Thick Skins

“Francie Bellew is a very ordinary club footballer, lacking in pace. I swear to God, my mother would be faster than most of those three fellows. And, jeez, she has a little bit of arthritis on the knee. They're very ... they're very slow. They're very slow ... and that's being polite.” Pat Spillane 2003. Or maybe try this: “Now he’s against Peadar Andrews who I do not rate as a senior inter-county footballer and is out of his depth at this level.” That was Joe Brolly in 2005. Or back in time again to 2003: “He’s a poor player. I’ll eat my hat if Tyrone win an All-Ireland with Brian Dooher in the team.” Colm O’Rourke of course.

The above quotes flowed directly from the gobs of the three men we are forced to endure week in, week out over the Summer months. And sure isn’t it great craic seeing former players like those three were making complete eejits out of themselves on national TV. It makes us feel better about ourselves. It’s like the Pope calling the main man Joseph during the midnight Mass or Daniel O’Donnell forgetting the words of Mary from Dungloe at the festival itself. Seeing the mighty fall makes us want to return to watch them do it again so we can laugh about them in the pub the next night. It’s the nature of the beast.

Unfortunately, for me, all that has changed over the last week. A man called Eamonn Holmes may have altered the whole nature of slagging someone off on the television or even on printed paper. For those who don’t know, Holmes complained about a comedy sketch which shows Eamonn eating everything in sight on the studio set. It’s a ridiculous depiction but yer man complained anyhow and has been successful in getting an apology from the BBC and a guarantee that they’ll never run sketches about him in that light again. It was a sad day for TV pundits and comedians although I suppose they’re just the same thing.

I’d go even a step further and Holmesgate might even neuter journalists and columnists. This week I was going to write an article on the Monaghan demise using the combined weight of Banty, Grimley and Woods as a possible reason why they disintegrated as a force within six days. I had it on good authority that some players had been complaining about the breakfast being ‘already ate’ by the time they got up on the day of the Ulster Final. A week-long fall-out ensued with boys hiding Mars Bars etc in case the aforementioned trio went scavenging but I can’t write about that now because of Holmes, I think.

I also had great gossip on Mickey Harte’s plans on how to deal with the big Dub full forward O’Gara last year, with Marty Penrose possibly being given the job. My spy tells me Mickey had Penrose climbing lamp-posts like a monkey, roaring and beating his chest on the way up, simulating an approach on how to deal with the big lad who scored two goals against the Wee County at the weekend. But I’m afraid to do so in case Harte fumes about the leak and asks for me to apologise to him and Marty, reveal the mole and to promise never to write about secret tactics again. I’ll never do that but sure God knows where that’d end up.

Then there’s the material I’d gathered up on what Paddy Bradley was doing when Derry lost to Kildare, Kieran McGeeney’s horrible secret regarding his Armaghicisation of the Lily Whites, Joe Kernan’s real reason for being down at Galway, how Jim McGuinness blackmailed the Donegal County Board into giving him the job and so on. This is the time of year when squads are less tight lipped and will run to boys like me who’ll always fight the corner of the good man.

So maybe this week is a time to sit tight and see how things pan out. I’m hoping Brolly, Spillane or O’Rourke will be a bigger man than me and let rip on a player or two this weekend just to see what happens. They’ve some opportunity with Tyrone, Dublin, Kerry and Down all playing on the Saturday. There are a good few men there who’ll annoy one of The Good, The Bad and The Ugly in the studio at half time. Then, all we need to do is sit back and wait how the victim responds. When Dooher was attacked by O’Rourke in ’03 he said he’d be more worried if Mickey was saying that. Bellew said nothing and Andrews retired the next year.

Hopefully our players are hardier than Eamonn Holmes. An editor once said to me that in GAA you need to be thick-skinned. That was about five years ago. I pray that it hasn’t changed. London may have softened Holmes up a wee bit but I’m playing it safe for a week at least to see how things turn out. If Spillane goes to town on the losing side in the Dublin/Tyrone game this weekend he’s bound to rake around a few reputations in the process. He’ll love sticking the boot into the Dubs again but if it’s Tyrone on the losing side he’ll rip the players, county and province to shreds. Sit tight lads and take your juice whatever way it turns out, for the love of journalism.

Don't tie the knot.

You can’t open a paper these days without having to look at a young GAA inter-county player tying the knot with some decent looking cailin from a neighbouring county. It’s the happiest day of their lives apparently, the caption states. That is probably true as it is all downhill from there on in. We’re not at the level of selling the wedding photos to Hello magazine yet for a seven figure sum but we mightn’t be too far away. There are very few high profile players nowadays who can get away with a quiet wedding. If they make money from the occasion, more power to them. I’m not a jealous guy. What I am though is a practical one and as soon as I cast my eye over that picture I shake my head each time. For that is the beginning of the end.

After Tyrone won their third All-Ireland there was a rash of marriages in the squad. I knew there and then that they’d not be adding to that tally as soon as the first young one arrives. Recently a couple of Derry players got hitched, probably signalling the end of their days in the GAA sun although they’ll not know it til they kick a ball in anger next year. It’s a well known tale that when Mick O’Dwyer was building his majestic Kerry side of the 70s, he made sure they were bachelors. If any player even courted the same woman twice he was threatened with expulsion. It wasn’t until the lads could hold out any longer and started the wedding bells clinging that their era was at an end. The same scenario seems to have occurred in the Tyrone camp.

For me, Down is the next big thing. If McCartan sticks it out, the Mourne lads could lift a couple of the big ones. In order to do that, he needs to monitor his players’ romantic tendencies, even if it means sitting outside the Canal Court in a darkened jeep on a Saturday night. That should be the height of his control over these talented lads, maybe with a few spies around the other side of the county too. The reason for this restrained advice is that Wee James could be unfortunate enough to make the same mistake I did.

I was in charge of a north Antrim hurling side in the early 80s. I had closely monitored their progress since their early teens. They won the league and championship double every year since they were U12s. By the time they were ripe for senior hurling, I was sure that I had assembled potentially the greatest hurling club side in the country, of all time. Having blooded them all into the senior team at the one time, we won the first five league games by no less than ten points on each occasion and sure we hadn’t started training yet. I was also aware that one of my star players, Jaz McKillop, was to marry at the age of 19 to his childhood sweetheart, who was with child. Thinking nothing of it, I attended the big day and had no reservations about returning him to the side after the honeymoon and the birth of young Jaz. The effect was tragic. The young lad had lost the ability to even connect sliotar with caman. He had also developed a bow-leggedness. It was a tragic and fantastically speedy decline. Fatherhood was to blame. At the same time I had been observing the worsening of the great Kerry side due to the influence of women and preganacy.

I decided to act, and drastically. The neutering of bulls and cats had been something that always interested me as a tactic to avoid multiple litters. Although the link had no scientific approach, I introduced the idea to the squad of a mass castration in order for these lads to achieve the greatness I knew they were capable of. We discussed it sensibly and I had to concede that it was a rather extreme measure. Some of the lads were farmers themselves and couldn’t get the excruciating idea of the clampers being used out of their heads. We agreed to look into the whole area of getting the snip in a more modern way, in the hope that a few years down the line they’d find a way to reverse the process and have sons or daughters.

After numerous and heated meetings on the subjects, we decided to head to an hotel for a weekend, get fairly drunk and before they hit the sack, I’d call the doctor in to do the needy. That way it’d be relatively pain-free and they’d be in good spirits during the whole event. I just told the medic the name of the hotel floor and he’d do the business in an hour. Things were going to plan and the lads were in great spirits that night. Also staying in the hotel was a famous country singer, now in his 50s and a great favourite with the ladies. A group of priests on retreat were also letting their hair down at the bar. It was a night of tremendous singing and dancing. The bar was dry by midnight. As the lads headed up the stairs, the doctor followed, bag in hand.

The next morning, all hell broke loose. The doc had lost himself in the whole thing and neutered two corridors, including the furious womanising singer and a collection of clergy who weren’t too bothered really. On top of that, my plan backfired. The lads lost their bite. Before the next game the bickered over the colours of their clothes and spent hours on their hair before entering the field. Lads cried uncontrollably when they lost the game, or even conceded a point. Masculinity had been obliterated. I’d gone too far and left the country for a couple of years. Wee James would do well to nip the romance in the bud but through words of wisdom only.