Who'd Be A Manager

What qualities do you need in order to survive in the hellish world of modern inter-county management? A touch of hard-nosed insanity has to be present in their DNA, especially those who stick it out for over 12 months. Ulster in recent years has been a graveyard for newly-appointed managers. You only have to think of Brian McIvor, Paddy Crozier, Jody Gormley, Peter McDonnell and Ross Carr. Years ago, a manager was the last man you blamed. The likes of Art McCrory and Brian McEniff would’ve taken on the post as a youngster, only stepping down at retirement age. If things weren’t going well on the field, it was the players who faced the abuse and they couldn’t really hear it on the park. The manager was just there to make sure the best players in the county got there on time and togged out. Many a boss would’ve trawled the pubs at midday to get a couple of his key players sobered up for a game three hours later. Now, it’s the man on the sideline who faces the music first and foremost. It wouldn’t matter if you won Sam five years running as manager, if you had a mediocre year on the 6th attempt, they’ll be writing letters and hurling abuse at matches. It’s a lose-lose situation. Today, everyone needs a pantomime villain.

You get the odd strong character like Kernan, Boylan, O’Dwyer, McEniff or Harte who don’t give two hoots about what others say. But they’re the exception. Too many fellas, brave enough to take on the post, are left broken men after 2-3 years of honest yet thankless service. It’s time county boards took into consideration who they appoint into that position. Let’s be honest here. If there was a 5ft 5’’, 10 stone manager prancing up and down the sideline, you’re not going to fear him from behind the fence. You’ll get rid of your anger by directing a few expletives towards the defenceless cratur, knowing he’ll hardly leap over the fence looking for a bit of boxing. McEniff wouldn’t have lasted a month if he was just starting out in the management in the modern era. Kildare made the right move. I’d say McGeeney gets zero verbals from the lily-white faithful. Can you imagine how you’d feel if after shouting, ‘ah away back te Mullaghbawn ye nordie spanner’ as McGeeney stops dead and with the deathly precision of a sniper picks you out from the crowd with a thunderous stare. You’d be out of Newbridge before the sideline ball was taken. Add to that big Grimley hovering beside him just in case you were still breathing after Geezer’d finished mauling the loudmouth.

The Down and Armagh county boards had a big decision to make. Both counties possess a growing band of maniacal followers who will take nothing less than to win every game as remotely acceptable. If Armagh appoint the likes of a McEniff type character in stature, he’ll be gobbled up within minutes of the first throw in. Same with Down – I’d worry about the likes of Linden or a McComiskey-type build taking the reins in front of a baying pack or Mournemen. Big Greg McCartan and Francie Bellew are the lads in my book. Francie’d only have to innocently look in your direction and you’d get slightly nervous wondering can he read your thoughts.

In my final few years as a club player on the Donegal/Sligo border, we had a manager who recognised the road the game was taking. Despite being in charge of a hopeless group of players, the only 15 males in the parish, Big Jemmy was beginning to be on the receiving end of some terrible abuse. It wasn’t his fault that the goalkeeper had a glass eye, our wing half back was riddled with the consumption and two of our forwards were developing serious cases of in-turning legs. He still took flak from the men and women of the parish. After another mauling from our parish neighbours, he cracked after one ‘ye bollocks’ too many was aimed at him from behind the dugout. He jumped over the wall and flailed every punter in sight, even stretching out the visiting Canon from America. The locals thought it was great to see the man eventually crack but after the third consecutive match explosion from Jemmy, the comments soon ceased and gave way to mild applause and ‘hard luck son’.

On my retirement I asked Jemmy for any advice as I was thinking of heading into the coaching side of things. He told me to set my stall out first thing, never to take even one nasty personal comment from the crowd. Unfortunately I took his advice too stringently and laid out an elderly pensioner in my first match when she shouted, ‘I didn’t pay in to see that gobshite’. I should’ve looked around me and made a valued judgement instead of wading in with both fists a blur of frenzied action. It turned out the poor woman was talking about a streaker up the other side of the field. I was sacked before half time and took up the bagging turf.

But you get the general message. The modern supporter can size up a manager within sixty seconds of seeing him on the sideline. If you’ve had a bad day at work or herself had been giving off all morning, you know that all that frustration can be exorcised by a few gulders at the unfortunate man with the bib on. However, county boards can wipe that phenomenon out. Appoint the meanest men in the business and we can go back to barracking the corner forward with the red boots. He’ll not hear half of it on the field with his flowing blonde locks clogging up his earholes. And all is well again.

After the first couple of rounds in the league, managers are now obtaining a firm grasp of their team’s mindset and potential capabilities for the coming season. A couple of wins will have instilled a belief that perhaps this is their year for lifting a bit of silverware. Two defeats and the wolves are at the door, especially if you’re a relatively new manager with no pedigree. They’re the pros and cons of a high profile job these days within the GAA. Inter-county managers have to deal with the enormous pressure of having his county’s hopes resting on their every decision. The other side of the coin is that they get a rash of frees meals as guest speakers at club functions. It’s not just managers who avail of the perks of being a high profile GAA figure. I think I read a stat recently which stated that Joe Brolly has not paid for a meal or drink since 2003, even when he’s not performing. Them’s the breaks.

Yet, every time I hear of ‘pressure mounting’ on managers I allow myself a wise smirk. Those lads don’t know the meaning of real pressure; the type of responsibility no mortal human should endure. In 1957 I finally answered the greatest call of all. For three months I had received a daily visit from a monk who was staying up in Portglenone. He was attempting to encourage me to buy into the idea that a team of Trappist monks could compete in the Antrim division two that year. Each day I rejected the invitation. Although I recognised its novel nature and the opportunity to become a nationwide hero in the role of manager of a group of monks, I was also acutely aware of the brutal nature of Antrim football at that time. Despite my protestations about the likelihood of a physical hammering every week from teams like Cargin or Dunloy, monk Benedict persisted with such grace and mostly silence I finally agreed to take them on for a year.

If you’re not familiar with Trappist monks, they’re a strict bunch of men. They don’t partake in the usual changing room banter. If a woman walks past they throw their glances to the floor. Laughing is seen as an evil so if a monk happened to slip on a bit of soap in a comical fashion, the men would bang their heads off the wall or slap each other full on the jaw to prevent any form of mirth. The vow of silence was the hardest aspect of their lifestyle for me to manage. I was completely oblivious as to whether they understood my instructions or not. They’d just nod and then reflect for about twenty minutes. On the field during initial challenge games there were no shouts for the ball, criticism or encouragement. Just the opponents’ voices could be heard. Even in the stands, our followers were other Trappist monks and Trappist nuns, all observing the vow of silence.

Before the first league game I received a wonderful boost from the Vatican. A short note wished me well for the forthcoming season and the chance to be absolved from all sins if we managed to stay up. I had been messing about for a few years with women and illegal distilling so complete and total absolution was a Godsend. He also said he’d be reading the results every Monday in the paper and added that this was a great opportunity for all religious orders to reach out to the common man and secure their lofted position in Ireland for future generations. Now, that’s the pressure I’m talking about. Not your ‘losing to Cavan and Wicklow in succession’ pressure. This is the Holy See depending on your capabilities to shore a team of monks into a respectable division two outfit.

I don’t think I need to explain how things panned out. The first game away to Aghagallon was a massacre. That Sunday morning the priest up there had been giving off about the young lads in the parish for their sense of dress and attitude to women and drink. The appearance of the Portglenone monks lining up to play them in their frocks was a red flag to a bull. The South Antrim men obliterated my charges with and without the ball. Skull caps, tassels and sandals were soaring through the spring air as my men remained silent and quite accepting of their 34-point hammering. We managed to play another two games in the league that year with similar outcomes. To their eternal credit, my lads never complained about the brutality and spent the aftermath of each game in the changing rooms praying for the other side.

I never heard from the Vatican again nor have I ventured anywhere near Portglenone since. I’m led to believe the Trappists moved down to Kildare a week after the venture folded. Looking back, I’m glad I took on the job as nothing has ever compared to the size of the task since. International managers think they have the weight of their nation on their shoulders. Try nations and the heavenly Gods for size. Baker Bradley thinks he has his woes as manager of Antrim in their division two this year. Just take a short drive down to St Mary’s Aghagallon, Baker, and retrace my footsteps that horrible day. Try to imagine the turmoil.