What Makes Me Tick

It has taken a quiet week on the football front to allow me to answer the bagful of requests out there. I’m not one for emailing or writing letters but it’s only right that fans and suitors get the low-down on what makes a man like me tick. I read recently that Brian Cody and Mickey Harte are to write their autobiographies, adding to those of McConville, O’Muircheartaigh and O’Connor. I won’t be following their lead as there are stories that need never be told for fear of repercussion before I hit the long stay in the turf. Yet, in order to satisfy the masses, I shall outline the major influences and incidents that made the man.

As a youngster growing up in one of the most rural areas you could imagine, life was rather basic. Days were spent running after dogs around the fields, trying to woo clean-shaven women and dabbling in brewing. The local club, a junior side who hadn’t won silverware since their inception, survived on the amount of stout sold on a Saturday night. Everyone played for them but because of the lack of attractive women in the parish, there’d only be a few recruits to the side every year, leaving us with a team with players aged anything from 12-72. Although resources were stretched, it fostered a great sense of togetherness. It was probably playing with these lads in their 50s and 60s, still wearing long shorts and 9-inch nails hammered into their boots and history dripping from their pores, that instilled in me a great need to keep the games alive throughout the country and encouraged me to pass on the wisdom I unashamedly possess in barrels.

My own playing career was cut short after one prank too far. It was then the done thing for the captain to perform a daring task during his first year as the main man. When it was my turn as captain eventually, I thought it’d be deadly craic to tie a dead and festering trout to our manager’s saddle one night after training. Being pitch dark, he’d launch himself onto the bike before the smell would hit him. All things went to plan and the poor man leapt onto the saddle with the squelch of the fish and the roar of the boss amalgamated with the guffaws from my troops. Unfortunately the poor man contracted a little known disease called ‘Trout Arse’ and had to undergo months of treatment before he could even sit down again. I left the parish a couple of days later.

I spent the following years touring the province, collating old training methods and taking in as many games as possible, trying to implement as much as I could into my extensive managerial experiences. I watched with youthful intrigue as the great Burren side of the 80s would be put through their paces whilst having Mourne rock pelted at them by their trainers as they pounded up and down Slieve Donard. This taught me that you should only apply methods after carefully gauging your players’ temperaments. I had a short stint around that time in charge of an illustrious club on the Derry shore of Lough Neagh. During my first session I decided to utilise the local produces and rained eels, worms and turf at my players as they sat in the changing rooms before my first session. Within ten minutes I had been stripped naked and thrown into the Lough. I now admit that those men were of a different breed to the lads of Burren. That’s why Joe Kernan and Mickey Harte employed different strategies. Could you imagine Bellew’s face if Joe had asked Francie to pick his song for the team bus CD? It was my first lesson and has stood to me, and other managers no doubt, since.

It wasn’t all trial and error though. Sometimes in order to get to the position I’m in now you need a wee bit of luck. I was on a bus-top tour of Dublin one summer’s day with a widow I had befriended from Latvia. I couldn’t really understand her after two months of courting so when we stopped off at the RTE studios I seized my chance and got ‘lost’ in one of their studios. Having dandered in to a live set, I was mistakenly assumed to be the script writer for the Sunday Game. Amazed that such a man existed, I was given two hours to come up with that day’s analysis for the night programme. I threw in a few light-hearted remarks about eating hats if Dooher won an All-Ireland, racing grannies in Kerry and arseboxing. Sure enough, the likes of O’Rourke, Spillane and Lyons were uttering my every word that night and getting well looked after for it. From that day I’ve continued to submit scripts for the nation’s consumption. Do you really think Joe Brolly or Kevin McStay know what a ‘system’ is or ‘diagonal balls’ are?

That small piece of luck with the Latvian has meant that I’m dining with the likes of Lyster and Morrisey more often than not, giving after-dinner speeches abroad whilst still holding onto the cloak of anonymity. We’d tell devilish stories about getting the pundits to read the most ridiculous lines from the autocue. Lyster would hold his sides laughing as I’d write another piece on how Dublin could take the big one this year, usually read out before a live game by O’Rourke.

So there you have it. You need that little bit of fortune to fall into your lap. If you can couple that with making horrible mistakes and learn from it, you’ll arrive somewhere near to being half the man I am. I hope that fills in a few gaps.

Know Your Place, Antrim!

One of the regretful traits we Irish possess is savage begrudgery. Begrudgery has a long and venerable history in Ireland. If I had been made redundant and the wife left me, I’d have all manner of callers around bearing gifts and uttering encouraging words. I’d be kept a place beside the heater at Mass and punters would stand aside in the Post Office so that I could be served first. You wouldn’t find kindness like it in any corner of the globe. However, if I woke up one morning to find I’d been offered a decent job and beside me lay the most beautiful woman in Ulster, I’d be ignored, stepped on and blanked even by the PP at communion. That’s the nature of the beast in this part of the world and I’m no different. The pages in this vessel have been awash with Antrim this and Antrim that for this last month or two. They call it the feel-good factor. Well, dang it. Antrim, you should hang your head in shame.

It is an unwritten rule in Ulster that some counties are to concentrate in the football and others on the hurling in order for the games to progress up here in both codes. Really, it’s Antrim hurling and the rest football. That’s the way it has always been. It keeps the ship steady. Down and Derry got their just deserts a while ago when they perched above their station and thought they’d try their hands at the hurling after they won their All-Irelands in ’93 and ’94. Fair enough, they lifted a couple of Ulster hurling titles, but where are they now? Down haven’t seen an Anglo-Celt since ’94 and Derry in over a decade. Their hurling is nowhere to be seen when it really matters. They didn’t stick to the agreement and their football suffered. Antrim were aware of the same bargain. They were to keep the hurling flag flying in Ulster. This year they had the audacity to believe they could play a bit of football and what happens – it’s all over in mid-July for both codes. The hurlers have been on the receiving end of some unmerciful beatings ever since the footballers thought they might try their hand at winning something.

Although this may look from a distance as out-and-out old-fashioned begrudgery on my part, I’m also, in my capacity of renowned sage and an all-round brilliant mind, going to offer the Saffrons a way out of this dual-coded nightmare. This solution will go beyond just enhancing Ulster’s reputation on the hurling scene. It’ll build bridges and harmonise a large patch of land. Three words – hockey, polo, cricket. Whereas Kerry turned to basketball and Aussie Rules in order to lure Donaghy and Kennelly into their set-up, we need to tap into our natural resources and reach across to a community not normally associated with a third man tackle or sideline cut.

Let’s start with the polo. Sometimes you need Grande gestures in order to make a point. There’s no reason why Sambo cannot get on the email or lift a pen and write to Charles Windsor. Charlie is rarely out of the papers on his horse, bating away at a ball on the ground. He’s riding a horse and clashing the ash – even Shefflin would find that a cumbersome combination. Get Charlie to visit a Casement training session, on his horse with mallet in hand for dramatic effect. He could then take a two-hour session focussing on ground strokes and shooting accuracy. It would be a great coup too for the local political scene and perhaps you could combine it with Charles making some kind of gesture towards Roger Casement’s legacy.

You only have to watch the NI Saturday results service once to realise how much hockey is being played in the province every week. Teams like Annadale, Instonians and Lisnagarvey are horsing into each other for their equivalent of the Anglo-Celt. These lads grew up with stick in hand and some of their sideline cuts are fearsome. There are literally thousands of this human resource roaming the streets of Ulster right now. If Sambo had any ounce of forward thinking, he’d be touring the hockey grounds of Mossley, Bangor or Portadown and poaching the likes of Bruce McCandless, Drew Carlisle and Gordon Essex onto the Saffron senior side. These fellas would be cutting the sliotar over the black spot from the 45. That’d fairly put the shivers up Cody.

Finally, it takes some eye-hand coordination in order to deal effectively with a penalty or 21 in hurling. Against Antrim, the sloitar always seems to end up in the back of the net. In cricket, these fellas are on the receiving end of a 100mph ball every 60 seconds, and seem to be able to bat the thing a quarter of a mile away from the stumps. Our schools up here are littered with some handy cricketers. RBAI, BRA, Portadown College and Lurgan College are ideal hunting grounds for McNaughton to groom a few full backs and keepers. Just imagine three of these lads in goal facing a Mullane penalty. He’d hit it well but in the bat of an eyelid, young Bunting would not only have stopped it but by meeting the sloitar head on with a swing of the hurl, it’d be soaring over the halfway line, sending the saffrons on a surprise counter-attack.

So there you have it – the three steps to glory for Antrim and Ulster hurling. Pride restored. Forget about the football lads. And a word of warning for Tyrone – lifting the Lory Meagher Cup could a fatal move. Never forget the unwritten rule. It done for Down and Derry football as Antrim hurlers regress.