Andy Capostagno
John Robbie is fond of saying, “There are only two kinds of people in the world. The Irish and people who wish they were Irish”. I found myself pondering those words while watching Catriona McKiernan burst from the pack, chase the leaders, reel them in and finally trot home in glorious isolation to win the women’s section of the London Marathon two weeks ago.
As Bruce Fordyce has said, there is no such thing as an easy marathon, but McKiernan did a mighty fine impression of being out for a Sunday jog in Hyde Park.
Comparing her easy gait to the anguished scowl of Liz McColgan, the runner up, was a contrast deluxe. McColgan looked like she was wading through treacle. On stilts.
McKiernan is lucky in being Irish. If she were English (or South African) she would now be expected to win every race she entered. Failing to do so would be a national disgrace. Other nations live for the future, the Irish live for the past. Twenty years from now, McKiernan could go into a chip shop in Dublin and have her cod for free, because she was once a star.
I wonder if Michelle de Bruin (nee Smith) will receive the same treatment?
Two years ago I was at the pool in Atlanta when Smith swam to gold in the 400m freestyle. Even then there were allegations that her performance had more to do with substance abuse than swimming excellence. Among the visiting press these allegations were largely derided because they came from Americans and, as anyone who has attended a major sporting event in America will confirm, it is very easy to become gatvol of the American view.
Those allegations appear to have more validity by the day, although there is something gloriously Irish in the story that Smith’s latest urine sample contained enough alcohol to be fatal.
I don’t know about the wise men that test athlete’s urine, but I’ve met plenty of Irish people who should have been dead from alcohol abuse, but weren’t.
It would be a shame if Smith were discovered to have been cheating, for there are other ways to achieve lasting sporting fame than subterfuge, especially if you happen to be Irish.
At the Los Angeles Olympics in 1984, for instance, Dr Pat O’Callaghan was a VIP guest, having won the gold medal in the hammer throw the last time LA staged an Olympics, in 1932. O’Callaghan was one of many cheering on Ireland’s latest hammer hopeful, Declan Haggerty.
Unfortunately, Haggerty’s technique was not quite in the same class as O’Callaghan’s and he threw the hammer into the side of the cage not once, not twice, but three times. Without a single legal throw to his name, Haggerty walked disconsolately across the field to signal his apologies to O’Callaghan. On the way over he tripped, dropped his hammer on his foot and broke his toe.
The soccer world cup will be a poorer event this year because Ireland failed to qualify. I wonder whether they might have made it through if Jack Charlton had still been in charge. Charlton’s exploits as the manager of Ireland have already entered the realm of legend. He could make ordinary players perform like Gods, but he couldn’t remember their names.
The chore he hated most was announcing the team for the latest match to the press. Tradition demands the names be given without recourse to notes and it was not unusual for the press to prompt Jack as he wondered aloud who he had picked to play centre half. And at one international match he turned to a squad member on his right and said: “I think we need some fresh legs up front, get ready”, only to be informed: “I’d love to Jack, but you haven’t picked me for this game”.
Charlton was responsible for bringing a lot of ersatz Irishmen into the national team. He figured that if 50% of the New York Police Department had Irish roots there must be a lot of decent soccer players out there with maternal grandmothers from the Emerald Isle. He was right, but it caused problems.
Liam Brady, a proper Irishman and a great player, stood proudly to attention as the national anthems played in a friendly against an African team. The Englishman wearing the green shirt tugged his sleeve and smiled, saying, “These African teams have some weird anthems, don’t they?” “That’s ours!” snarled Brady.
But since we started with John Robbie, we may as well finish with him as well. Robbie played nine internationals for Ireland and lost every one.
He then came to South Africa with the Lions and decided to stay. On a trip back home not long afterwards he pulled some strings to get a good seat for Ireland vs England at Lansdowne Road, only to see the English romp to victory. “So I get up from my seat at the end and I hear this voice shouting `Hey, Rabby’. So I look around, quite pleased that someone’s recognised me and he says, `Some focken good luck charm you are!'”