Macken was a hero of our youth

Nobody could get Harvey Smith’s autograph on that muddy, memorable day in Strokestown in 1979. Several had asked, all had been rebuffed (at least from what I could see). It wasn’t on a par with the Pope’s visit later that month (not to Strokestown, to Ireland), but we were pretty excited at the presence of sporting superstars in the town. Con Power was there, Paul Darragh too. Even more exotic…stars from England, walking around in our midst, in our mud, in our collective horse manure, in Strokestown. David Broome! Showjumping royalty! I had no doubt that the Queen knew David, probably hosted him at parties. And, scowling in Strokestown, the unmistakable, brooding Harvey Smith, charismatic straight-talking bad guy off the telly.

In those days, the annual Strokestown Show featured top international equestrian showjumping, with big prizes. A golden era. Ado Kenny, a teacher from Strokestown, was a big figure in Irish showjumping circles. The Show was held in the grounds of Strokestown Park House. And I was there, in the mud, celebrity-gazing, thrilled at the presence of the showjumping stars. In the nature of this sport, they mingled, whether they liked it or not. Horseboxes parked, abandoned almost, zigzagged into the landscape. Onlookers everywhere, rubbing shoulders with the stars. They (the showjumpers), in their splendid attire, whip in hand, circling, walking, some signs of impatience, some nervous energy, the odd smile, their attention always on their horse and their small but important entourage.

Everyone gazed at Harvey, every step and turn he took. I’m sure he served up some Harvey charm that day. But I noted, as I watched, that he was turning down all autograph requests. Which was disappointing. Because I was 15 years of age, and I had a copybook and a pen in my pocket.

The reason I was looking for autographs was because showjumping was big. And these showjumpers were household names. This sport had a profile in the 1970s and early ‘80’s which was not entirely dissimilar to that of snooker at the time.

The Aga Khan Cup (competed for at the Dublin Horse Show each year) was unmissable…just as the FA Cup Final was in those days. And several weeks of the year, there were televised showjumping competitions. The sport was perfect for TV; colourful, glamorous, graceful, exciting. Clear rounds were the ‘currency’ that paid handsomely. If invested in a particular rider and horse, you felt great tension as they approached each new fence. Making it even more exciting was the race against the clock (the fastest rider-and-horse combination declared winner if two or more competitors were level on jumping ‘faults’).

There were accomplished participants on the circuit who were from beyond the British Isles, but mostly this was a weekly showdown between the English elite and Ireland’s small but brilliant crop of jumpers.

Tommy Wade had been an Irish hero in a different time. Now we had a golden era, a handful of riders who always seemed to be in contention. World class horsemen, including Paul Darragh and army riders Con Power and James Kernan. And we had a man who, in my teenage years, stood supreme. Or sat supreme, on the peerless Boomerang (honourable mention here for another horse, ‘Kerrygold’). That man was Eddie Macken.

King of showjumping

I couldn’t leave him out – so that’s why he’s in!

Maybe it’s a minority sport. Maybe it’s not cool, well, not now. Maybe I need to stop almost apologising! Fact is, nothing can undo what was. And, while we mightn’t pass much as heed on it now, for many people, showjumping was an unmissable TV sport in the 1970s and ‘80’s. Midst all the GAA greats and soccer stars, and the mesmerising casts at Wimbledon and Sheffield (Crucible Theatre), there was a Granard man who had hero status in our house. Granard! That, perhaps, was a small part of the allure. Local pride. We passed through Granard a few times a year, on our way to visit our grandparents in Ballyjamesduff. Before anyone even mentioned ‘Come back Paddy Reilly to Ballyjamesduff’ (the song always got a mention on those journeys) there was the thrill of passing Macken’s filling station, on the edge of Granard. That’s where Eddie Macken was from. The man whose great feats ensured that RTE’s likeable sports’ anchor Brendan O’Reilly could never realistically be Granard’s most famous son.

For a few years, Eddie Macken was one of my top sporting heroes. Showjumping was a wonderful fit for TV. Any night (usually midweek, making it all the better) that it featured on TV, it was relished. It was riveting. What a cleverly constructed sporting theatre! Elaborate, beautiful fences, water obstacles, doubles and trebles, tension, drama, jump-offs, the rider torn between the need to approach each fence with caution while remaining conscious of the time factor. Frequently, Macken triumphed. He was always generously hailed by the UK commentators.

He was clearly a brilliant horseman. His most famous horse was Boomerang, though I recall Kerrygold too. With Boomerang, he made showjumping history, winning the Hickstead Derby four years in a row (1976-’79). He was the King of Showjumping at that time.

Hero of Hickstead

Radio was a special friend in those days, at least for those of us who were drawn to sport. There was so little televised sport then, compared to now. On European soccer nights I patiently adjusted the dial back and forth to try to get the BBC commentary as clearly as possible. Great commentators painted evocative pictures for a teenage boy in Rooskey, ear to the radio, imagination running free.

On nights when the showjumping wasn’t televised, there were breathless radio reports of never-to-be-seen rounds and jump-offs against the clock. I remember a BBC commentator rhapsodising about Eddie Macken one such night, the man from up the road in Granard conquering Britain’s best again. Eddie also starred in many great Irish wins in the Aga Khan Cup.

Of course David Broome and Harvey Smith and many others – I recall, for example, Michael Whitaker, Caroline Bradley, Nick Skelton – all had their successes too. Truth is, I can’t be sure where Eddie Macken rates in the all-time equestrian list. Oddly, it’s proven difficult to find any polls, any record of ‘Best ever Irish showjumpers’ or ‘Best ever showjumpers in UK & Ireland’. Be that as it may, I’m certain that Eddie Macken is an equestian great – for that matter, one of Ireland’s finet sportspeople (though seldom mentioned)!

What I have discovered is that Eddie Macken rode competitively long after that golden era. In recent years he moved to Canada, and is still involved in the sport. He was wonderful, and he brought a lot of pleasure to fans during his glorious peak. His feats at Hickstead, and the memory of his cool, clinical brilliance ensure his place in showjumping’s Hall of Fame. I’ll certainly always remember how this man – more than anyone else – made showjumping a wonderful part of my sports-following youth. The man who would definitely win any ‘Granard’s Best’ list(!) was a true Irish sporting hero. Thanks for the great memories, Eddie!

Harvey hits back…

Back in Strokestown over forty years ago, mud…muck, manure. And Harvey. One of the reasons the showjumpers tend to be accessible – certainly it’s easy to see them up ‘close and personal’, to kind of mingle with them – is because they have to hang around for so long, between rounds. Often a jumper might have two horses in an event. It can be a long day.

While Eddie Macken certainly competed – and won – in Strokestown in the 1970’s, I don’t think he was there in ’79. All eyes were on David Broome and Harvey Smith. Especially on Harvey.

When he hit me, I went reeling. The ‘he’ was Harvey. Harvey Smith. I didn’t know that at the time. For a few seconds, I didn’t know anything! Here’s what happened…

Being a 15-year-old boy, long day at Strokestown Show, muck and moody showjumpers everywhere, I’d started to daydream. There are only so many times you can walk around in circles, checking out smelly horseboxes, celebrity-gazing, waiting around. So I’m daydreaming, wandering, head down, and next thing…THUD! My left shoulder/upper back reeled with pain! I looked up. Harvey Smith had accidentally bumped into me! Yes, Harvey Smith had bumped into me!

I was shy – and sore. But this was my moment. Harvey mumbled an apologetic “sorry, son” – then I just went for it. I asked him for an autograph. Time stood still. Then, he scribbled his name into my notebook, before shaking my hand. Eddie Macken was my hero, but this was special too.

A golden sporting world, depicted weekly on our TV screens, had landed in Strokestown. I may have been the only person who managed to get Harvey Smith’s autograph in Strokestown that day. I had a sore shoulder, but I had Harvey’s autograph!

Now for the Pope…

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There was definitely a time when Roscommon’s Tony McManus was one of the very best forwards in the country. I’m just not sure which of three decades it was!

Maybe he was one of the best Gaelic footballers in the country in all three decades of his remarkable career – the 1970’s, ‘80’s and ‘90’s. Cliff Richard famously had No. 1s in about six decades; our Tony Mc had hits in three decades.

Just as I haven’t been an expert throughout this series – more, to paraphrase Eamon Dunphy, an unapologetic ‘fan with a typewriter’ – I’m not quite an expert on Tony McManus’ career. Well, not on its totality. I didn’t see him playing that often in the early years, certainly not at club level. But I caught up with him a lot in the late 1980’s and early ‘90’s, when – even as a veteran – he was still magnificent, still the leader for both Clann and Roscommon.

It’s amazing, looking back, how long he played at the very top. He won an All-Ireland U-21 medal in 1978. Eleven years later, he won an All-Star. Thirteen years after ’78, he won a (second successive) Connacht title, and played in another All-Ireland Senior Football semi-final. Sixteen years after first playing championship for the county seniors in 1977, he was still playing for Roscommon. Sixteen successive seasons!

Naturally, by the very end, Tony had slowed, but the craft and wiliness was still there, the football brain orchestrating much of the play. He was still the ‘go to’ man in the Roscommon team. And every time he played, he oozed class. It was hard to take your eyes off him.

A Clann legend

I was very young when Tony Mc and Dermot Earley and their teammates were winning four Connacht titles in a row (1977-’80), while inching achingly close to the feats of Jimmy Murray and the men of 1943/’44.

I was at three of those Connacht finals. Magical days. Crepe caps, class team. Time passed. After working for a couple of years as a sports reporter in Cavan, I ‘transferred’ to the Roscommon Champion in 1988. My first port of call was hurling in Athleague. I soon learnt about the might of Four Roads. And very soon I discovered that covering club football in Roscommon would be almost all about the magnificent Clann na nGael.

Over the next few years, I followed Clann around the country. They routinely destroyed all-comers in Roscommon, also dominating Connacht. They had a few stars, but mostly Clann were a great team. Incredibly, Clann won ten county titles in eleven years (1981-1991) and six Connacht titles in a row. In all, McManus collected an amazing 14 county senior medals. At Clann, he was not alone in collecting multiple honours. Sadly, cruelly really, All-Ireland club success eluded Tony and Clann; they reached five finals, falling at that last hurdle each time. Sport often scoffs at our notions of what is fair, what is deserved.

I enjoyed covering those Clann years (the much-missed Donie Shine Senior was their manager at the time). The one-sided demolition jobs in Roscommon were becoming boring for neutrals…and were hardly particularly healthy for football here, even if one always had to admire Clann’s class, ruthlessness, and extraordinary hunger. Much more memorable were some great performances in Connacht and in All-Ireland semi-finals. More often than not, Tony Mc starred. He was a consistent scorer, a born leader, a player who detested defeat. As such, he was more than happy to get his hands dirty. Great workrate. He had remarkable dedication and commitment. Hence the long career.

Fans will always remember the great scores, the trademark McManus dummy, the touches of class…also how he simply never gave up, even when the scoreboard bore a grim message. It wasn’t unusual to see him foraging for possession/helping out, deep in his own half. I remember one famous Clann win against Burren. It was a bitterly cold day, the pitch bathed in snowflakes. From the press box, we could barely see the players. We could just about make them out. Clann had many warriors who excelled in that epic battle, but I particularly remember Tony coming deep, in defence one minute, then midfield, then attack, linking the play, eking victory through sheer will and hunger and craft, Clann masterful and heroic, prevailing over man and snow.

Long, distinguished county career

Somehow, the Gods (aided by Nemo Rangers and others) decreed that Clann wouldn’t win that All-Ireland. So be it. We cannot tamper with the history books, but neither can hard luck tarnish the memory of what we saw, of how good they were. Meanwhile, what can one say about Tony McManus’ inter-county career? It was remarkable.

He won those four Connacht seniors as a very young man – ’77 to ’80 inclusive. The run he made to set up the Roscommon goal in the first minute of the 1980 All-Ireland final is timeless, a thing of beauty, while also a teasing reminder of what might have been.

After the huge disappointment of that All-Ireland final defeat to Kerry, many of Tony’s teammates drifted away, entirely understandably. The dream was dead. McManus soldiered on. A great player showing what it’s like to be a great, loyal servant. Year after year, he excelled in that Roscommon attack, earning the respect and admiration of GAA people all over the country. But they were barren years at inter-county level. In the Roscommon Champion, I labelled the eighties’ Roscommon’s ‘Decade of despair’.

Finally, by 1989, Martin McDermott had built a very good team and still had the talisman up front. In the Connacht Final, Mayo (eventual All-Ireland finalists that year) and Roscommon drew. The replay in the Hyde was a thriller. A full house. McManus scored two goals. His second, a superb penalty, put Roscommon ahead by a point in the dying seconds. Tony directed colleagues to mark up as Mayo made a quick restart. But his plea went unanswered. Mayo broke upfield, levelled, and brought the game to extra-time. Roscommon dominated, only for Jimmy Bourke to scramble a horrible, ugly, heartbreaking sickener of a soft goal over the line!

But Roscommon, with the now-veteran McManus still hurting defences, were going places. Aged 32, Tony won a richly deserved, overdue All Star that year. And McDermott’s team won the 1990 Connacht final. (Cork beat Roscommon by seven in the All-Ireland semi-final). Roscommon retained Connacht in 1991 (under McDermott), running Meath to a point in the All-Ireland semi-final. Another one that got away.

Tony Mc finally retired in 1993. He won six Connacht titles in his career, and a National League winner’s medal (in 1979 v Cork). These, allied to multiple honours with Clann, three Sigerson Cups with UCD, and that All-Ireland U-21 title in 1978 against a Kerry team laced with young men who would become senior legends.

Throughout that long, distinguished career, McManus was recognised as one of the outstanding forwards of the era.

Twisted blood, dummies to die for

There were virtuoso scores and performances that I never saw, others that I did. I recall a day (was it against Meath in that NFL game in Kiltoom, when it rained almost biblically?) when he scored 1-5 from his total of six shots in the entire game. In 1990, in a National League quarter-final in Portlaoise (rather like George Best against Chelsea’s Ken Shellito) he gave Dublin’s Noel McCaffrey twisted blood. In a classic game (won by Roscommon) Tony scored 2-5, McCaffrey hung out to dry on a summer’s day.

It’s no harm to meet our heroes. In Down the Hatch (the well-known ‘GAA pub’ in Roscommon) and elsewhere, we bump into Tony every now and again (well, pre-Covid) and we’re always transported back to when his greatness graced the grass.

First, the magical 1977-’80 team. Then, the quietly heroic soldiering in the wilderness years, McManus alternating between fruitless campaigns with the county and glory with club.

Then, when Roscommon blossomed again – that fine team of ’89-’91 – Tony was royalty up front. Good times had come again. Two Connacht titles. For a while, he broke Leitrim hearts year on year, Tony often the main difference between the teams in tight derbies (remember, Leitrim had a fine team then, winning Connacht in ’94).

Yes, it was hard to take your eyes off him. He was generally at corner-forward, but he could pop up anywhere. He took the ball, chest-high (having pointed to where he wanted it). He hardly ever wasted it. He scored, or he passed, or he won a free. He was some man to draw a free! He scored inspirational points. Blessed with great balance, he soloed artistically. He had a dummy to die for. He could turn defenders inside out and was clinical with his finishing.

Gifted, oozing class, fiercely committed, and with an extraordinarily long career – one marked by both glory and broken dreams – Tony McManus was a distinguished prince of footballers, a Roscommon hero always.

Footnote: One Sunday in the early ‘90’s, after the now-veteran McManus had broken Leitrim hearts (again) in a championship game in Carrick, four or five of us found a quiet bar in the town. Fresh from his handiwork, Tony Mc joined us, as had been arranged. One of our party told the old Leitrim lady behind the counter that this was Tony McManus. For a moment I wasn’t sure if she was going to hero-worship him, or hire a hitman. After a pause, she smiled and sighed. “So you’re the fella that keeps tormenting us!” Our very own football hitman smiled back.

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‘At 24, the Clones Cyclone has swept one

of the great champions out of the way…’

The golden era of heavyweight boxing – that epic theatre served up in the early 1970s, with Ali, Frazier and Foreman as modern-day gladiators – was all I needed when it came to the so-called noble art.

I have to confess to being barely aware of the other weight divisions. Looking back, I doubt if they had any of the media profile of the heavyweight division.

Maybe it fell to Harry Carpenter to break it to me…the reality that there was quality boxing fare beyond the mad circus of the heavyweight scene.

Harry was the likeable BBC commentator, all cheerful and chappy, like a favourite uncle. His commentaries were breathless, excited, enthusiastic. By around 1980, and with TV coverage of the sport increasing all the time, I realised there were great champions who didn’t have to be built like George Foreman. I guess it makes sense, when you have so many different weight divisions!

Yet, this was an eye-opener to many of us. Truth is, we had been drawn to boxing because of the amazing charisma of Ali…and once he was centre stage, all eyes were on those epic heavyweight showdowns, with Ali – the hype-master extraordinaire – expertly orchestrating it all. The heavyweight scene was where glamour, courage, power, money, superstardom, success and heartbreak met and intertwined. Millions of fans lapped it up. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Madison Square Garden!”

But now, my generation discovered there were exceptional pugilists below the heavyweight division. There were great champions there too, and emerging rivalries that would make the 1980s very memorable. There was, as in the heavyweight division, tragedy and triumph, the whiff of menace merged with the promise of supreme sporting combat.

We discovered Marvelous Marvin Hagler, Sugar Ray Leonard, Thomas Hearns, Roberto Duran and others…a new cast of characters, great athletes…brave warriors…some of them amongst the most gifted and courageous the sport has seen.

Personally – and I think it’s broadly true of many of my generation – the 1980s, aided by clever marketing and growing TV coverage, opened a new window on a sport which, for all its dubious aspects, we find it so hard to look away from. Yes, this was one long golden era for this sometimes brutal sport; and we couldn’t get enough of the combatants.

Meanwhile, in Clones…

Cyclone warning

I won’t claim to be an expert on Barry McGuigan, or on boxing generally – because I’m not. Did I know much about Barry McGuigan before the early 1980’s? Probably not.

I am, mind you, well aware of how Ireland…eh…punches above its weight in this sport. I’m no expert, but I reckon we’re a truly great boxing nation. We’ve produced great boxers, including many world champions. We’ve become a real force in the Olympics. Fast-forward (from the McGuigan era) to 1995 and I’ll never forget the atmosphere when watching Steve Collins in two great fights with Chris Eubank.

Back to Barry. By 1985, the ‘Clones Cyclone’ was already an Irish hero. He was European Champion. There had been many great nights at the King’s Hall in Belfast, McGuigan thrilling fans. The public loved his all-action style. We loved his personality too. He managed to cross the political divide, being popular in the Republic, the North, and the UK.

My late father informed me of an interesting fact. Barry’s father had sung in our bar! Our family opened the renowned Kon Tiki Bar & Lounge in Rooskey in 1970. We had many top performers on stage, including Pat McGuigan, who had represented Ireland in the 1968 Eurovision Song Contest.

Back to Barry (again). By the summer of ’85, the Clones man – brilliantly promoted by Barney Eastwood (though they later had a very high profile falling out) had earned his shot at a world featherweight title.

His opponent would be Eusebio Pedroza. The Panamanian boxer had an incredible record. By 1985, he was unbeaten as world champion for over seven years. While he was older than McGuigan, and arguably beginning to decline, he was a great champion with a phenomenal record (18 successful defences)…and it seemed unlikely that he would be beaten.

The venue was Loftus Road, home of London soccer club Queens Park Rangers. The date was 8th of June 1985. Barry McGuigan went through his pre-bout routine in his dressing room. He could hear thunderous noise outside, the stadium bulging with thousands of Irish fans. In the dressing room across from him, a cool, calm champion. Eusebio Pedroza had done this for seven years. Unbeaten champion of the world. Muhammad Ali once claimed to have “handcuffed lightning and thrown thunder in jail”. You suspected, with his imposing gravitas and ringcraft, that Pedroza could most likely stop a cyclone, however fiercely it raged.

Loftus Road, 8 June 1985 (Round 7)

‘McGuigan’s work has not been so effective in this round. He hasn’t found the range. Yes he did, he’s got him with a right! Oh! The champion’s over in the seventh! He found him with a right! The compulsory count…is the title about to change hands? 30 seconds to go. Can McGuigan do it here and now? We thought he’d find him with a left hook, and he found him with a right…I can hardly hear myself speak to you, under the inferno of sound!’

Later…

‘I’ve never heard such a sound in my life as this crowd is creating here…McGuigan going for the win…ten seconds (left)…and Pedroza is going to survive. What a marvellous champion. And that surely must be the end of Pedroza’s reign as champion…McGuigan is the champion! They’ve (the judges) voted for him…and 25,000 people in the stadium have voted for him. At 24, the Clones Cyclone has swept one of the great champions out of the way…’

– BBC commentator Harry Carpenter

‘The punch of a lifetime’

My family had moved from Rooskey to Strokestown, having bought a small hotel (the Strokestown Arms). An exotic new world!

We were only open a day or two when the McGuigan-Pedroza fight came up. The bar in the Strokestown Arms was packed. Loftus Road was packed. Little did we realise, one of the great Irish sporting moments was about to present itself. It was before the era of pubs having three/four/five TV screens in a premises. We had one television, propped high in the centre of the long bar. What an atmosphere!

Before the fight began, Barry’s father, Pat McGuigan (Eurovision, Kon Tiki in Rooskey!) stood in the crowded ring and sang an emotional version of Danny Boy. Thousands of Irish fans present in Loftus Road sang it with him (see YouTube). Unforgettable.

The place exploded with raucous joy when McGuigan downed Pedroza with that glorious punch in Round 7. What a sporting moment! McGuigan was relentless, full of energy and youth, and packing a punch too. A terrifically exciting fighter. Pedroza was magnificent too. He was proud, stubborn, a true champion. Challenged now by Father Time – and by a hungry, brilliant young opponent – Pedroza heroically survived to the final bell, all 15 rounds. Sheer pride had kept him going. But he had been downed by a textbook right – the punch of a lifetime – and he had been beaten. The judges confirmed that Barry McGuigan was the winner on points, and the new WBA Featherweight Champion of the World.

McGuigan, who later lost his title to Steve Cruz (an ill-fated choice, given the punishing heat of Las Vegas) remains one of the most popular figures in boxing. These days, he’s a successful promoter and a highly-respected pundit.

Because of one magical night in particular, but also because of a swashbuckling career which peaked in Loftus Road stadium – and because he was such an exciting fighter and such a great ambassador for this island – Barry McGuigan will always be an Irish sporting hero. (I’ve never met him…but read on…).

Mrs McGuigan’s shop…

A footnote: How times have changed. From 1986 to 1988, I was working in Cavan Town. A little while after Barry McGuigan beat Pedroza and won the world title, I found myself in Clones one day. GAA fans will be familiar with the steep entry to this quaint town and its big square (‘The Diamond’). Knowing that Barry McGuigan lived in Clones, and that his mother had a shop in the town, I drove around to have a look. To my surprise, parked in the square opposite McGuigan’s Foodmarket was Barry McGuigan’s sports car. I can’t recall what model it was, but I’d seen a photo of the world champion and his fancy sports car in the papers. Now, here it was, parked opposite his mother’s shop, without any of the security or airs or graces one might have expected. It was a bit of a thrill just to see it; if I recall correctly it had ‘Clones Cyclone’ emblazoned somewhere on its flashy exterior (somewhere in the world, someone was working on smartphones and the concept of selfies). There was nobody around; just me and a world champion’s flashy car. I went into the shop, and there was Barry McGuigan’s mother, a small, friendly woman, living the life of the small shopkeeper: handing cigarettes over the counter, chit-chatting with locals, her singing till reminiscent of the bell at a boxing ring. I’m pretty sure I wasn’t brave or audacious enough to ask ‘Is Barry in?’. Instead, I bought a bar of chocolate from the mother of the man who downed Pedroza. Back outside, I admired the world champion’s car a final time before getting back into my long-suffering and extremely modest Toyota Starlet, by now as dinted and traumatised as poor Pedroza’s jaw!

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 Paul Healy 

Stuttgart (1988)

Republic of Ireland 1 England 0

My family, not for the first time, had moved house. Our parents had their sights on a new business venture. In the new house, the room with the TV in it (for now at least) was small. But there was enough space for that free to be lobbed forward, for Galvin to hook the cross in, for Aldridge to make the final assist, and for Houghton to make that timeless lunge forward with his head, putting the ball into the England net and his own name into history. In our new home, we almost knocked the telly over when we jumped off the sofa, stunned, delirious. Even our father, who wasn’t that interested in sport – well, not unless the participants each had four legs – knew the significance of this extraordinary moment. Our hearts raced, struggling with this unprecedented explosion of emotions. Almost 800 years into a low-in-confidence-against-the-Brits phase, we could barely process the enormity of what had just happened. Not even Taylor’s black against an ashen-faced Davis in ’85, or Coghlan’s grin to ‘The Russian’ in ’83, or McGuigan’s immortal downing of Pedroza in ’85, could match this. We had squeezed on to a sofa to watch Ireland face England in our opening match at our first ever major tournament, afraid to hope, conditioned to dread. And yet, Ray Houghton had just put the ball into the England net. Across Ireland, the feeling of joy, the release of emotions, was tribal. Ireland against England. ENGLAND! On the world stage. And Ray Houghton had put Ireland in front. 800 years. Now, 83 minutes of agony.

When I wrote about Paul McGrath last week – observing that Jack Charlton had shown commendable man management skills with the star – little did I know that ‘Big Jack’ would ‘jump the queue’ amongst the names that remain on my ‘Heroes’ shortlist. Oh yes, make no mistake about it, Jack (and his Irish team) were on this list, ready to be slotted in when the mood took me…maybe when I felt I could justify another soccer entry in this series!

Now, with Jack’s sad passing last weekend, the time is right. And one thing we can surely all agree on is this: Jack was and is a hero. The word ‘legend’ may indeed be overused these days, but it should have been stamped on Jack’s forehead. LEGEND, CHARACTER, GOOD GUY. I kind of like Queen Elizabeth, but she (or her advisers) have a lot to answer for, given that we’re not talking about Sir Jack (though it might not have suited him!).

Genoa (1990)

Republic of Ireland 0 Romania 0 (Ireland win 5-4 on penalties)

‘If a writer of schoolboy fiction had brought this scenario to his editor, he would have been told to go back to his desk and write something that readers might believe…I have never known the Irish followers to be so quiet in the immediate aftermath of yesterday evening’s game; they seemed like men and women and boys and girls who had seen something that was almost unbelievable and they were still trying to come to grips with it…I have never known so many happy people in Genoa and in Rapallo last night. And I can only imagine the atmosphere in Dublin and all over the country. Nevertheless, life goes on and I have no doubt that down at home today the cows were milked and the pigs were fed and the children washed. We are now in the last eight of the World Cup – such mighty powers as the Soviets and Holland and Brazil are out. Football is surely a strange old game’

– Con Houlihan

‘What horse? What race? When? ALL of our wages? What if we lose? But yeah, it’s worth it…hold on, we’ll have another drink and think it through’ (Yes, Italia ’90 was driving the nation crazy. Another drink, and this idea would simultaneously sound crazier and more plausible. Ah, if Carlsberg made Monday afternoons in Ireland in 1990…).

When people say Ireland went mad, crazy (take your pick) during Italia ’90, they really mean it. At the Roscommon Champion, the staff, en masse, gave serious consideration to travelling to Italy for Ireland’s World Cup quarter-final. This, despite the fact that few, if any of us, had enough money to even book a flight. Not to mention the problem of having to bring out a weekly newspaper. But, after Ireland beat Romania in a penalty shootout on a never to be forgotten Monday afternoon, we – like the whole nation – were floating on a wave of euphoria, excitement and fantastical dreams.

We watched the Romania game in the Lyons Den in Roscommon. The atmosphere was fantastic, a combination of fear and excitement. Romania’s brooding and brilliant Hagi tormented us with his jinking runs, his vision, the menace of his magic. But we survived his onslaught, and played some good football of our own. 0-0. Extra-time. Penalties. Packie’s save. George Hamilton’s immortal line. ‘A nation holds its breath’. Just before that, shock as we discovered that David O’Leary would be taking our fifth penalty. If there had been a vote, we’d have voted no confidence in him. But David scored, and then disappeared, the Irish camp devouring the prodigal son of Irish football. We leapt and roared and probably cried.

Someone said we HAVE to go to Italy for the quarter-final. But we had no money. Then, like Baldrick in Blackadder, someone had a cunning plan. Let’s put Friday’s wages on a horse. If the horse wins, we have the funds to get to Rome. Because Ireland had gone crazy, we actually discussed this plan for an hour in the Lyons Den on a Monday afternoon. Finally, we abandoned it. Maybe, to paraphrase Con Houlihan, we realised that, just now, to be in Italy, not Ireland, was to almost miss this momentous adventure!

When, a week or so further into the party, we lost 1-0 to Italy in a World Cup quarter-final, we weren’t in Rome, we were in the Lyon’s Den (we had gone back to work in the meantime). I know I shed a tear. Not so much from the heartbreak of Schillaci’s dream-killing strike, more so, I think, from sheer pride. The journey was over, but what a journey.

Giants Stadium (1994)

Republic of Ireland 1 Italy 0

We moved a few doors up Church Street, watching this epic in The Sportsman’s Inn. Almost nine years into Charlton’s reign as Ireland manager, we still had a very strong squad, marvellous players who – whatever about those sometimes tedious reservations about playing style – were brilliantly managed by the eccentric English man. Charlton’s style worked. Ireland had reached the last eight of the European Championships in ’88, the last eight of the World Cup in 1990, now a new adventure awaited.

In The Sportsman’s, and in Giants Stadium in New York, it happened again. Ray did it again. More madness. The goal came from nowhere, so it seemed. Houghton’s looping shot, the Italian ‘keeper frozen, stuck in no man’s land. Ireland 1 Mighty Italy 0.

Ireland were superb, Paul McGrath in particular. I wrote last week of McGrath’s magnificence defiance of the Italians, in the most celebrated of his many great career performances. Ireland prevailed, going on to qualify for round 2 (last sixteen). More magical memories along the way. In that last sixteen encounter, our great rivals, the Dutch, did us 2-0. Party over. What a party.

As a Leeds United man, I had good reason to be a fan of Jack’s long before the unbelievable Irish dimension to his career. The caricature of Jack was shoddy: the narrative often being that he was a rough and tumble defender (bereft of any of the skills of his brother, Bobby) who had a simplistic style when he went into management. In actual fact, Jack was exceptionally knowledgeable about the game, and some people would say that the pressing game he advocated with Ireland is in vogue with some clubs in Britain right now. Back to Jack as player: the reality is that he was a magnificent footballer. He made a club record 762 competitive appearances for Leeds; won the World Cup as a member of the England team in ’66, AND was Footballer of the Year in 1967, at a time when Denis Law, George Best and Jimmy Greaves were around!

His management career, pre-Ireland, was also, for the most part, impressive, with successful periods at Middlesbrough and Sheffield Wednesday. Famously, he was overlooked for the England job, a bit like the Queen overlooking that knighthood!

England’s loss was Ireland’s gain. Charlton was a surprise appointment as Ireland manager in late 1985, and went on to lead our national team to those historic campaigns at Euro ’88, Italia ’90 and USA ’94. Our Charlton-inspired success inspired a new confidence in the country. Jack Charlton elevated the entire nation to new heights in a way that no politician or country could.

‘Put ‘em under pressure’

We’ll prepare and go, and do our best
we’ll put ’em under pressure
The game is about being effective
Being aggressive, winning the ball
Getting on with the play
Olé Olé Olé Olé, Olé Olé
Olé Olé Olé Olé, Olé Olé

We’re all part of Jackie’s Army
We’re all off to Italy
And we’ll really shake them up
When we win The World Cup
‘Cos Ireland are the greatest football team!

– From ‘Put ‘Em Under Pressure’, the official song for the Republic of Ireland’s 1990 World Cup campaign

Just about every night, in every venue, on every radio station too, for week after week, this and other songs rang out. The nation partied like never before. The team was full of heroes. Jack was the leader, the boss, the inspiration.

Jack Charlton was a heroic Leeds and England footballer, a great man, and a true Irish hero. The memories will never really fade. It all feels as beautiful today as it did then. Thanks Jack.

The post Jack Charlton appeared first on Roscommon People.

– Con Houlihan on Ireland v Italy in Italia ’90

Paul McGrath was brilliant in that 1990 World Cup quarter-final against tournament hosts, Italy. Ireland lost 1-0, ending a first and memorable participation in the World Cup finals.

Four years later, McGrath lined out against the Italians again, this time in the 1994 World Cup, in the USA. He was now 34 years of age, his body battered by injury. McGrath produced arguably the most celebrated performance of his career, as Ireland defeated the Italians 1-0, courtesy of that strange, looping Ray Houghton shot.

The great gentle giant of Irish football famously barred Italy from the Irish goal on that memorable day, like a quiet, utterly unreasonable bouncer refusing to let a cocky regular through the nightclub door on one of the biggest nights of the year.

McGrath’s epic performance in the Giants Stadium in New York can be ranked as one of the most acclaimed of his career – it was certainly a wonderful confluence of footballing prowess and occasion – but we cannot assume that it was his best day in a football jersey.

Two weeks ago I wrote about all the sensational George Best performances that were never recorded on film. We end up enthusing about the great Best goals we saw, while unaware of many others that no medium ever preserved.

I appreciate that much more of McGrath’s career was filmed than Best’s, but I’d still make the point that there were numerous stunning displays by the former that never came to widespread attention.

Ask fans of Derby County or Sheffield United. Or ask the fans of Aston Villa, where McGrath is hero-worshipped to this day. We all know about McGrath’s time at Manchester United, and his great displays for Ireland – in fairness, his Villa years were well documented too – but the sheer class of the man is underlined by the noble beauty of his playing swansong.

It was the late-1990s, and McGrath was then with Sheffield United. By now, he was a 37-year-old veteran plagued by injury and battling alcoholism. Every Monday for a few months, I bought one or more of the English tabloids. Much of their coverage of soccer was hyped, silly, gushing…a print version of Sky Sports at its worst (or best?) – but there was what was then a novelty: the tabloids’ football correspondents had around that time begun to rate the performance (out of ten) of every player in every game.

The reason I can vividly remember checking those Monday morning tabloids is down to one astonishing pattern: game after game (almost without exception) Paul McGrath was Sheffield United’s best player, usually attaining an 8 or 9 out of 10, frequently being chosen as man of the match.

He was a supremely gifted footballer, and – for all Paul’s demons – it is to his great credit that he bravely and brilliantly squeezed everything possible from his body and career as the clock ticked ominously. He squeezed, and he delivered. Best only played at the highest level up to the age of 27; the great Paul McGrath was still producing those man of the match performances at club level as a 37-year-old!

World football marvelled at his brilliance in the Giants Stadium in 1994. But it really was ‘ever thus’. Paul didn’t have to face players as good as the mercurial Roberto Baggio every run of the mill weekend back in the UK, but week on week he calmly dispensed with superstar or elbow-leading journeyman, or the guys in between. McGrath generally mastered them all, whether at Old Trafford, Villa Park or on a wet night in Sheffield.

The Giants Stadium was special because of where and when it was – and certainly the stakes were higher than on most Saturdays – but it really was business as usual for football’s shy, gentle giant.

Charlie Walker: ‘I went across for that game. It was the first time I was ever taken into the VIP lounge at Old Trafford. Who comes across to me after the match? Only the famous Matt Busby. And in his Scottish accent he says ‘That’s one hell of a lad you’ve sent us there’’

– From ‘Paul McGrath: Back from the Brink’ (2007)

Shy, gentle, troubled, brilliant. There are, no doubt, many different sides to Paul McGrath. At times, he has been a deeply sad, tortured man. He has admitted that he let people down – loved ones, people in football too. As the blurb of his biography, the superb work of Irish Independent journalist Vincent Hogan, put it: “…behind the implied glamour of life in the employ of great English clubs like Manchester United and Aston Villa, McGrath wrestled with a range of destructive emotions that made his success in the game little short of miraculous”.

Demons certainly shadowed Paul, who had a very tough upbringing – and this writer won’t be delving much into those personal torments, least of all passing any judgements…rather I’d prefer to honour an exceptional footballer and a much-loved man.

A great career

He started out with St. Patrick’s Athletic, moving to Manchester United in 1982. After seven years and some success there, he was sold by Alex Ferguson, apparently largely because of McGrath’s excessive drinking. At Aston Villa, the late Graham Taylor (manager) was a caring and compassionate father-like figure for McGrath.

Over several seasons at Villa, McGrath was consistently brilliant. Not only was he the club’s player of the year season after season, he was also the PFA Player of the Year in 1992-93.

While starring a club level, McGrath also became a magnificent warrior in the heart of the Irish defence, where manager Jack Charlton – like Taylor – showed commendable man management skills.

McGrath, for a long time unbeknownst to the wider public, had slipped into a chronic dependence on alcohol. It led to him missing training and matches, and testing the patience of loved ones and his football colleagues. But he was and is an immensely likeable person. That, coupled with his extraordinary ability to play to a high standard – despite his hard lifestyle and developing knee problems – meant that managers did everything to get him on to the field, and teammates happily turned the proverbial blind eye to the way in which McGrath was indulged.

It really is amazing how brilliantly McGrath could play when you take into account his drinking, his injuries and the mental strain he was frequently under. I hope it is not patronising to suggest that happiness for him, during those years, was most likely only to be found on the football pitch.

Let’s get back to the football: another memory I have of the 1990 World Cup tournament is of reading of the journalists’ Team of the competition. Jack Charlton was playing Paul McGrath in midfield, which of course was not his normal position (he was a central defender). Ireland bowed out at the quarter-final stage. Yet McGrath was selected on the Team of the Tournament…as a midfielder. That tells you how great a player he was.

When he left Villa in 1997, McGrath joined Derby, playing superbly for 24 games, before the club reluctantly decided to move the now injury-ravaged veteran on. Perhaps the end was nigh.

Sheffield United, playing in the First Division (now The Championship) came calling, and McGrath lined out 12 times for the Blades, playing until he was almost 38 years of age, before finally hanging up his boots at the end of the 1997/98 season. Even warriors wilt!

At every club where he played, the fans still talk of the quiet, shy Irishman with the deceptively laid-back style, who simply demolished – and demoralised – opponents with his extraordinary positional sense, his wonderful timing, and his great tackling and heading. McGrath had speed in his day, but he didn’t really have to outpace opponents; he was just in the right place before they were. McGrath read the game effortlessly; at times the ball seemed to be drawn to him. Watching him dominate games from the back was a joy. To this day, he is remembered with reverence at those clubs he graced.

‘He’s the best defender I’ve ever played with. Without doubt. Absolutely world class. I mean he was probably only playing at seventy-five to eighty per cent of his ability. So taking that into consideration, he was absolutely awesome’

– Gordon Cowans, English international and Villa teammate

Ooh Aah…

Here in Ireland, we’ll remember Paul for his long and relatively successful club career in England, but even that was surpassed by his magnificent service in an Irish shirt.

He won 83 caps for the Republic of Ireland. On a bad day, he was very good; most days, he was sensational, sometimes out of this world.

He oozed class, in defence or midfield, and he played his heart out every time he took to the field for Ireland. McGrath became a folk hero, a national treasure. I will refer you to the ‘Ooh Aah Paul McGrath’ chant, itself now part of football folklore, indeed of Irish culture.

It is no exaggeration to say that Paul McGrath was worshipped by Irish fans – in his playing days, and still. I hope this modest man, historically so prone to self-doubt, realises just how loved he is. I hope he’s doing well.

He will always be loved by Irish people, always be a national hero. Ooh Aah Paul McGrath indeed!

The post Paul McGrath appeared first on Roscommon People.

Ten years ago…

 Ten years ago this summer, they lined the streets of Belfast to say farewell to the man they called Sandy. Sandy to his own people, Alex ‘Hurricane’ Higgins to those of us who borrowed him for a few unforgettable, chaotic decades.

Bereft at their loss – anguished that persistent demons had finally trumped genius – they stood in silence for their Sandy. Every so often, another veteran of the professional snooker circuit – most of them lost in memories of the past – came into view, their presence greeted with heartfelt ripples of grateful applause. The eclectic members of the Hurricane’s supporting cast were here to pay their respects.

Belfast paused for its fallen tormented genius…and many of my generation stopped too. We said goodbye to an astonishing man, a Nureyev of the green baize who was also a tempestuous force of nature. He wasn’t the most successful snooker player of all time, but he was certainly the most compelling, and perhaps the one who was most touched by genius.

More than that, he had charisma, volatility, showmanship, charm – rebelliousness too – of such magnitude that it is to him we must give most credit for the extraordinary elevation of snooker from the nondescript smoke-filled halls of grim city side streets to mainstream acclaim as a televised sport watched by millions.

The advent of colour TV, the popularity of the quaint ‘Pot Black’ show, and the resulting profile of dapper gents like Ray Reardon and John Spencer did much to bring snooker to the masses, but it was the irrepressible, flamboyant and mesmerising Alex ‘Hurricane’ Higgins who almost single-handedly made snooker the riveting sporting soap opera which came to be adored by millions of people.

Alex Higgins was probably the ultimate sporting hero of my youth. Well, that’s a big call – I loved Best and Ali and many of the Leeds United legends – but Alex takes some beating!

I began watching him in the late 1970s – and never stopped. He was sensational. Mind you, watching him was incredibly nerve-racking. He played without fear, living on the edge. We willed every ball in. I wrote some weeks ago (in this series) how I used to dread the great Ille Nastase’s exit from a tennis tournament. I’m sure that’s because we saw so little tennis, and the departure of the eccentric entertainer meant much of the promise and magic of the tournament went with him. It was the exact same with Alex. Although I loved snooker, when Alex bowed out, the tournament lost a significant amount of its appeal.

This brings us to Alex’s impact, and legacy. You might argue that he wasn’t amongst the top four or five of all time (which is debatable), and you might frown at his frequent bad behaviour, but many observers will always contend that he was the most influential figure in the game. I know that legends like Joe Davis, John Spencer, Ray Reardon and Steve Davis certainly did their bit, but it was Higgins who lifted snooker from the dimly-lit halls and plonked it in front of an enthralled audience of millions.

What was it about Higgins, just how did he revolutionise snooker? As Eamon Dunphy might say, it’s called style, baby!

Enigmatic entertainer

Fred Davis: “Alex has one of the sharpest brains in the game”. John Pulman: “The quickest brain the game has ever seen”. Steve Davis on the importance of the crowd to Alex: “It makes him feel like God. When Alex is playing at his best, he’s the best player in the world”. Terry Griffiths: “I love watching him play. He’s so exciting”. Doug Mountjoy: “Sometimes he will do something just for the crowd. He might have an easy positional shot on, but he’ll do the outrageous”. Ray Reardon: “It’s not all bang, crash, all that business. He knows where the ball’s going. He reads the table as quick as a flash”. Jimmy White: “He’s the only player that other snooker players will actually go and watch – including me”.

– From ‘Snookered’ by Donald Trelford (1986)

Alex Higgins changed snooker forever because snooker – sport arguably – had never quite seen anything like him.

Before Higgins came along, professional snooker had little or no mainstream media profile. At the top level, the game was played by middle-aged men who behaved impeccably, slowly circling the table and studiously (and slowly) choosing their shots. Invariably, they played with safety in mind; snooker as chess with balls.

Higgins, meanwhile, was a cheeky young kid growing up in Belfast. In the time-honoured tradition of future snooker stars, he began spending more time in the local snooker hall than in school. He quickly excelled at the game, learning and honing his skills in the Jampot club (often practising for up to ten hour a day). Legend has it that he moved around the table with speed for fear of getting a belt over the head from the hardened adult players who were being humiliated by this upstart!

Higgins was Northern Ireland amateur champion at age 18, Irish champion shortly afterwards, and played in the World Professional Championships for the first time in 1972, aged 22. Sensationally, Higgins won the title, defeating Rex Williams 31-30 in a classic semi-final, before beating hot favourite John Spencer in the final (37-32). The Hurricane had announced his arrival to the world.

Young Alex was playing a style of snooker that nobody had ever seen. His attacking play stunned the game’s elders, turning everything they knew about their sport on its head. His audacious long putting, rapid-fire play and inventive shot-making had audiences – and opponents – gasping. Higgins was taking a once-sedate sport and Hurricanising it! His emergence led to a massive increase in the game’s popularity. He was supremely entertaining, his style of play making him box office!

Snooker’s wild man

‘The TIMES headline read ‘Snooker star Alex Higgins plunges 25 feet to break his ankle after mistaking a window for a door’. Pat Hammond remembers the incident: ‘My sister rang me from London…and I said: ‘Just a moment, I’ll have to leave the call, Alex Higgins has just gone past my window’. The eyewitness continued: ‘As luck would have it, the forces of law and order were in the vicinity. There was a policeman there, and a sergeant. And the policeman said to the sergeant, ‘Oh God, do you think he’s dead?’ Higgins looked up and said, ‘No, but I bet you wish I was’. It was the funniest thing’’

– From ‘The Hurricane’ by Bill Borrows (2002)

What also made Higgins box office was the whiff of danger around him. His behaviour, at the best of times erratic, was often unacceptable; he became the ‘wild man’ of sport. His off-table exploits were on the front pages of the tabloids as much as his snooker brilliance was featured in the sports pages.

Higgins thrilled fans with his showmanship and attacking snooker, while also leading a chaotic private life…involving marital problems, gambling, heavy drinking, fights, clashes with authority. He was found guilty of head-butting a tournament official, and of urinating in a flower pot at the Crucible Theatre. Joe Davis, he was not!

In 1988, he played a couple of tournaments while on crutches! After a three-hour row with his girlfriend (detailed above), Higgins tried to ‘escape’ through a window – but forget that her flat was on the third floor. By the time the Benson & Hedges tournament started in Goffs in Kildare, Higgins was still injured. He got to the final, defeating Stephen Hendry 9-8, while limping around the table!

1982…and THAT break

His was such a chaotic journey through life, perhaps the wonder is that he achieved all that he did as a player.

Those of us of the proverbial ‘certain age’ will never forget his second world title triumph, which came in 1982, culminating in those iconic scenes of Higgins crying as he pleaded with his then wife Lynn to join him with their baby, Lauren.

Higgins had sealed that comeback win with a great 135 break against Ray Reardon. In the semi-final, he made arguably the greatest pressure break ever seen in snooker, a magical 69 which broke his great friend, Jimmy White. Now that is worth watching on YouTube, particularly for a pot on the blue which (as a positional shot) still defies all logic. It is often described as the single greatest snooker shot in history.

In 1983, Higgins had another never-to-be-forgotten triumph, coming from 7-0 behind to defeat his great rival Steve Davis (16-15) in the UK Final. In Rooskey, I watched, spellbound.

The gripping Higgins soap opera had attracted millions of people to the game. In the early 1980s, as Alex-mania took over the UK and Ireland, publican Andy Byrne put seven or eight full-sized snooker tables into the spacious lounge of his pub in Dublin Street in Longford. A friend and I thumbed in most Wednesdays, for a couple of hours of weekly snooker. And Alex was our hero!

It’s a sad year for snooker fans, with the passing of Willie Thorne. The cast of the 1980s (and ‘90s) were wonderful. Higgins was the irrepressible hero-villain of that era. I love how graciously people like Steve Davis and Stephen Hendry and Ronnie O’Sullivan still speak of the troubled but mesmerising Alex.

Ten years ago this summer, Belfast paused for its fallen tormented genius…and we watched, our sadness offset by happy memories of Alex in his utterly captivating prime. And his peers, the men who graced the Crucible on our TV screens, solemnly stood amongst Sandy’s people. The worst of the past was forgotten. Alex was Alex. The memory of his genius prevailed now. The downcast snooker greats gathered with dignity, to remember, and celebrate, the man who had infuriated and thrilled them, the man who paved their paths with some glory and gold. “He is a legend of snooker” Ronnie O’Sullivan said, “and should forever be remembered as the finest ever snooker player”.

Alex Higgins. Probably my greatest sporting hero. Wild and wonderful. I loved him.

The post Alex Higgins appeared first on Roscommon People.

‘He could do more things better than any player I have ever seen. He was a magnificent distributer of a ball, he could beat a man on either side using methods that no one had ever thought about, he could shoot, he could tackle, he was competitive and yet cool under pressure. What more could you want? I mean what is the perfect player? Two good feet? The kid had them. Strong in the air? He could beat men twice his size. Ability to score goals? Only Greavsie and Law have equalled him and I think his ability to score a goal out of nothing was even greater that theirs. Courage? I’ve never seen a braver player. He could play at the back, in midfield or anywhere up front. He was probably the best bloody keeper at the club too, but we never tried him!’

– Paddy Crerand on his teammate George Best, as quoted in ‘Best: An Intimate Biography’ by Michael Parkinson (1975)

It was the mid-1980s, and I was behind the counter in our family pub in the centre of Rooskey village. The mornings were busy, with workers from Hanley’s factory taking breaks. The afternoons were less predictable.

On a good afternoon, there might be five or six characters in, the conversation a fascinating mix of gossip, banter, mischief and…fake news. On quieter days, the young barman (yours truly) might be trapped with the dreaded…lone customer. There are only so many times you can reference the weather, and the objectionable price of a pint.

Still, they were good times. There was one man who seemed old to me, but looking back, he may only have been in his 50s! He often fell into the ‘lone customer’ slot, popping into the village for a few afternoon drinks.

I liked him. He was intelligent, softly spoken, a bit of a dreamer, but cursed a touch by drink and loneliness. I always felt, when chatting to him, that he had to be dragged away from the grip of melancholy. He’d been in England for years, and now, like many of the men who frequented the pub, he was inclined towards sentimental speeches, what might have beens.

When I’d suggest that it must have been wonderful to be in London in the 1960s, he returned there in his mind, but before he could embrace any happy memories, a slumbering sadness took over…a lament at the passage of time perhaps, or for a romance that might have been.

One day we got talking about the soccer in the 1960s, and I asked if he’d gone to any games during his years in England. His eyes came to life. We talked a little more, then I asked about George Best.

“George Best” he exclaimed gently, savouring the magic of the words. “Ah…George…Best”.

I waited and watched as he closed his eyes and went back in time. Because he was a dreamer. Then he looked at me.

“When George Best came to London, the crowds came out. It didn’t matter who you supported, the stadiums were bulging when he was playing. I used to go to lots of games, I saw all the top teams, all the top players. But when George Best came to London, we’d seen nothing like it. Any time he came to play, we went to get a look. He was magic”.

He cradled his whiskey glass and closed his eyes again.

“Ah, when George Best went down the wing…” And he smiled and smiled…and there was nothing I or the redundant melancholy could do to break this beautiful spell, the joys of yesterday.

By the time I became aware of George – and what a discovery that was – the genius was fading. It was the late 1970s, and the ‘Belfast Boy’ was on tour, a self-destruct one at that.

He’d left Manchester United in 1974 at the age of just 27, frustrated by a great team’s decline – and seemingly having fallen out of love with football. He was also in decline himself, just when he really should have been peaking. By then, Best was living an undisciplined and somewhat reckless life, his nights on the town beginning to take their toll on his health, his fitness and his performances on the pitch. He was still a great player, but he was burning the proverbial candle at both ends. That’s probably putting it kindly; ‘self-destructing’ perhaps sums up this phase of Best’s life more accurately.

Best became a shadow of the player who, at his peak, was arguably the world’s best footballer. ‘Touring George’ played for a number of clubs around the world, a fairly bizarre list, it must be said. He had some success in America, where he was a high profile recruit (he scored a wonder-goal for San Jose Earthquakes which you can enjoy on YouTube). A period with Fulham was marked by flashes of the old magic, as an overweight Best partnered with soul-mate Rodney Marsh. There were less successful stints with Hibs in Scotland, Dunstable United, Cork Celtic and Stockport United. But that is quite enough from me on Best’s decline! Because, before the fall, there was a career of such brilliance and magnetism – such sheer genius – that it places George Best in the company of Pele, Maradona, Messi and a handful of other footballing Gods.

By the time I became aware of George, his best days may have been behind him, but he was still playing, still hypnotic. I quickly went about discovering everything I could about the man. I consumed the books, the videos and documentaries. And I soon discovered that the scout (Bob Bishop) who sent a 15-year-old George Best to Manchester United was right when he told the club manager Matt Busby – “I think I’ve found you a genius”.

Best made his Manchester United debut when he was 17 – and soon the whole world was taking notice. Quickly it became apparent that this was an extraordinarily gifted footballer. A winger, he ravaged the best full-backs in the country. After Best had destroyed Chelsea’s highly-rated Ken Shellito, George’s teammate Paddy Crerard memorably quipped: “Shellito was taken off, suffering from twisted blood”.

Best will always be revered by fans, not just because of his brilliance as a player, but because of the joy he gave. He was a showman. Occasionally he taunted opponents, inviting them to tackle, invariably eluding them when they dived in. Often he humiliated defenders, beating them a second time in the same dribble. Some of his goals are amongst the most celebrated in the history of the English game. I advise readers to look them up on YouTube. There’s a stunning solo goal against Spurs; two famous goals against Benfica in a European Cup semi-final on a night which catapulted Best to superstardom; his decisive goal against the same opposition in the 1968 European Cup Final; another, an outrageous, measured, ludicriously audacious chip over several defenders and goalkeeper; six goals in an FA Cup game (v Northampton), and any amount of other marvellous solo efforts following mesmerising dribbles.

Loving Best was easy – not only did he have ALL the skills, he actually introduced new ways of beating defenders. Some of his dribbling techniques had never been seen before, and could not be replicated. I also loved him because of his great courage. He took ferocious abuse from the hardmen of his era, great men like Tommy Smith, Norman Hunter and Chelsea’s ‘Chopper’ Harris. Best had amazing balance, and frequently he somehow danced away when these formidable men tried with all their might to fell the genius who threatened to torment them. He was also an excellent tackler, and a superb header of the ball! Best won two leagues and a European Cup with Manchester United, and was European footballer of the year in 1968.

‘For five years, from the beginning of 1966 to the end of 1970, he was comprehensively better than the rest – the most accomplished player on God’s earth. The lucky ones, who has seen him from the cramped terraces of Old Trafford and Windsor Park, boasted of the fact and sympathised with those who, through the unfortunate circumstance of not being born soon enough, were deprived of the privilege and had only glimpsed him second-hand on grainy monochrome or early colour film. They spoke of a variety of treasured goals scored from near impossible angles or spun out of the least promising thread – dinks as gentle as a caress and shots of rippling power. They spoke reverentially of skills that were supernatural and which stirred the spirit, gloriously precocious labyrinthine runs that began on the half-way line and increased in pace the further he travelled. They spoke of poise and balletic balance, classified as being otherworldly. They spoke also of a fabulous tensile strength that enable his willowy body to survive challenges that, if committed outside the marked perimeter of a football field, would have counted as common assault or grievous bodily harm. He was the complete player’

– From ‘George Best: Immortal’ by Duncan Hamilton (2014)

Having found him, I never let him go. In 1982, I was beside myself with excitement when there was speculation that Northern Ireland manager Billy Bingham might include the veteran Best in his panel for the World Cup. I was devastated when it didn’t happen.

He finally retired in 1984, after electrifying the world with his magic. Ravaged by alcoholism, George Best died in 2005, aged just 59. Back in Rooskey, the nice man who wasn’t old died when he wasn’t old. He liked a drink too. Melancholy was his partner to the end. He had his good days too, and he purred wirh dreamy nostalgia that day I asked him about George Best.

That’s George Best, the sometimes troubled genius. Unforgettable. Unstoppable. He will always be celebrated as one of the greatest and most entertaining footballers of all time. Go to YouTube now!

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David Coleman: ‘In a moment, they’ll hear the bell. Ribeiro leads, going for a double, she’s won the 10,000. O’Sullivan in second place, the perfect position for her…still O’Sullivan waits…250 to go…O’Sullivan testing, lengthening her stride…and O’Sullivan gradually striding away…nothing dramatic…just increasing the pace…and Sonia O’Sullivan is going to take the world title back to Ireland and her home city of Cobh! O’Sullivan wins the world 5000m title, the first ever 5000m title…’

– The BBC’s David Coleman (with co-commentator Brendan Foster) commentating on the 1995 World Championships (and giving Cobh city status)

There was a point in the 1990s when it seemed like we were all living in Sonia’s World. Or on Planet Sonia. A grand place to live, as long as our emotions could cope! Yeah, Planet Sonia, Sonia’s World, call it what you like…she had some grip on this country and its people.

When I think of Sonia, two things come to mind before even considering the majesty of her actual performances, or her eventual haul of medals and titles.

Firstly, she achieved that pretty unique honour of being instantly recognisable by first name only (instinctively, so far in this article I’ve only referred to Sonia by her first name). Yes, she had the Elvis factor! We did it with Elvis. With Oprah. Gay. Gazza. DJ, as in “Ah, Kilkenny should win, DJ will be the difference…”. In politics, we even did it for a period with Charlie. In the mid-1990s, the headline writers reached only for Sonia, hardly ever needing to add on ‘O’Sullivan’.

The second thing that immediately strikes me about Sonia when reflecting on the scale of her achievements and her place in our hearts is the extraordinary extent to which the Cork woman perfectly symbolises what a communal experience is.

When Sonia was limbering up at the start of a big race, virtually the entire country was watching. We knew that to be true. We didn’t need (or have) Twitter to confirm it. We just knew! When Sonia was on TV, the nation paused, then succumbed to her. We entered Sonia’s World. We placed ourselves into her hands, into the dizzying slipstream of her steps, communally awaiting whatever drama the night would bring. Next day, we asked ‘Did you see Sonia?’ Or ‘What did you think of Sonia?’ Often, the morning radio shows, reading the national mood, dissected the latest twist in her rollercoaster career. Once we had aired and shared our joy or hurt over Sonia’s latest track experience, we moved on…until the next time. Whatever it is that makes some sports personalities divisive, had no place in Sonia’s make-up. She could never split opinion. We simply loved her.

She was magnificent.

Heartbreak and glory…

Why did the Irish public love Sonia so unconditionally? The simple answer might be because, on her best days and nights, she was one of the world’s top athletes, an Irish sportstar who could destroy a world class field.

But our relationship with Sonia went much deeper than that. She was embedded deep in our hearts because of what we saw and felt: that incredible combination of honesty, courage and vulnerability.

This is at the core of our relationship with the Cobh woman, what so endeared her to the public. Running can be a lonely pursuit. Especially when you receive knocks, setbacks…as Sonia did. Rarely have I seen a sportsperson of such persistent courage, such honesty. In every race she ran, that honesty of effort was evident…everything left on the track in the pursuit of doing herself justice – and all over a remarkably long career, one that, let’s not forget, was marked by heartbreaks as well as glory. She never stopped believing, even when she sometimes seemed to be shadowed by cruel fate. She was tough…heroically disciplined, focussed, courageous. Sonia just kept running.

A rollercoaster ride

Sonia was an extraordinary sporting figure…part-champion, part-soap opera in running gear. I hesitate to use the ‘soap opera’ term, for fear it might seem flippant. But I use it because Sonia’s extraordinary career did have many dramatic twists and turns. At times it was a drama. Following Sonia was one long, gripping and emotional rollercoaster ride. Maybe it felt this way with Sonia because we were so invested in her fortunes. While she wore her heart on her sleeve, our hearts were usually in our mouths. There were many great wins, but there were harrowing defeats too…when an expected or hoped for victory wasn’t achieved. Most notably, there was crushing disappointment at the 1996 Olympics, when Sonia collapsed (due to illness) during the 5000m final. At times, you almost wanted to look away, but we were running every step, feeling every emotion, with Sonia. Injuries (inevitable over a long career) sometimes plagued her – often with the cruellest timing. Movies have been made about sportspeople who were much less fascinating!

Humble days, before

the doping escalated

The Olympics Games (and other championships) have lost much of their magic now, tainted by doping and dopes, desperate dreamers who felt they had to embrace the darkness.

In the 1980s, we had no idea that use of performance-enhancing drugs by a minority of athletes was becoming a toxic secret norm in a parallel universe which was unknown to us. For most of us, the revelation came courtesy of the Ben Johnson bombshell in 1988. Now, sadly, as with cycling, we watch and wonder.

In the 1980s – before the sport’s credibility at elite level sadly began to ebb – Irish athletes were prominent during a golden era of middle-distance running. Eamonn Coghlan was my hero, yet he didn’t quite stir the emotions like Sonia would a few years later. John Treacy was remarkable, Marcus O’Sullivan, Frank O’Mara and Ray Flynn completing an impressive cast.

At the time, I was working as a journalist in Cavan. One of my big interviews was with an up and coming athlete called Catherina McKiernan. We chatted over the phone. I’m not sure why I didn’t pop out to Catherina’s home in Cornafean. Maybe I didn’t trust my long-suffering Toyota Starlet, by then increasingly resembling the type of car that disintegrated around the hapless clown in that circus act of old. Our conversation was doubtlessly marked by some shyness (her’s and mine). Catherina was humble and modest and on the brink of a greatness that she carried so lightly. It made for a nice feature in The Cavan Leader, in a county where the O’Neills football ruled!

By then, I’d been doing a bit of humble running of my own. I loved it, but didn’t persevere. I ran in the odd road race, usually finishing in the top three or four, feeling the adrenaline rush, while learning how punishing this sport was. Running was enjoyable, rewarding, satisfying…but competing at any level required ferocious commitment, discipline and heart, as draining mentally as it was physically. Joining Longford AC, I was thrown in at the deep end at the Leinster Athletics Finals, where I was instructed to run in a 2000m steeplechase. It was my first time over hurdles. And last!

Meanwhile, Catherina went on to win four World Cross-Country silver medals!

Silver in Sydney

A little while after the Eamonn Coghlan era, along came Sonia, emerging as a major star in the early 1990s. A glorious decade on Planet Sonia followed! She won gold at the 1994 European Championships (3000m), gold in the 5000m at the 1995 World Championships, and double gold (5000m and 10,000m) at the 1998 European Championships. She’s a two-time World Cross-Country Champion (over 4 km and 8 km, both in 1998). There were many more golds and silvers, world records too.

The highlight of Sonia’s career came at the Sydney Olympics in 2000, when she won silver in the 5000m. It was one of the greatest achievements ever by an Irish sportsperson.

‘And joy was her thing’

Where does she rank in the ‘Ireland’s greatest ever sportsperson’ list, if talk of such things we must! I’d place her in the top three, with Brian O’Driscoll and Padraig Harrington. That is how great she was.

Some sportstars can win – achieve greatness even – without really stirring your heart, lifting a nation’s morale. Sonia stopped the nation, every time.

Ah, the memory of those atmospheric nights at top international meetings. A rainy night in Zurich! Gateshead, Oslo! All eyes on Sonia. Familiar gait, legs limbering, eyes utterly focussed…a portrait of discipline, determination, bravery. Her hunger and our hopes resting on her shoulders. The starting gun, and Sonia’s gone, into her stride, sometimes taking an early and commanding lead, more often playing the waiting game. The bell sounds; our eyes remain on the queen in green. So often she cruised over the line first, the strained expression on her face breaking into a satisfied smile.

Reaching out for an Irish flag, she saunters and smiles, knowing so well that on an athlete’s lonely journey, even the greatest natural talent needs to be moulded with sweat, sacrifice, and tears too. The nights of joy make everything worthwhile.

And joy was her thing. She absolutely loved running, including the unseen sacrifice. On her great days, you felt she could keep running forever, for this is what she was born to do.

Sonia. One word. Sonia. Brilliant, brave, unforgettable. What pride and pleasure she gave to Irish sports fans. Sonia…forever a hero in our hearts.

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It was usually Sligo, except when it was Galway. On that summer’s day in 1982, it was Rosses Point. The sun was scorching. My father parked right bang in the middle of the sand. Around us, parents unfurled blankets and arranged picnic baskets and towels and buckets and spades, protectively marking their territory like they’d rented some new prime retail space on the High Street.

My father rolled the car window down, so we could hear Michael O’Hehir, wherever he was. The afternoon would be enjoyed to a soundtrack of kids giggling, shrieks of joy from the sea, and Michael’s voice. The sun, the beach, and the voice of the GAA.

As always, Michael made magic for our minds. But then RTE began to cut away from Michael. Time and time again they interrupted the King. So much so that we rose from the sand and hung on every word from the new voice coming from the car radio. And in the sweltering sun, with Michael for once silenced, we willed ever little white ball into every little hole. And sure enough, John O’Leary won the Carroll’s Irish Open, as children built castles in the sand on the beach in Rosses Point. An Irishman winning the Irish Open, in our time. A career high for O’Leary. A happy, glorious day in Rosses Point – and in Portmarnock. Later, we got back to Rooskey just in time to see the highlights. This golf…yeah, it could be interesting.

And not a schmozzle in sight.

From Florida to the fairway

Two years earlier, we were on a family holiday in Florida, a once-in-a-lifetime adventure. In Miami, I went into a small sports shop one day, where the tall, beaming youth behind the counter greeted me as if we’d always been friends. I asked if I could buy a ball “for soccer”, an enquiry which drew a blank expression from my new buddy. I repeated what I considered to be a reasonable request, particularly in a sports shop. It quickly became clear that my friend didn’t know the type of football I was referring to. “Soccer” I reiterated, “I want to play soccer”. He gestured for assistance, beckoning someone from the shop’s private quarters. Suddenly, his twin brother – equally tall and joy-filled – emerged from a side door. Then the first guy, who, I repeat, was running a sports shop, smiled at his brother: “Hey, you won’t believe it…this dude’s looking for a SOCCER ball!” (Now I could see the scale of the challenge facing George Best and Pele, in trying to help spread the Beautiful Game stateside).

Browsing in a bigger sports shop a few days later, I was admiring a set of golf clubs, just passing the time, when my father surprised me. Shocked me, in fact…by suddenly buying those beautiful new clubs for me! A thoughtful bonding gesture which I think cost him about 80 dollars, a nice ball of money 40 years ago. I’m not sure I made great use of them, but I’ll never forget that moment.

So, two years on, it’s 1982 and I’m finally making my golfing debut, teeing off at Longford Golf Club. I’ve come from Rooskey, my clubs have come all the way from Florida. How hard can this golf be? Swoosh! My first tee shot splits the fairway. Nice! Confident walk. And then the mental torture begins. Daisy-cutters. Slices. Fresh air shots. Lost balls. Underhit chips. Overhit chips. Divots. Despair. Mind muddled under the weight of advice from well-meaning friends. ‘Keep your head straight’. ‘Hold the club this way’. ‘Don’t try to murder the ball’. That sort of stuff. I stuck with it for 15 years, on and off. Consistent torture, punctuated by the odd inexplicably straight shot…

Getting hooked…

For all its cruelty, it’s easy to get hooked on golf. It’s a wonderful game. But, up to this point in my life at least, most of the enjoyment I’ve got from golf has been as a viewer, rather than as a player. And it’s been a great ride.

When I was becoming a fan, Ireland had its share of top class players. On their day, Darcy and O’Connor Junior, Rafferty and Walton, these guys could beat anyone, but they couldn’t quite reach the very top. My favourite Irish player of that era was Des Smyth, a magical putter in his prime.

With its abundance of superstars and characters, golf in the 1980s (and in later years) was perfect TV viewing for the sports fan. Bernhard Langer was the coolest guy around. Greg Norman was a swashbuckling superstar, who probably wrestled crocodiles as a pastime. Nick Faldo was Steve Davis with a golf club; merciless, apparently lacking charisma, ruthless, fascinating. The Americans – most of them dashing, flamboyant, supremely confident – brought the game to an exciting new level. I loved Jack Nicklaus, who was still having the odd great duel with fellow gentleman, Tom Watson. Lee Trevino wasn’t just a great golfer, he was also a pretty good amateur comedian! Arnold Palmer was past his best, but it was great to see the legend in action.

Even before Sky Sports, this was great fun and drama on our TV screens, whenever we were lucky enough to see golf. But for me, one man stood out. Occasionally he was the villain, mostly he was the hero. He was electrifying, capable of commanding all our attention, even on a stage occupied by people like Nicklaus and Norman. Yes, there was something about Seve…

Seve, the Matador

Seve was Severiano Ballesteros, a temperamental but enormously charismatic Spaniard, who was quite simply a golfing genius. He was an amazing shot-maker. He wasn’t as reliable on the conventional shots, something which made watching him all the more exciting!

The reason we loved Seve was because we had never seen anything like him before. Alex Higgins changed snooker through his personality and unique style; Ballesteros did much the same for golf. There were exciting players before him, but was there ever anyone as swashbuckling?

Seve was the most exciting golfer we’d ever seen. He played shots that we’d never seen before. His golfing peers hadn’t seen them either! His touch with a club was itself touched by genius. Fortunately for his fans, his tendency to lose his way on the golf course meant he frequently had to try and rescue himself with shots of outrageous skill and imagination.

I recall one Ballesteros birdie which summed up his appeal. Seve missed the fairway with his tee shot. His approach to the green then found a bunker. From the sand, he chipped into the hole. Rough to bunker to hole, a birdie that defied convention and logic! Throughout his career, there were many wonder shots that had fans (including his peers) gasping.

We loved Ballesteros for his thrilling play, and we also loved him for his passion. Great putts were greeted by his tradeback fist pump; tournament wins by his matador-like reaction.

His haul of five majors was fantastic, considering how unconventional a player he was. He was also World No. 1 for a period. And while injuries led to a drastic loss of form in the latter part of his career, the memory of his genius will live on forever.

The sands of time…

Now it’s 2020, and you’re not likely to see a Cortina or a Hillman Hunter on a beach in Sligo. And now John O’Leary is gone, having died in March of this year. And Michael O’Hehir is gone, and my father is gone too. The sands of time.

Every now and again, like most men, I clear out the garden shed. Or maybe I just rearrange the stuff. There’s stuff you throw out, and there’s stuff you should throw out, but don’t. I shuffle the half-empty fuel cans around, and stack the cans of paint in neat rows, as though their presence is part of some elaborate plan. Then I lift the golf bag and give the clubs a little shake, a chance to breathe. I lean the hopelessly outdated clubs against a different wall, or slide them on to another shelf. They’re pretty rusty now, as you can imagine, and certainly long out of fashion. But they’re still there…the golf clubs my father bought me in Florida in 1980.

I probably played with them 40 or 50 times, over 15 or 20 years, lots of dreadful shots, and a few of the satisfying ones that (theoretically) will always bring you back. They never let me down. It was always the other way around. Really, they deserved better; some bronzed, wisecracking American businessman should perhaps have tamed Florida’s finest courses with them. But they’re here, and they’re mine.

Some day, I might even take them out on the course for a final time, these clubs that hold such special memories for me…of Florida, of my attempts to learn this game, mostly of my Dad. Maybe they could swoosh one more time, swoosh back into time, like it’s 1980 all over again.

Seve is gone too. He died in 2011, only 54 years of age. He had battled illness and a chronic loss of form with typical courage. He was a wonderfully inspirational sportsman, a charismatic champion who thrilled millions of fans all over the world.

I have other golfing heroes from more recent times, and we may well return to them in this series. And when I think of those stars of the past, I fondly remember Jack Nicklaus, Greg Norman, Lee Trevino, and others. But Seve was special. A hero who inspired, and who was loved. The Matador with the unforgettable magic touch.

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45 years ago, rugby, in as much as it registered with us at all, was played by a small minority, primarily (it seemed) in urban areas, mostly (but not entirely) by the so-called professional classes. Maybe my memory is playing tricks on me, but it seemed almost like a closed world, certainly completely lacking the community-wide inclusiveness of the GAA.

Don’t blame us – the kids of 1970s’ rural Ireland – if we didn’t live and breathe for the oval ball. Rugby just wasn’t there! At least not particularly visibly!

So it could never be our first love – you’re not likely to fall in love if you’re not sharing the same world.

And back then, rugby seemed to belong to a different world to ours.

In Rooskey, we knew there was a rugby club in Longford, but we knew hardly anything about it. We were only aware of it from the weekly half-page summary in the Longford Leader, above the squash and tennis round-ups. We really only properly took interest when the rugby club in Longford started running discos at the weekend. My friends and I went to a few of those discos – smooching up to the bar counter when there was the first terrifying sign of downward movement on the shutters – but I don’t suppose that qualifies as taking an interest in rugby.

Growing up in Rooskey in the early 1970s, we simply weren’t exposed to this sport (later, I would discover that there were small but proud rugby strongholds around the region).

But things change. Ever so gradually, through the endeavours of the handful of local clubs, and a gradually growing media profile, rugby began to feature more in our lives. We noticed this change in Rooskey when a few of our GAA/soccer lads joined Longford Rugby Club! Now, all of a sudden, we had to share some of our best players. There were reports of towering performances by the Dynamo Rooskey/Kilglass Gaels’ lads in the Longford rugby colours, mutterings too about fixtures clashing. “They have what on Sunday morning? A rugby game?!” Reason tended to prevail. Now, different worlds were merging. Now, rugby was here. Our local lads were playing the game. Rugby was actually becoming an option for young men. Perhaps without us realising it, the scope of our sporting imagination was broadening.

Before we knew it, rugby was becoming a credible contender for our affections. It had a lot of catching up to do, mind you. We were in love with the GAA and soccer – and maybe one or two others – we weren’t going to be easily won over by this new rival for our interest. But, make no mistake about it, rugby was muscling in and looking for the next dance.

And whatever about the earnest efforts of the club volunteers in Longford and Carrick-on-Shannon, the really serious flirting was being done by Fred and Bill…

His name was Tony

Rugby struck once a year, with devastating intent, over a five-week period or so. The Five Nations Championship (now the Six Nations) simply bulldozed into our consciousness, then fluttered its eyelids at us, one glorious Saturday after another. A holiday romance, to the soundtrack of Fred and Bill. Then it was gone, leaving us exhausted but happy, before we invariably returned – bashfully – to soccer and GAA.

Fred and Bill? For us, they were the voices of rugby…creating a special atmosphere, wooing us into this world. In truth, I include Fred mostly on patriotic grounds; well, he was our voice, here in Ireland. He was the RTE commentator, and a good one, even if his style was a bit too laidback. But Bill was something else. Bill McClaren, a Scottish commentator with the BBC, had a voice from the Heavens, and was the intoxicating sound of the Five Nations, the man who electrified the otherwise dank Saturdays of spring. You almost wanted it to be raining and miserable outside, as thirty mostly beefy, stern-faced men plodded on to a mucky pitch…and then the unique voice of the wonderful Bill McClaren took over, warming our spirits, entrancing us with his vocabulary and passion. With Bill in charge for the afternoon, guiding us through the contours of the game – its rolling drama – in his hypnotic tones, all was well with our world. Looking back, he was a hero of our youth.

And what of the Irish team? Now that we had discovered rugby, as relayed to us by these iconic commentators, it was high time we connected with the men in green. Were they any match for the dazzling Welsh, who seemed to be the Brazil of rugby? I soon discovered that while we’d produced our share of artists – most notably the genius that was Mike Gibson – much of our rugby heritage was built on brawn, fighting spirit, a heroic ‘up and at them’ mentality. (Gibson played his last game for Ireland in 1979, at the age of 36, ending a wonderful career, almost all of which I had missed!). No team fancied coming to Dublin, the commentators assured us. Come to Dublin and have 15 green warriors throw the kitchen sink at you, was the slightly patronising narrative. But could we even dream of replicating the flair so often exhibited by the Welsh, and the French too? Was there even the hint of a successor to Gibson? Were we forever destined to be lion-hearted Ireland when we won, and brave, plucky Ireland when we lost, with little enough subtlety in between? Was there anything else?

His name was Tony.

What could go wrong?

I can’t be sure where Tony Ward sits in the Irish rugby Hall of Fame, where he ranks in the ‘Greatest Players’ list. I am under no illusions – as gifted as he was, he might struggle to feature prominently. The main reason for that is because most of our greatest ever players have come along during the professional era (another reason is because Ward only earned 19 caps). We have had unprecedented success in recent decades, with Grand Slam wins, triple crowns, several Six Nations’ titles, victory over the All Blacks, World No. 1 ranking(!)…and all of it against a backdrop of wonderful success in Europe at provincial level. This prolonged glory era has yielded (and been made possible by) our greatest ever players, a succession of magnificent sportsmen, including Brian O’Driscoll, Keith Wood, Paul O’Connell, Ronan O’Gara, Johnny Sexton and others.

But heroes don’t have to be the very best, or the most decorated…all they ‘have’ to do is claim a place in your heart, and live there for all time!

To my very young eyes, as I savoured this annual rugby fest on TV in the late 1970s, it seemed that just as Mike Gibson was retiring, the Gods had delivered a new genius: Tony Ward. The dashing out-half simply took our breath away. Good-looking, charismatic, unpredictable, audacious…we couldn’t take our eyes off him. Now we had our own Phil Bennett, now we had some of that Welsh or Gallic flair, all wrapped in a green jersey, home-grown. Ward made his Ireland debut in 1978. Now we had guile, intricacy, sidesteps, dummies, audacity! A performance against Wales in Cardiff will always live on in my memory, Ward setting up two tries with jinking runs. Do not adjust your set! Take note, Fred and Bill! Ward quickly attained superstar status. He was voted European Player of the Year for 1978/’79. Ward also starred in Munster’s legendary win over the All Blacks in 1978. Soon, he was being referred to as rugby’s George Best. (Ward actually played League of Ireland soccer for a couple of seasons!). The future was bright. Happy days. What could possibly go wrong?

Introducing…Ollie

What happened next rocked the Irish sporting world, arguably achieving Saipan-sized notoriety. In 1979, with Ireland touring Australia, the Irish selectors sensationally dropped Ward. There is a suggestion that the powers that be weren’t keen on Ward’s celebrity status. Introducing…Ollie. Ollie was, and is, Ollie Campbell. After winning his first Irish cap in 1976, he’d been out of favour for three years. The decision to drop Ward in favour of Campbell stunned the rugby world, and was hugely controversial. There may have been rugby politics imvolved. Maybe the selectors simply saw Ward, for all his great talent, as too much of a maverick.  Campbell delivered magnificently, and held the jersey. In 1982, he scored all 21 points as Ireland defeated Scotland at Lansdowne Road, to win the Triple crown. I was there. I hope Tony understands.

The Campbell/Ward dilemma was seismic, with fans and the media divided. An attempt to accommodate both men in the same team was short-lived.

Truth is, the decision to choose and continue with Campbell turned out to be absolutely justified. He became an Irish rugby great, a legend of the game. Tony Ward never fully recovered from the saga.

Heroes…and friends

Around 1986, having just recently retired from international rugby, the great Ollie Campbell arrived into our family pub in Rooskey. He’d been to a meeting in Hanley’s factory. I was star-struck, but recovered my composure well enough to beat Ollie Campbell in two games of pool (maybe I did it for Tony).

Ollie was a gentleman. I’ve never met Tony, not yet. Knowing him, he’s probably brilliant at pool too.

Tony and Ollie. We just happened to uncover two superstars who, for all their brilliance, would not fit into the same jersey. In that sense, we were a little bit cursed; but of course we were far more blessed. I idolised Ward. But they are both heroes. And they actually became great friends!

Rugby is now a great presence in our lives for several months each year, a far cry from our limited exposure to it in those pre-professional days. International, provincial and club and schools’ success has thrilled us. Locally, we celebrate the great success story that is Creggs RFC.

Nowadays, even though I can’t say I fully understand the intricacies of the game, I have a big place in my heart for rugby. From Bill McClaren to BOD, to my mate Ollie Campbell…to my hero Tony Ward, the man whose dancing feet all too briefly took our breath away.

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