nights. Not to mention I’ll buy another one this year if I get a ticket because, well, the years haven’t been kind, and the old shirts will never stretch down over the swelling belly at this point.

I deserve a ticket because I know a lot about the game. I know that “an effing Brolly” is not a golf umbrella you left behind in a pub but a reference to some fella from up north who is sort of the Gaelic football version of George Hook and Alan Hansen. I know that the Clare roar is not the delighted sound every tourist makes when leaving that godforsaken county, it’s a shriek their fans emit when they make their twice in a lifetime trip to Croker.

I know you’ll be hearing from a lot of bluffers and spoofers in the coming weeks and I don’t envy you trying to sort out the worthy causes from the chancers but two upper Hogan will do the job.

Yours in Sport,

The county’s biggest fan.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Desperately seeking ticket to ride

Dear Most Holy Chairman of the County Board,

I know you are probably inundated with letters from so-called fans now that we have reached the All-Ireland final. Obviously, you don’t know me unless you remember that time I roared “you useless bollix” at you after our ignominious departure from the provincial championship last year. Or unless you’ve traced my IP address in order to discover who’s been posting that stuff about you on message boards. But, look, that’s all in the past now. I need to be in Croke Park and I deserve to be too. Why? Well, let me count the ways.

 

I deserve a ticket because I was the only fella in the pub in February talking up our chances of going to the final. It was shortly after I mocked two die-hards who were heading up the country to some god awful place for some match at a pitch opening. I remember distinctly that just after making fun of their interest at seeing how the new young fellas might fare in their first outing at senior level, I turned around and said: “Those boys are only wasting their time, you lads are only wasting your time and that team is wasting its time.” But that was only having the crack.

I deserve a ticket because I told everybody before the first round we’d see the sky over Croke Park come September. Now, there are some close to me who might tell you I said, “We’ll be watching Sky Sports instead of games in Croke Park this September.” Those fellas are liars. I like a bit of Sky as much as the next man and, made no mistake about it, I will be stopping off in the pub on the way to Croker to watch the United game on the big screen. But to suggest I sneered that we’d be watching the garrison game instead of the county team is just plain wrong.

 

I deserve a ticket because I’ve been going to the matches for years. Well, I’ve been going at least since the corporate market opened up and I started getting the freebies off my buddy who’s high up in Guinness. And then that guy who worked in the dodgy bank that dare not speak its name got that corporate box in Croker. I never tasted canapes like that before or since. That’s got to be ten years or more I’m going to these matches. And I haven’t missed one apart from the days when it was raining, when the pundits reckoned we didn’t have a chance or when the fixtures clashed with the Irish Open golf.

 

I deserve a ticket because I’ve always supported the games in the county. My track record at club level speaks for itself. I bought a raffle ticket that time the club were running the draw for the Mitsubishi Pajero. I went to several end of year dances back when I was going out with your wan whose father was on the committee. I bought an ad in the programme for the pitch opening and that was at a time when the club needed the money. That was 2002 or 2003 and fifty quid wasn’t easy to come by then I can tell you. And did I ask for anything in return? No, I did not. Until now.

 

I deserve a ticket because I went to school with several lads who played for the county. Sure I used to take the mickey out of them all when they were heading out training after school in the driving rain and the biting wind. I used to knock great fun out of their inability to come out on the lash with the rest of us because they were always either training or preparing for some game or other. That was character-building stuff. Do you think they’d have made it where they are today without the likes of me helping them find inner reserves of strength? I don’t think so.

I deserve a ticket because I go to all the big events. I never miss a rugby match as long as the media convince me it’s an important one or if it’s on somewhere good like Paris or the south of France. I used to go to all the soccer internationals back when that was the done thing. Oh yeah, I was part of Jackie’s Army and all that. There are some around here who’d tell you that it’s not a sporting bandwagon unless I’m on it so the county board would want to think of that when they consider my application. It’s not a serious to-do unless I’m there tweeting pictures of myself.

I deserve a ticket because I’ve invested at least 150 euros in replica shirts over the past two decades. I’ve bought at least one every time we’ve reached an All-Ireland final. If nobody believes me they can come around to the house and look at the back of the wardrobe where all of them have remained in a heap gathering dust since I returned in a drunken state those Sunday nights. Not to mention I’ll buy another one this year if I get a ticket because, well, the years haven’t been kind, and the old shirts will never stretch down over the swelling belly at this point.

I deserve a ticket because I know a lot about the game. I know that “an effing Brolly” is not a golf umbrella you left behind in a pub but a reference to some fella from up north who is sort of the Gaelic football version of George Hook and Alan Hansen. I know that the Clare roar is not the delighted sound every tourist makes when leaving that godforsaken county, it’s a shriek their fans emit when they make their twice in a lifetime trip to Croker.

I know you’ll be hearing from a lot of bluffers and spoofers in the coming weeks and I don’t envy you trying to sort out the worthy causes from the chancers but two upper Hogan will do the job.

Yours in Sport,

The county’s biggest fan.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cosmos still the great New York story

During the most famous season in its history, the New York Cosmos was owned by Steve Ross, the ebullient and controversial chief executive of Warner Brothers. He didn’t know much about soccer but he knew the realities of the box-office. When he saw FranzBeckenbauer playing at the back on his debut that memorable summer of 1977, he phoned down to the dug-out to bawl out the manager with the immortal advice: “Get the Kraut into midfield! We’re not paying him all that money to play deefence!”  

 

Ross was a hands-on owner who had to be strapped into his seat in the upper deck of Giants Stadium during matches for fear he’d fall over the side with excitement. After one run of poor performances that year, he took the corporate helicopter from Manhattan out to New Jersey one morning, landed on the field in the middle of a training session and warned every player, including Beckenbauer and Pele, that their jobs were on the line.

 

At Hofstra University Stadium on Long Island next Saturday night, the reborn New York Cosmos take on the Fort Lauderdale Strikers in their first competitive game in 29 years. Anecdotes like those above explain why the passage of almost three decades without playing has done little to diminish the legend of the club. They remain one of the most storied outfits in American sports and if their return to the North American Soccer League (a level below Major League Soccer) has prompted an outbreak of unashamed nostalgia, it’s also been a rather protracted affair.

When an English consortium including Terry Byrne, best-known as David Beckham’s business manager bought the Cosmos name back in 2009, it was presumed a move to MLS was imminent, perhaps even with the then Los Angeles Galaxy midfielder on board in some on or off-field capacity. In a blaze of publicity, Eric Cantona was hired as director of football, Umbro began marketing a range of retro shirts from the club’s 1970s’ pomp that were sold in men’s clothes shops, and Pele was made honorary president. Although Cantona remains involved in a rather tangential capacity as a loosely-defined ambassador, the presence of Pele in the ground next Saturday will remind everybody once more of the club’s unique heritage.

During the Cosmos' lengthy courtship of Pele in the mid-1970s, it became apparent that the Brazilian government might actually refuse to allow the country's most prized national asset to leave. Knowing that sort of political intransigence had prevented the biggest clubs in Italy, Spain and Portugal from signing the player from Santos before, the Cosmos decided to try a different tack. Former US Secretary of State Henry Kissinger (a soccer nut) accompanied one of the club's delegations to Brazil where the central thrust of his rather blunt contribution to the debate was as follows: "Listen, America has done so much for Brazil that we'd now like you to loan us Pele."

The biggest signing of the new edition arrived in a rather more straightforward fashion. Although the club has largely eschewed the old-time route of importing expensive past-it marquee names from other countries, an exception was made for Marcos Senna, the Brazilian midfielder who played such a pivotal role in Spain’s 2008 European Championship win. He’ll anchor a squad featuring half a dozen players from the surrounding area that will be managed by Giovanni Savarese, a New Yorker and a former MLS stalwart.

“We know that we must earn every bit of respect and credibility that is afforded to us in the highly competitive sporting landscape that operates across this city,” said Seamus O’Brien, the Cosmos chairman who has driven what he calls this “reboot” since buying out the English consortium in 2011. “I am happy for us to be judged, not by words but by our actions and deeds. Step by step, we have begun that journey, building a foundation which I hope will ensure that when we reach the top again, and we will, we’ll be able to stay there long past my lifetime.”

With Saudi Arabia’s Sela Sport as co-owners, the Cosmos has more than just money going for it. Firstly, the kids who lived through the glory years of Pele, Giorgio Chinaglia and Beckenbauer (when for they drew an average of 40,000 plus several seasons), are all parents now. They were the first generation in America to grow up with pro soccer on the menu and, lately, they’ve been dusting off the Pele lunchboxes from their schooldays to prove their credentials. Secondly, opting to base themselves on Long Island, where they hope to build a bespoke 25,000 seater stadium at Belmont Park racecourse, gives them a population of 8m and the largest schoolboys’ league in the world to tap into.

While the previous owners opted to garner international headlines by putting together a team of all-stars, including Robbie Keane, to play at Paul Scholes’ testimonial in 2011, the new bosses are all about tending the grassroots and building for the long-term, with moving into MLS the eventual goal. Cosmos’ players and officials have been visible at events in the island’s soccer community for the best part of a year. A much more organic approach, it’s befitting an outfit that in its previous incarnation went from desperately giving away tickets free with Burger King Whoppers to having Mick Jagger, Barbara Streisand and Muhammad Ali turning up to watch them play.

“The beautiful and the near-beautiful dropped out of the skies in corporate helicopters, while down below Jersey housewives in pink polyester suits found themselves in traffic jams getting to the games,” wrote Shep Messing, the Cosmos’ Harvard-educated goalkeeper during the glory years.  ‘So did pin-striped stockbrokers, large Ukrainian families, college students, bored baseball fans, the Governor of New York and the President’s son. Those of us who were there in the beginning, the mud-caked crazies who played for food-stamps and the sheer fun of it, call it a miracle.”

 

Messing is back in the Cosmos fold as a television announcer today, hoping to see the water turned into wine all over again.

 

 

(first published in the Irish Mail on Sunday, July 28^th  2013)