The Ulster Aristocrats

Isn’t it great to see Down in the All-Ireland final exactly fifty years after their first appearance in the final and their initial Sam Maguire? You’d think something like that is written in the stars or was just meant to be. There are a lot of superstitious people around the country who’d buy into this destiny theory. Well I don’t. It’s a load of codswallop. There’s no such thing. You either work hard to get there or you don’t. However, sometimes a little bit of fortune can go a long way. If James McCartan claims all the plaudits for winning this weekend, there’ll be one man massively upset at his scenario. That man is me.

I’m probably breaking some kind of unwritten gentleman’s agreement but if I hadn’t offered my services and advice to wee James this year then Benny Coulter would be lying on a beach in Portugal this weekend. You see, there was some hype over the 1960 team this year. They have been feted the length and breadth of the country since the start of the year. They’re bound to be at the point of exhaustion and maybe even cursing the day they won the damned thing. I’d say Sean O’Neill is desperately hoping that Marty Clarke and his troops win this weekend to take the focus off them for the rest of the year, before they keel over.

I hope he doesn’t mind me saying this but Wee James got a bit caught up in the whole 50 years craic and had a mad idea. I can see where he was coming from. In recent years Down had been getting further and further away from winning anything of note. Embarrassing defeats to Wicklow and their likes was a common way to end their championship year. They hadn’t even shown signs of winning an Ulster. McCartan knew that he was going to be given a couple of years at least to build a new team. However, his plan for 2010 was revealed to be by a close friend in the Down camp. James thought that, in order to honour the team of 1960, he would attempt to field as many of that side as possible during the championship.

Luckily my snake in the Down backroom team filmed a couple of training session James was putting the lads of ’60 though. He sent me the footage via the email. It was extremely hard to watch. Brian McIvor and Paddy Tally had these lads, some of them in their late 70s, doing bleep tests and repetitive press-ups. McIvor seemed to be taking great pleasure in telling Kevin Mussen that he was a ‘hape of dung’ and punishing Dan McCartan for a mistimed block by making him do a dozen laps of the field, which took him 4 hours to complete til 3am. James had arranged a challenge match for the ’60 team against the Abbey MacRory Cup team. It was a horrendous piece of footage. The final score of 8-29 to 0-2 in the Abbey’s favour only begins to describe the horror of the occasion. On nine occasions the ambulance was called for with more than half the Down side having collapsed with either exhaustion or suspected heart complaints, and that was in the first half.

McIvor decided that instead of subjecting Mussen and his men to national humiliation, they would just play two members of the team at corner forward in each game, rotating the players each time so that every member of the ’60 squad got a turn out at some stage. I have it on good authority that Joe Lennon and Paddy Doherty were in serious training for the Donegal game at the start of the campaign. He was then going to roll out Sean O’Neill and his da for the expected game against Tyrone. It was a suicide mission. Imagine what Ricey would be saying to O’Neill? After I got wind of this remarkable plan I jumped straight into the motor and after three days of solid negotiations I managed to convince McCartan to ditch the plan for the sake of the memory of 1960 and the general health of the players themselves. It was hard going. McIvor was reluctant to give in until I mentioned to him some made-up European law against cruelty to over-60s. He soon backed down. Tally was just laughing in the background at the whole shenanigans. I suspect he was behind the mad idea and was taking a hand out of the other two.

Well, it has all turned out for the best. Down now find themselves in the All-Ireland without the help of lads old enough to be their grandfathers. The ’60 squad have been able to attend the rash of celebratory occasions without the aid of wheelchairs, crutches and an individual breathing apparatus. I’m sure the media will hound Wee James after the game if the Mourne men are successful. They’ll be looking for words of wisdom from the latest GAA guru. Just remember, if you see a vacant look in his eye and a pause when asked how he had turned this underachieving side into the best in Ireland, be of no doubt who he’s thinking about.

College Skulduggery

On St Patrick’s Day most of the attention will be on Croke Park and Crossmaglen’s quest for another title. Or maybe you’re a hurling aficionado and will be cheering on Clarinbridge in the first match. But, for me, the crucial piece of action taking place that day will be played out in the Athletic Grounds in Armagh. For there, St Colman’s of Newry take on St. Patrick’s Dungannon to see who’ll lift the MacRory Cup and be labelled the best footballing college in the province. It all sounds a rather nice affair with families getting a day out watching their son or sibling play out another school game that will probably be forgotten about within six months. How wrong can you be? I’ll be casting a cold eye on proceedings, trying not to visit the old memories and haunted feelings I endured as a lad sitting through A Levels in the days when they were relatively difficult.

The school’s management team, despite starring for the county minors the previous summer, overlooked me. That was an unusual occurrence in any school. Anyone who could kick a ball straight gets on the school squad, a group usually numbering something like forty-five lads. Back in those days, parents turned a blind eye to the odd hammering from a teacher as long as the son got in the squad, especially for the photo on match days. It took me a long time to work this out. To get back to the first predicament, the reason I was overlooked for the MacRory side was simply a clash of interests. The manager taught Latin. Any lad who wanted a place on the side chose Latin for A Level. I was a man of my own mind and took on Woodwork, Greek Mythology and Sums.

As it turned out that year, the entire MacRory team were made up of lads who spoke of ‘post mortum’, ‘anno domini’ and ‘alma mater’ yet hadn’t a notion of how to add the scores up after a game. I accepted that injustice as there were plenty of other things to keep me interested at the time and there was no chance the school would ever win the thing anyway. However, that carefree attitude came back to bite me later in the year when I was rejected from every university I applied to, even though I was guaranteed fine grades. It didn’t take long for the penny to drop. One day in school, shortly after our boys exited the MacRory at the quarter-final stage, the big midfielder grunted to me that he’d been given a place in one of the top universities in Ulster, to study Law. Now, this wasn’t the cultured midfielder who could read a game before the first ball was thrown in. This was your plodder who barely moved form the middle of the field, grunted during games and was told before each half started what way he was playing.

Soon, players of similar ilk were full of joy at the news that they had been accepted into third level institutions onto high-class courses. What took the biscuit was when The Brain was celebrating his acceptance into the Study of Classical Arts course in Belfast, a most sought after place. The Brain was nick-named that so for two reasons. Firstly it was a term of affection. He had the tendency to score 0% in every exam. With lads being cruel at that age, he was labelled The Brain which he accepted readily, oblivious to the intended mockery. Secondly, his real name was Brian but on almost every piece of paper he signed, he misspelt it as Brain. The Brain never actually got any game time that season on the school team. He was simply there to intimidate the opposition whilst sitting on the bench. He had that look of ‘Lurch’ from the Adams Family.

It dawned on me eventually that having ‘MacRory Cup player’ written on your CV was your ticket to academic progression. Universities would fall over themselves to secure the services of anyone with supposed footballing pedigree as it kept the name of that house of learning in the national spotlight if their sporting teams did well. A few years later I attending the College All Stars awards and was shocked at the behind the scenes shenanigans that went on. University representatives offered all manner of shiny and glittering goodies to MacRory footballers in return for a decision to attend their institution. Watches, women and wealth were dangled.

I was foolish back then. If only I had taken on Latin and accepted the weekly beating from the maniacal Master, my MacRory team membership may well have led to greater riches. Instead, I sat back and worked tremendously to achieve modestly good grades, especially the B in Sums. Yet, the likes of The Brain was already secured a golden ticket despite turning up on the wrong day for each of his exams. I’m not bitter now and I’m sure times have changed. The lads on this year’s MacRory teams, I’m sure, don’t get the same privileges The Brain did. You couldn’t get away with it now. Whistle blowers have more confidence in the 21st Century. Yet, it’s hard for me not to look back and think of what might have been. Optimum est pati quod emendare non possis; it is best to endure what you cannot change.

Feck Sake Umpire

Another weekend and another controversy. Colm Cooper scored a point against the Dubs in Croke Park only it wasn’t. The umpire decided not to allow it for a reason only he knows to himself. Maybe the sun was in his eyes but sure it was February and the sun isn’t really all that taxing approaching the evening time. Perhaps he looked at Cooper and though a lad that slight couldn’t have possibly hit the ball that far. Only he knows. But as Jack O’Connor stated afterwards, enough is enough. Ireland’s not the laid back country it once was. In the past, such a dispute was resolved with a wink and a pint and forgotten about in the morning. All that changed eight years ago when Marsden got the line for chinning Jordan in the final. Before that, players like Paidi O’Se could go toe-to-toe swinging right hooks and at worse end up with a stern talking to by the ref. Now, the right thing is done it seems, that is unless it involves the men beside the posts.

What can be done about this? I have heard that they might change the coats that the umpires wear, bringing them more in line with the striped outfits you’d see our Australian cousins don for their games. How that will address their decision making is beyond me. I’ve heard of vertical stripes helping weighty people look slight less hefty but I’ve yet to hear of it rectifying chronically deteriorating eyesight. For when all is said and done isn’t that the problem here? The GAA are holding on to a tradition that sees them hire pensioners to gauge whether a ball has gone between two posts. It’s a well known yarn that just before Sludden awarded that goal for Meath against Louth last year, he threatened the umpire that he’d not give him his teeth back from the officials’ changing room unless he raised the green flag. It left the umpire perturbed and confused about the whole incident.

The major hindrance here though is surely eyesight. I’m not aware of one man or woman over the age of sixty who can drive a car without the aid of seeing glasses. What makes GAA headquarters think that the same men can see a white ball amongst the white clouds pass between two white posts? It’s lunacy and I cannot get my head around their persistence in employing officials in this age bracket. There has to be some kind of financial reason such as exemption from paying tax if they hire pensioners or maybe it cuts down on the catering bill as all those lads would want after a game is a cup of tea and a scone. No matter the reason, the advancement in technology means their persistent errors are highlighted with undeniable evidence.
Referees are given vigorous tests to see if they are fit enough to take charge of a game at any level, and rightly so. What examinations do umpires endure? I would excuse them from treadmill analysis or bleep tests but surely some form of eye examination is a must as well as the ability to make correct decisions and lift a flag. Some umpires might claim that the glare of the sky on their spectacles hinders their sight or that the rim of the glasses may cause them to misjudge the flight of a ball. They are good points and the GAA know they’d be in choppy waters if they discriminated against people with glasses. My solution is to look at Art McRory. He wore the thickest-lensed glasses ever seen on a man and never missed a trick, winning Ulster and league titles. It also gave him a menacingly wide-eyed look that offered him an advantage in any form of combat. I’d imagine that if Sludden had faced an umpire staring back at him with those type of glasses, Louth might well have been reigning Leinster champions today.

There are also the small binoculars that can be attached to glasses as well as tiny wipers for those drizzly days when the spectacles get streamed up. As well as that, I have a friend who works in a science factory in South America and he informs me he has been assigned by some GAA bigwig to investigate the use of an electric current that picks up any movement between the two posts. This volt then surges into the body of the umpire through a wire up their sleeve from the bottom of the post. The umpire will automatically jump slightly into the air and lean forward to pick up the flag. It has been tested twice on two Maned Wolves which ended tragically. The South American Maned Wolf is now an endangered species. The point is that moves are being made to do the best with what we have. The GAA know that ageism will be used against them if they begin to phase out the current batch of umpires. Be it thicker glasses, electric shocks or standing on scaffolding, something needs to be done soon before the crowd begin to turn on the defenceless old-timers.

I just cannot see how the striped jumpers will improve umpire performance. Stripes have often been associated with criminals or burglars. Maybe there’s more to that than meets the eye.

Fermanagh Chaos

So words like chaos and upheaval are now being mentioned in the same breath as Fermanagh GAA. I usually have my ear to the ground on these things but Fermanagh tends to be off the radar for me recently. I was involved in an unsavoury incident a couple of years ago at the Enniskillen bus station which hasn’t been resolved so I have refused to set foot in the county for fear of burnings and a rising. It was just an honest mistake blown all out of proportion. I really did think it was green toilet roll for St Patrick’s Day, not a Fermanagh jersey. But all that is besides the point. Fermanagh is in a terrible state of chassis right now and having experienced manys a revolt in my time, I’m in a good position to advise on a resolution for everyone concerned.

From my understanding there appears to be some form of communication problem. The new management have their way of doing things. The players have been used to a different set up over previous years. Therein probably lies the collision. About twice a year I am faced with a similar scenario. I’d return from the fields only to find that what was once the kitchen is now the spare bathroom. The bedroom is the living room as so on. Herself will take a form of head stagger and swop rooms about. I react badly to change and would maybe not set foot in the house for a week or until there’s a dire need for a shower. After a while though you realise that it’s no big deal and accept the new regime.

A large section of the Fermanagh squad appear to have reacted badly to a change in circumstances and are refusing to return to base. Anyone who knows me will realise the side I’m going to take here. I have no time for the modern way of approaching the game. Sometimes I find myself getting emotional when I witness a player asking for a drink of water from the sidelines during a game. Water? In my time and that of many others water was rationed at home. In a big family, you drew up a rota for having a drink of water. Now, these players expect water in plastic bottles to be hauled at them by some water boy. Fortunately, I once saw Penrose drinking the water, spitting it out and washing his neck with it. I admired that and have it recorded in case I ever get a job in management again. That was resourcefulness.

I don’t want to create any more controversy. But there was one snippet of information that did reach my way during the week. I heard it on dubious authority that the initial ruckus was caused when a senior member of the Fermanagh squad kicked up a fuss that they were getting scrambled eggs for breakfast and not poached. Apparently under Charlie Mulgrew they were introduced to the idea that eggs could be poached. Two of the farmer players were rather concerned about this as they took it that the eggs had been poached from an unsuspecting farmer. When it was fully explained, poached eggs became the norm for pre-match get together. Malachy O’Rourke then proposed the idea of putting a dash of pepper on the poached eggs. Again, this was met with scepticism but after a couple of opinion leaders in the squad tried it and liked it, pepper on poached eggs was all the rage for two solid years, cooked for exactly two minutes and thirty-eight seconds.

I’m told that John O’Neill, like myself, isn’t a big fan of new-fangled ways of eating eggs, preferring the hard-boiled effort or, at a stretch, soft-boiled. He was told in no uncertain terms before he took the job that poached eggs with pepper were important to this squad. O’Neill took this as a bit of light-hearted humour and went with the boiled effort first day out. The reaction was monumental. Players refused to even look at the egg, with shell attached, on the plate. Next day, he tried the scrambled approach. Again, it was no-go. One lad from Lisnaskea ate it anyway but was unceremoniously emptied five times during the training game, which followed the scrambled egg standoff. O’Neill had a choice here: Give the players what they want or stand firm and put his mark on a new era for Fermanagh football. He could have gone one better and produced omelettes, coddled eggs or Chinese steamed eggs. However, being a man of tradition, he reverted to the boiled effort.

The rest is history and an on-going one at that. Fermanagh and egg-eating go way back to the time of the Maguires who believed that the English, “ne’re could stomach an Irish Gael wi’ egg in his blood”. It’s an unfortunate start to O’Neill’s tenure and it could unravel badly for the newcomer. Or there’s just that chink of light that time will heal the sense of loss and change on the players’ mindset. Maybe they need to do what I did and take long walks around the fields and ponder the great mysteries of the universe. Only then will the issues that caused the present chaos seem small and insignificant. Maybe O’Neill will back down and give way to this, on paper, small request. I wouldn’t. Ireland is watching.