Monday 27 May 2013

O'HARA DIRECT AS USUAL - JUST WITH A NEW TEAM!

THERE have been times over the years when I’ve watched Joe Brolly come out with some outlandish soundbite on TV and I have cringed.
On other occasions I have let a shoe, or the nearest thing to me, fly when Pat Spillane has gone on one of his rants.
But I’m wrong to get worked up. Those two lads know what they are doing. They know how to rattle cages, push buttons and ultimately promote their product.
And finally, I’m around long enough to realise that we need them in the GAA – for good or bad.
It’s taken me a while to get there, though.
Some years ago, Brolly labeled the Waterford footballers a ‘pub team’. He was half the reason why I then spent a year travelling around with that said team, documenting their personal struggles and their battles to get out of Division 4. In 2009 I joined them for the season with the aim of disproving Brolly’s theory high on my agenda. One of the Waterford players, Paul Ogle, postponed an operation to have a tumour removed to play a league game against Cavan. He was part of no pub team, I can tell you.
Those guys may have played the role of whipping boys for an eternity but don’t disrespect them. I’ve always wanted to say that to Brolly but whenever I’ve met him I’ve been pretty much taken aback at how sociable and fun he is and, to be honest, I’ve never bothered to lower the tone.
Spillane, too, seems like a decent sort. A few weeks ago he was on about how the Cork footballers were regressing and this weekend he was telling us that we could write them off at our peril. No matter, though, I’ve made more U-turns myself than OJ Simpson on a Los Angeles freeway. Last weekend he called Ballybofey a tight pitch. In fact, it’s bigger than Croke Park and Thurles. But again, being a total scatterbrain myself, I’ve mixed up dates and scorelines more often than is right for any journalist.  Let he without sin and all that….
The bottom line is we need these guys. Just 1200 people turned up to Cork-Limerick on Saturday night. Only for Brolly and company and their sometimes outrageous views, attendances could be even poorer this year – particularly in the early stages of the season.
That’s why I was a little surprised at the backlash Eamonn O’Hara has received for his Sunday Game analysis on Kevin Walsh and the Sligo set-up. O’Hara is slick, looks well and talks well too. He is exactly the type of pundit RTE should be looking at. Though he doesn’t have a stack of All-Ireland medals, he is relevant, tuned into modern ways and not afraid to call it.
He is fully entitled to have a pop at whoever he wants.
As a viewer I would have felt shortchanged had he come out and gave the whole ‘London are a coming team, Sligo were just unlucky’ sort of guff. The truth is that this Sligo team has been in decline for two years and Kevin Walsh has probably stayed on a year too long. But Walsh, who clearly had differing views to O’Hara regarding his role as a squad member in 2013, is a good fella and big enough to ship this criticism. He is an All-Ireland winner, was one of the best midfielders the game has ever seen, and his initial exploits with Sligo will surely leave him firmly in the frame for a crack with Galway in the years to come.
People have said O’Hara got personal with the criticism but I think his analysis was clinical and well formulated. He spoke of in-fighting among the county board, an alleged poor quality of training, the fact that their centre of excellence was at a standstill and gave us a good general insight as well as a specific critique of the manager.
O’Hara gets paid to call a spade a spade for RTE and he did just that. There may have been some baggage attached to his viewpoint but he works for RTE now. He is no longer a member of the Sligo panel and maybe feels he deserved better treatment after all his years of distinguished service. If that’s the case he’s quite entitled to call it.
I’d certainly rather sit down to listen to him, Ger Loughnane and Donal Og Cusack than the likes of Jamie Redknapp and Ray Wilkins.
We spend the whole year looking for pundits to get off the fence and call it straight and when one finally does we climb to the high moral ground. It’s mad.
Take O’Hara’s analysis for what it is. His old team has been in freefall for a while now. They were beaten by London so obviously, there are mounting problems. He possibly feels he should be still involved but he’s not. He is still, however, perfectly positioned to offer his tuppence worth on what is going wrong.
Unlike pundits who tip the teams their own counties are playing, unlike pundits who sit on the fence and get paid for it, O’Hara showed loyalty to his new team – RTE. Having given almost two decades of loyalty to his first love, Sligo, he more or less had a door closed in his face.
Now he is taking a leaf out of Brolly and Spillinane’s book. Playing for a new team. That’s life. That’s the way this game works.




Thursday 9 May 2013

WHATEVER YOU SAY, SAY NOTHING!

WHATEVER YOU SAY, SAY NOTHING!

THIS weekend, counties all over Ireland will hold their ‘open nights’. This is where supporters and press get to meet teams ahead of their respective championships.
Now, for any journalist, an open night can be a challenging experience.
I remember interviewing John Carroll from Tipperary ahead of the 2001 All-Ireland final. Usually, we like to sit the players down, maybe throw them a cup of tea and a bit of grub to relax them. But this one was taking place on the field. In between drills! I got a feeling the interview wasn’t going to put Michael Parkinson’s position at the BBC under much pressure.
Still, I knew Carroll fairly well anyway and it wasn’t exactly going to be the most stressful of interviews.  Or so I thought.
No sooner had I thrust a Dictaphone in front of the Roscrea man when an army of Tipp supporters surrounded him. It suddenly became a Them v Moi situation and Carroll, the most laid back man this side of the Atlantic, loved every second of it.
“John, are you worried that Roscrea’s poor form might hinder your build-up to this final?” I asked. Harmless enough.
But Carroll hit the trigger quicker than Johnny Pilkington pulling on a ground ball.
“Poor form?” he gasped, mockingly. “Sure didn’t we beat ye (Kilruane) two weeks ago!”

Cue uproar from the ‘fans’. ‘Waaahheeeyyyy,’ they roared. “Aboy, Carroll. You tell him. Lawlor, you clown!”
They clapped him heartily on the back and I got a few good natured thumps myself. But I’m not as tough as Carroll. They bloody hurt.
Face reddening, I ventured another question, desperately looking for redemption.
“Are you concerned, John, that Wexford nearly caught you in the drawn semi-final. Ye seemed to collapse when Martin Storey came on?”

“Sure didn’t we win the replay by nine points?” Carroll replied.
Cue the crowd again. “Waaahhheeeeyyyyy. Abbooyy Carroll!!!!”
Off I limped, more humbled than Fianna Fail in the last general election.
Anyways, there’ll be lots of that this weekend. Open nights are a great idea provided they are run right but this notion of interviewing a player on the pitch? Ah, forget about it.
Last week, fellow journalist Ewan MacKenna lamented the access that writers have to players and managers. He recounted that he made 52 phone calls to one manager looking for a chat but with no luck. Now personally, I wouldn’t have made five calls, but Ewan is probably more determined than I and fair play to him.
It’s important now to remember that players are not professional and they really do not owe us a thing. But Ewan’s column (for the Eircom sports website and well worth a read) makes the point that a bit of PR can be good for both the players and the Association.
It got me thinking. When I first started working off on the national media scene in 1998 it was a totally different landscape. Tom O’Riordan, formerly of the Indo, used to tell how players would bring the best china out when he called to visit. I never had any of that, mind you, but I have nonetheless met some great characters along the way.
The best memories? Frank Roche from The Herald tearing his cruciate on Langton’s dance floor after a Kilkenny press night about 13 years ago. Back then the Kilkenny press night was a tough gig and Rochey decided to unleash some stress on the dance floor. In fairness he was pulling some moves, dancing to the smashing tribute group Abba-esque. Then came the dreaded tear.
The fact that he hobbled over to the Offaly presser a night later showed what a brave old soldier he is. That same night Gentleman Joe Dooley, one of the most co-operative hurlers we ever came across, gave us the slip. Joe was somewhere between 70 and 76 at the time and still hurling at the highest level, breaking all sorts of records. On this occasion, however, he wanted to keep it low key.
We couldn’t find him anywhere, not even when we offered up a hobbling Rochey as a sacrificial lamb. Disappointed, we headed off and booked into some local B & Bs. Seven or eight of the lads found a roof in this particular B & B and they were sitting down munching sandwiches and biscuits about an hour later when the bould Joe walked into the kitchen. His face fell like the property market. The B & B belonged to him and his wife, Marie! Everyone burst out laughing. I think the boys interviewed him over a full Irish breakfast the following morning! Where else would you get it?
A year later we hit Tuam for a Galway footballers press night. We did our days work and then made for the west. After a few hours of interviews we filed some copy and made for Martin MacNamara’s pub. He was the Galway goalkeeper at the time and just hours after we interviewed him he came over again and chatted to us for the evening. With a big match approaching he didn’t see out the night with us but before he left he pulled a bottle of rum down from a dusty shelf. And I mean dusty. I’d say the bottle had seen a pair of hands in 20 years and judging by the green faces on the boys the next morning ‘twasn’t a vintage that wintered well either. From then on, I always looked out for Martin Mac and even though we are impartial, you’d be thrilled to see him win medals.
All that was a far cry from when the Mayo players ran out the back door of a hotel before the 1996 All-Ireland final. They made their move just as the press was coming in the front door. The Cavan boys pulled a similar stroke soon after.
Three weeks before a particular All-Ireland final I remember going to one county and asking if there was a press pack.
“There certainly is,” the chairman replied. “Our PRO Tommy (not real name) has it.”
“Grand,” says I. “I’ll head over to him to get it.”

“Oh God, no,” the chairman replied. “Tommy doesn’t like the press at all.”
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
We’ve seen it all at this stage.
From one player driving us around the local area trying to get a lock-in, to another player trying to hit a journalist by drilling a sliotar at him from the far side of the field.
From Rochey tearing his cruciate to players freezing in terror when they are asked: ‘So how is the mood in the camp?’
But it’s all part of it. We drive on. No matter who goes to ground, there are always great characters and colour about if you look hard enough. That’s the glory of the GAA.



   

  



Wednesday 1 May 2013

THE FIRST BUDS OF SUMMER BLOOM

“LAWLOR, get your fat hole up that hill.”

Sometimes Horse Regan’s booming voice wakes me in the middle of the night and I jolt, half afraid that he’s coming to get me again. It was 1998 and I had just started a Journalism H Dip at NUI Galway. H Dips these days are like bank overdrafts – most everyone has them but they’re only a short term solution to get you to where you want to go. Back then, though, they were big business.

So too was the college hurling team.

And like a second-rate clown who thinks he can juggle more than two balls I decided to try out for the team. It didn’t seem to bother me that I was stone wall useless. Being such a gentleman it didn’t seem to bother Horse either. Horse was our Sports Officer, the side’s manager and he called all the shots. Thanks to him, and despite the fact that I was considered entirely dispensable at junior B level back home in Kilruane, I was suddenly drafted onto the 1998 NUI Galway Fitzgibbon Cup training squad. It helped that my friend and classmate Terence Fahy, who was on the Clare team at the time, was one of the college’s best hurlers. He introduced me to the lads and I was left be. Jesus, though, was I overawed! Finbarr Gantley, Gary Hanniffy, Darren Hanniffy, Dara Coen… a heap of All-Ireland winners across all grades.

And me. Running up a hill in Daingean alongside them. With a fat arse and Horse roaring at me.

He could see I was struggling but deep down I think he admired the fact that I wouldn’t give up. That and the fact that I actually managed to lap Dara Coen. ‘Think of what good the training will do,” Horse roared as I wheezed past him. ‘’Twill benefit you in May back home if nothing else. We’ve the Fitzgibbon in March but you think of May – you’ll be on fire back home.” In other words, you’re complete shite but you’re a good fella to have around the place.

Still, fate deals all sorts of hands. The words of John Cahill, one of our managers back home, rang through as I tried to find my way. JC has been over every team in the club by now and once took charge of a junior side that wasn’t too fancied to say the least. JC, though, had some great advice. ‘Lads,” he advised as we trailed our opponents by 15 points at the break. “The longer ye stay in this dressing room the longer ye stay in the championship.”

With such wise counsel embedded in the inner chambers of my mind I wafted around the college team like a bad smell. We played a Fitzgibbon league game against UL and as there were exams I was one of only seven subs to tog. With about 15 minutes left, and men going down like front line soldiers, Frank Keane, our coach, went through the dregs of the squad, enquiring if any of us was a forward. Turns out I was the only one they had – and even still it’s debatable as to whether I actually fit the criteria. Much to my sheer mystery - and the shock of my housemates from Nenagh (JP Guilmartin, Mick Grey, Gunner Kelly and Tom Conroy) who had turned out to cheer/jeer me at every chance - I was thrust in for the last quarter. I think the ham roll I’d finished just an hour earlier repeated on me but I hit a few balls, got a point and was unlucky for a goal.

With a pep firmly in my step I threw the books aside again the following week and went down to UCC with the boys. We had no goalie and so the utility man (I was equally hopeless in a number of positions) was this time thrown into the line of fire to face Johnny Enright and the rest of his hotshots. I was a bag of nerves, so anxious that I could barely hold the hurl, but I didn’t let myself down too badly at the same time. Only let in two or three.

A couple of more training sessions and I regularly made the college intermediate team. Gradually, though, if I’m being honest, every passing week showed my teammates and managers just how bad I was. After some self-counsel I decided that my best days were positively behind me and I was suddenly struck down by a mystery virus which took me out of the line of fire.

College ended soon enough anyway and I returned to the safe confines of the Kilruane junior B team, alongside such luminary talents as Cronan Casey, where I felt a lot more at ease. Until I was taken off against Lorrha.

Now, being taken off in a junior B game is about as humbling an experience as you can get. When I was asked afterwards by our manager what was wrong, the immortal words of another Kilruane man, Paddy Spain, came into my head.

Thinking of the lofty position I had commanded with those All-Ireland winners just a few weeks earlier I attempted to explain my demise - using Paddy’s classic line. “Des,” I said. “’Tis like this. It’s hard to flap with the penguins when you’ve soared with the eagles.” He looked at me in both bewilderment and pity.

There’s a message in all of this. It’s May, the evenings are longer, and apart from a cracking league final to look forward to this weekend, the championship also starts. And no matter how awful I was there’s a huge part of me wishes I was still sledging away at some level. For those of you who are, the hard work and the winter graft is now complete. The ground is hard and the crowds are coming. There is much hope and promise in the air. It’s surely the best time of year.