Mentions: rorymcgimpsey

The Pride of Belfast

The plague of the writer is creative block. Sometimes inspiration comes at you effortlessly, but other times it’s as elusive as hen’s teeth. I must confess that I don’t put a huge amount of preparation into my blogs. Instead, I rely on instinct and intuition to guide me through. Every writer is different. Many rely on painstaking research and planning to ensure they consistently produce their best work. I don’t work like that. I never have. In fact, I find that if I put too much thought and planning into my writing, it constrains and restricts me. Excessive planning impedes my creative process.

I once attended a creative writing course and the lecturer insisted that good writing should be meticulously planned and prepared to be most effective. Structure was the key, she maintained. And yet I’ve never written that way. How odd! I must break every rule in the book. For example, while preparing a blog, I often do some limited reading on the subject matter, mainly checking that my understanding of the given topic is accurate. Thereafter, I typically write five or six words on a piece of paper. The blog then flows from that handful of concise ideas. I sit down at my keyboard and let the ideas flow, and see where that takes me. Much like I’m doing right now, in fact. Interestingly, the piece that materialises is often quite different to the one originally conceived! And it sometimes comes out better, probably because I haven’t put too much thought into it.  The end product is the result of a weird form of alchemy, or maybe it’s madness! I don’t often decide on my blog topic until quite late in the week. Sometimes the topic is obvious and a blog just invites itself to be written. My blogs about Muhammad Ali and Brexit were cases in point-the two most popular pieces, incidentally. Other times, inspiration is sorely absent. It just seems impossible to find anything worthwhile to write about. This week was such an occasion. I’d no inspiration, no focus, no impetus. Then Carl Frampton won the world featherweight title in New York. Bingo!

I didn’t stay up to watch it, but managed to sneak a replay on Sunday. In the eagerness of youth, I regularly sat up to watch big fights, but 4:00 a.m. is pushing it these days. I’m glad I caught the replay, though. It was a terrific fight. The contest ebbed and flowed, with the Belfast boxer racking up a handsome early lead. Then champion Leo Santa Cruz stormed back into the fight, with a display typified by monumental heart and skill in equal measure. The best moments happened when the fighters went toe-to-toe. It was brutal stuff. It was also supremely courageous. This bout wasn’t for the faint of heart. When the final bell tolled after 12 gruelling rounds, fatigue and exertion was etched on the faces of both men. The scars of war laid bare for all to see. I don’t watch boxing as much as I used to, but there’s no doubt this was a tremendous fight. As good as I’ve seen in my years watching the noble art. It seemed close, too close to call. I thought Frampton had done enough to sneak it, but couldn’t be confident. Santa Cruz had been busy, however Frampton’s shots were much more accurate and precise; his work possessed superior quality. The judges evidently agreed with my assessment, awarding the contest to Frampton on a split points decision. “And the new……” It was a brilliant moment, one the Belfast man thoroughly deserved. History was made in Brooklyn, with the boy from Tiger’s Bay becoming the first Irish fighter to win world titles at different weights since Steve Collins-Collins won at middle and super-middleweight for those keeping score.

Frampton’s achievement is quite superb. Saturday’s win is both historic and prestigious. What makes his victory all the more laudable, though, is that Carl is such a nice guy. The Belfast boxer is a fine role model, one who represents his city and country with distinction. And it’s all carried with sincere modesty and humility. He’s genuine. That’s not Frampton’s best virtue, though. For me, the best thing about the new featherweight champ is his inclusiveness. He unifies us. Much like his manager and mentor Barry McGuigan, Carl unites in a society that’s historically been divided. No section of the community can claim Carl as their own, though. This likeable sportsman brings us together in a way that even today is still depressingly rare. When Frampton fights, there’s no boring talk of flags or anthems, just a simple, humble message that the entire community rallies around. 30 years ago, Irish boxing united in support of “Our Barry”. Nationalists, Unionists, Loyalists, and Republicans came together in a time of great strife to roar on the Clones Cyclone in the King’s Hall. In 2016, similarly, all sections of society unite in support of “Our Carl”. Thanks to our post-Troubles society, the context is mercifully different these days, but the spirit of inclusiveness and togetherness is the same. Diverse people from a variety of backgrounds united in common cause. Screaming for Carl. Just like the legions of Irish-Americans roaring for Frampton on Saturday.  So next time you hear someone speak of our supposedly divided society, think of Carl Frampton. A shining example that it doesn’t have to be that way. On Saturday night, when asked to consider the magnitude of his achievement and his legacy, Frampton understandably struggled to put it into words. Over time he may have a more eloquent response, but in assessing his win, the new champion suggested the victory meant he  won’t have to buy a pint for twenty years. Given the scale of his success, though, one ventures the pride of Belfast won’t need to purchase a beer in his native city ever again.

Twitter: @RoryMcGimpsey

An Appetite That Still Rages

I remember the album. It was an old cassette tape. Back then CDs, although increasingly common, were not yet ubiquitous. Above all others, this was the album that got me into rock music. As a socially awkward 14-year old, I spent hours upon hours listening to that tape. Full volume of course. You can’t listen to hard rock any other way! Is it any wonder I sometimes think my hearing isn’t as good as it should be? Funny enough, I don’t think my parents were as crazy about the record as I was. No matter. I knew best. Teenagers aren’t known for their consideration, are they?  The album in question was Appetite for Destruction. When asked about my favourite album of all-time, I find it hard not to yell Appetite as a reflex. There’s The Beatles of course, but in defining rock perfection, Appetite for Destruction is hard to surpass. I saw a concert on tv the other night where Slash was performing some of the back catalogue in his native Stoke. Of course there were songs from Snakepit and Velvet Revolver in his set, but that’s not why I was watching. I wanted to hear G N’ R. Those mighty songs still resonate the most. Especially ones from Appetite for Destruction. To this day, whenever I hear those songs, it sparks something inside me. I know every note, every riff, every lyric. Hours and hours of teenage obsession does that to you!

My favourite song was Nightrain. It’s worth a look on YouTube if you don’t know it. It’s as anthemic as it gets. A real crowd- pleaser. I used to think the song was a generic rock anthem, describing the hedonistic, touring lifestyle of a young band. That’s until a saw an interview with Slash a few years ago. The mystery was solved. Here, the guitarist explained the origins of Nightrain. He recounted the early days of the band as an up-and-coming outfit in LA. They were totally broke, penniless at the time. Despite that, the band had an image to live up to, a lifestyle to maintain. Slash revealed that the only liquor they could afford in that period was something called Nighttrain wine. It was incredibly cheap, but very strong stuff, he said. Not exactly vintage, though. Apparently it was very popular among the destitute of southern California. Nighttrain consumption became a backdrop to the recording of those early songs, therefore. Legend has it that the song’s lyrics were composed by all five band members improvising on the streets of LA, while sharing a bottle of Nighttrain. I love that story!

I suppose the feeling that Appetite arouses most is nostalgia. Youngsters of today have no idea what bands like G N’ R meant. But I can tell them, they meant everything! In those days, there were no I-Phones, I-Pads or Playstations. There was no Pokemon Go. We didn’t even have mobile phones for goodness sake! We were the MTV generation. Pre-internet, MTV was the currency of the youth. And the station didn’t show weird reality shows in those days. Even the Real World, the original reality television show, had yet to be televised. MTV showed music. And lots of it. Bands like Guns N’ Roses, Metallica, and Nirvana were played wall to wall. They were everywhere. I was never into grunge that much, but Nirvana were undoubtedly important. Everyone had a favourite band, though. You had to choose. Sitting on the fence wasn’t an option. My favourite band was Guns N’ Roses. No question. They had everything. The songs were fantastic. The image was cool. And they entertained us. This was a band that spent more on their videos than Hollywood studios spent on summer blockbusters. The Trilogy. Older readers will understand what I’m on about! G N’ R certainly had the image. Nevertheless, you knew they were real. The hell-raising wasn’t an act. Guns N’ Roses lived it, they practised what they preached.

And then in a flash they were gone. They biggest band in the world just vanished. They disappeared. It was devastating. For the MTV generation, this meant as much as the break-up of The Beatles to the baby boomers. There was one key difference, though. When The Beatles imploded amid a crescendo of recrimination, they left 13 original albums and countless other recordings behind them. When Guns N’ Roses left us abruptly, they had completed only four albums: Appetite, the epic double album Use Your Illusion, Lies,  and the unfortunate covers album The Spaghetti Incident. What a waste! They could have done so much. The overriding feeling among fans was that this was a band with the world at their feet, but then lost it. The reasons for the break-up of the original incarnation are well-documented, and don’t need retelling here. Needless to say, the relationship between singer Axl Rose and lead guitarist Slash wasn’t always a harmonious one. Rose negotiated the rights to the Guns N’ Roses name before the end, and vowed to carry on without the others. But it wasn’t the same. I haven’t listened to 2008’s Chinese Democracy and I doubt I will. It could be fantastic. But it’s not Axl and Slash. That’s where the magic was.

 And now they’re back. Axl, Slash, and bassist Duff McKagan are currently touring together for the first time in 23 years. It’s called the “Not in This Lifetime…Tour.”. The reference to the band’s infamously fractious relationship is neat, because this is indeed the tour no-one expected to see. It’s a busy time for Rose. The charismatic front man is also stepping in as a touring vocalist for AC/DC following the departure of their front-man, Brian Johnson. Heaven for us nineties rock fans! I don’t usually like reunions, though. There’s something intrinsically fake about them. They’re so anti-rock n’ roll. Watching ageing versions of childhood heroes strutting around a stage isn’t my cup of tea. But the lure of the reunion usually gets the most stubborn of rockers in the end. While it’s nice to see your idols touring again, there’s an underlying feeling of: “It’s not the same, they’re just not as good as they used to be.”

John Lennon’s premature and tragic death spared us ever seeing The Beatles compromise their legacy in this way. That all said, I’m prepared to give the G N’ R reunion a chance. Why? Because it’s Guns N’ Roses. G N’ R are one of the most important bands of all-time and they deserve a chance to show us they still have the magic we remember. If they manage to get round to recording new material, it’ll be fascinating to hear what they produce. However, the fact they’re back together is the biggest miracle of all. That in itself is something to be celebrated. Nostalgia isn’t what it used to be, but it’s always fantastic to be transported back to a special time. I’m on the Nightrain, are you?

Image Courtesy of Wikipedia: <a title=”By Scott Penner (http://www.flickr.com/photos/penner/2423575115/) [CC BY-SA 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0)%5D, via Wikimedia Commons” href=”https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File%3ASlashvr.jpg”><img width=”256″ alt=”Slashvr” src=”https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/9/92/Slashvr.jpg/256px-Slashvr.jpg&#8221;   https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/9/92/Slashvr.jpg  https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Slashvr.jpg

Twitter: @RoryMcGimpsey

McIlroy Doesn’t need to Justify himself

He’s tough. That’s what I like about Rory McIlroy. And I’m not just talking about the mental fortitude and resilience required to compete on the international stage. The County Down man is brave enough to speak his mind in a world increasingly characterised by vacuous and meaningless soundbites. It takes a lot of courage to speak out, to reveal your inner thoughts to the world, regardless of the potential consequences. It’s a tough enough thing for any of us to do. Think how challenging it must be to speak honestly when you’ve a raft of sponsors, fans, and business partners to please or placate. This is the brutal world Ireland’s most famous sportsman has to navigate. To say it’s rather tricky is to utter the greatest understatement of all time. And yet McIlroy consistently manages it. Honesty truly is a priceless commodity in this superficial world.

For someone so young, the 27-year old golfer’s career has been notable for regular moments of mild controversy and unwarranted intrusion. Although McIlroy is a consummate media performer who’s unquestionably a credit to his country, there remains that welcome tendency to speak his mind. Here is someone refreshingly unafraid to tell it like it is. We may not always like what McIlroy says, but there’s no doubt his opinions are borne of sincerity, that he speaks from the heart. Take the latest episode. As most of you will know, the Holywood golfer has withdrawn from the forthcoming Rio Olympics due to concerns over the Zika virus. Sadly, but wholly predictably, McIlroy’s decision has prompted a tidal wave of ire and indignation from a host of individuals, many of whom don’t know the first thing about golf or its priorities. Poor Rory has been accused of everything, from letting his country down to abandoning the responsibility to promote and develop the sport that’s made him a global superstar. I’m not a massive golf fan, but from the outside much of the reaction seems unjust and unreasonable, often bordering on the hysterical. Typical of the man, McIlroy hasn’t shied away, although his comments last week about the perceived importance of Olympic golf has perhaps added fuel to the fire.

My own reaction to McIlroy’s decision has changed since the initial announcement was made. When I first heard it, I must admit I was a little incredulous at McIlroy’s rationale. While I respected his entitlement to decide which competitions he participates in, I was a little sceptical about the reasons. The Zika virus? Surely the risks are minuscule and pale in comparison with the prestige of representing your country at an Olympic Games. Millions of young athletes dream of going to the Olympics. It’s an honour and a deep privilege to be afforded the opportunity. And yet here was someone turning that down. What was McIlroy thinking? However, the more I thought about it, the more I understood where Rory was coming from.

The health risks posed by the Zika virus are real, and have been well documented recently. McIlroy has made no secret of his desire to start a family with fiancee Erica Stoll. Regardless of the untested severity of the risks, why should he jeopardise or compromise any of that? That’s all very well I hear his critics yell, while alleging that the withdrawal has nothing to do with health, but everything to do with the lack of prestige offered by the Olympic golf competition. McIlroy has taken  a lot from his sport, so the argument goes, there therefore must be a duty, an obligation to give back? This misses the point, though. McIlroy has made his feelings about Olympic golf abundantly clear. Although stressing that it was an honour to be selected, the Irish number one has repeatedly affirmed that Olympic golf is not at the top of his priorities.

When explaining his decision recently, McIlroy recounted a conversation he had with Irish Olympian, Sonia O’Sullivan. Here the golfer explained that while O’Sullivan had an Olympics once every four years, he has an Olympics four times each year. His allusion to the importance of the Majors hardly needs explained. The point made is intrinsic to this discussion, though. In an individual sport like track-and-field athletics, the Olympic Games are the absolute pinnacle, the very summit of aspiration and achievement. That’s just not the case in golf. The Majors are every golfer’s essential priority and always will be.

To risk your health or that of your family’s-no matter how slim the worries-for a competition that isn’t fundamental to you doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. Clearly many of McIlroy’s fellow golfers feel the same way. McIlroy’s rival Jordan Speith and compatriots Shane Lowry and Graeme McDowell (to name but a few), are the latest to make similar calculations to Ireland’s poster boy. Moreover, while we have to take their explanations at face value, the reasons for the Olympic exodus are actually quite irrelevant. It’s a moot point. The reality is, no elite sportsman needs to justify their participation or otherwise at any event. These guys play to win trophies. That’s their only priority and focus. Amateurs play for enjoyment, professionals play to win. They don’t have to explain themselves to anyone. And it’s naive in the extreme to think otherwise.

For any individual, health is a non-negotiable priority. It’s a perverse world where that needs to be explained. Those shouting loudest on this issue need to ask the following question: would they risk exposure to Zika unnecessarily? Rory McIlroy doesn’t owe anything. Not to golf. Not to Ireland. Not to the Olympics. Despite that, no-one has done more for Irish golf and modern Irish sport than the pride of Holywood. Anyone who watched the recent Irish Open will know that. McIlroy is as generous as he is talented, and has earned the right to decide where he performs and why. Anyone considering doing anything other than cheering golf’s brightest star at Royal Troon this afternoon is advised to keep that in mind.

Twitter: @RoryMcGimpsey

Should Schmidt Stay Or Go?

It’s fair to say that the Irish rugby public has had a less than straightforward relationship with head coach, Joe Schmidt. When Schmidt first assumed the mantle of Ireland boss, it seemed he could do no wrong. The Kiwi cut an almost messianic figure, winning praise and admiration from virtually everyone in Irish rugby circles. Sure, like anyone in the public eye, Schmidt had his detractors, but the prevailing consensus was that Ireland had bagged one of the smartest and most capable coaches on the international rugby circuit. Schmidt was the man. And Ireland’s subsequent results vindicated this assessment. Schmidt led the men in green to an unprecedented two Six Nations victories in succession, masterminding a remarkable run that culminated in Ireland’s superb destruction of Scotland in the 2015 Six Nations decider. Schmidt’s totemic status was assured, as sports fans the length and breadth of the country became enamoured with the erudite but unassuming New Zealander. And the affection was reciprocated. Ireland’s coach seemed genuinely taken with his adopted home, as confirmed by his proud naturalisation as an Irish citizen last year.

So far, so good. But then something changed. That something was the 2015 Rugby World Cup.  The relationship altered after that. It became complicated. While I’ve no reason to believe that Schmidt’s opinion of Ireland changed, there’s no doubt that the post-World Cup period has seen an altering in the perception of the coach by fans. Of course supporters were naturally devastated when Ireland crashed out the tournament at the hands of a classy, ascendant Argentina side. But the questioning of Schmidt’s methods went beyond mere disappointment with the outcome of the doomed quarter-final. The entire modus operandi of the  Schmidt regime was openly challenged. All of a sudden, all and sundry were disputing Ireland’s style of play. Apparently, we were boring, predictable, one dimensional. Those were some of the kinder verdicts! That’s not to say concerns over style hadn’t been expressed prior to the tournament. Before RWC 2015  kicked off, many pundits had pleaded for a more expansive and entertaining game plan. With the side winning, however, such disenchantment was easily dismissed. Why change a winning formula? That Argentina performance was a game changer in every sense, though. Post-Cardiff, it was open season on the amiable and intelligent Schmidt.

And you know what? It’s all rather unfair and unjustified. More than that, it’s a little un-Irish. I’ve always had a strong belief that us Irish support and cherish our stars and icons in a manner not always seen elsewhere. Maybe we sometimes go a bit too far in our idolatry, but that’s another story. Historically, we haven’t subscribed to the extreme iconoclasm that our English neighbours-especially their tabloid newspapers-seem to revel in. Building people up just to mercilessly knock them down? As a nation, it wasn’t something we ever did. It wasn’t our style. And yet here we were apparently doing just that to someone who’s actually done a bloody terrific job for us!

Don’t get me wrong. I’ve been as critical as anyone about Ireland’s oft conservative style of play. There’s been plenty of times in the past eighteen months where I’ve been willing the boys to throw off the shackles and give it the proverbial lash. But I’ve always appreciated Schmidt. My admiration for him hasn’t dimmed. As a rugby fan, I understand the value he adds as a tactician and strategist. Some of the more vitriolic and polemical criticisms are hard to fathom, therefore. Maybe it’s a symptom of modern society. We live in an internet age, in an era where bland soundbites and easy answers replace rigorous analysis and assessment. An age where Twitter threads and chat rooms silence the real experts. And such unfiltered noise can drown out the evidence of our own eyes.

The thing is we’ll miss him when he goes. Schmidt is on record as saying he’ll make his mind up about his future this summer. Ireland’s coach is contracted until next spring, but thereafter he’s a free agent. While an official announcement might not come until later, it’s suspected that Schmidt’ll reveal his intentions to his employers before the end of the summer. Having waited until the finale of the recent tour to South Africa-itself a tremendous success-Schmidt’s attention now turns to his future. It’s making his mind up time. No-one knows for sure, but the early indications suggest Schmidt might go. The Irish boss has already been linked with the Highlanders and Chiefs in his native New Zealand recently.

If Schmidt has an ambition to coach the All Blacks, a return to the land of the long white cloud is an essential piece of the jigsaw. However, professional aspirations aren’t the only consideration. As Schmidt movingly revealed last month, his family is his absolute priority and the health of his son Luke will be foremost in his mind. Will Schmidt stay or go? I don’t know.  Like the majority of Irish fans, I’d love him to stay and finish the job with this talented and ambitious group of young Irish players. If he goes, though, I wholeheartedly wish him all the best for the future. He’s a great coach who’s undoubtedly done a wonderful job for Irish rugby. I believe the overwhelming majority of Irish rugby people feel the same. I don’t believe that his pernicious critics represent the true fans. For all his detractors, though, it’s worth bearing in mind one of the great truisms of life. You only realise what you have when it’s gone.

File:Joe Schmidt coaching Irish team.jpg

Image Courtesy of Wikipedia: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Joe_Schmidt_coaching_Irish_team.jpg  @OvalDigest.

Twitter: @RoryMcGimpsey

Horrors for Hodgson

“Three Lions on a Shirt,

Jules Rimet Still Gleaming,

Thirty Years of Hurt,

Never Stopped Me Dreaming.”

Thirty years of hurt? I’m guessing a majority of English football fans would give their right arms for it only to be thirty years at this moment. You must have been living on the moon if you don’t know the biggest sports story of the week. I don’t suppose any of you missed it, but for those that did, England crashed out of the Euros in the last 16 to the minnows of Iceland. Tiny Iceland. One of the incredible statistics being bandied about is that apparently the Scandinavian island has a population equivalent to Leicester. The 2011 census estimated Leicester’s population as approximately 330, 000. In terms of population, this allegedly makes the midlands town the eighth biggest city in England. You could say the result was like Premier League Champions Leicester City beating England’s national team. But it’s not. The majority of Leicester’s players don’t hail from the city, and the club’s owners are free to sign players from all over the world. To use a better analogy, then, this was like a Belfast team defeating England’s superstars, with the side being comprised only of Belfast born players. Although rather glib, such statistics help put Iceland’s achievement in some kind of context. I’ve been to Iceland. It’s a beautiful country full of wonderful, natural sights, but they wouldn’t be known as one of international football’s superpowers.

I remember when Terry Venables was England manager. English press and supporters absolutely loved him. Venables was regarded as a tactical genius, a coaching guru who could inspire any team to consistent levels of achievement. He used to talk about the “Christmas Tree” formation. Or maybe it was the “Diamond” formation? I don’t know. To be honest, I kinda switch off when football people make the game out to be overly technical or complicated. Football is one of the simplest games imaginable. I just don’t get it when fellas make it sound like rocket science or existentialist philosophy. Nevertheless, whatever Venables had, it worked. The former Spurs manager successfully got his charges to the semi-finals of Euro ’96, the first major tournament held in Blighty since Bobby Moore lifted the Jules Rimet trophy. 1966 and all that. English football was carried along on a wave of popular euphoria until the inevitable moment when Gareth Southgate missed the penalty to send the rival Germans into the final in England’s stead.  Oh well. At least, he got a Pizza Hut advert out of it. My point is this. Even the oracle that was Venables couldn’t get the perpetual under achievers over the line. What chance does anyone else have? I saw a documentary about Euro ’96 recently which revealed that Venables is now running a hotel in Spain. I imagine he’s not coming back any time soon.

From the outside, it seems that one of the biggest problems facing English football is a lack of self-awareness. Post-1966, the English have always had a superiority complex when it comes to football. And indeed most other major sports too! They think they should always be contenders. The prevailing attitude even creeps into sports like tennis where the English have no reason (based on history or climate) to consider themselves one of the game’s superpowers. Therefore, there’s usually a massive disconnection between expectation and achievement. It’s almost inherent, built into the English psyche. Before I get inundated with responses from beleaguered English friends, I’m not talking about the average English punter here. I understand that expectation among English football fans, for example, has been consistently low for many years. Year after year of penalty shoot-out elimination and knockout heartache does that to you. I’m talking about the media. The English press just can’t help themselves. Despite protestations to the contrary, they will always champion their boys as potential winners. It’s the same old story. For sure, they’ll mercilessly slate Hodgson’s boys for the latest underachievement, but as soon as his successor musters a couple of wins, they’ll talk England up as football giants again. It’s inevitable.

It’s a curious phenomenon. And it’s a syndrome we see at close hand from this side of the Irish Sea. Despite having our own televisual and media outlets, us Irish spend a disproportionate amount of time watching English t.v. and reading English papers. Therefore, we’re in an excellent position to assess the English propensity to talk up their sports stars. Sure, all countries do it, but the English are masters at hyping their sports men and women. One of the reasons we’re fascinated by such hyperbole in Ireland is that it’s so different from our own experience and reaction. In Ireland, we’re instinctively modest about our sporting prospects. Even on the rare occasions our sportsmen actually deliver, we scarcely believe it. It doesn’t seem real. We’re programmed to accept mediocrity and disappointment as par for the course. Any success we achieve, therefore, is welcomed as an unexpected delight. And once the euphoria dissipates, we eagerly resume our natural role as underdogs and challengers.

From the outside, certainly, it seems the English media view their sports teams and individuals differently. Maybe it’s a relic of empire, but the English appear to have an ingrained propensity to expect success. And such expectation doesn’t always correlate with the ability of the individuals and teams concerned. The consequence? The English public is almost guaranteed to experience disappointment. When the only yardstick of success is actually winning the competition, you’re setting your teams up for constant failure. The only way to break this perpetual cycle is to lower expectations.The English football manager’s job is a poisoned chalice. Regardless of remuneration, who’d want an impossible job? I could be wrong, but I don’t think there’ll be a queue of top managers wanting to succeed the unfortunate Roy Hodgson.

As a post-script to my last blog, I notice that Boris Johnson has withdrawn from the race to be prime minister following the latest bout of infighting  within the Tory party. I know there are more global issues at work, but given the belief that one of the primary drivers of the Brexit campaign was giving Boris a shot at his lifelong dream, doesn’t the Leave victory seem a little hollow now he’s backed down? The Boris-supporting leavers have campaigned for something that’s proved ultimately futile, a quest for professional aggrandisement that hasn’t even worked. For this-amongst other reasons-, we’re in a period of grave uncertainty? It’s a funny old world!

File:Genève Indoors 2014 - 20140114 - Roy Hodgson.jpg

Image Courtesy of Wikipedia: [[File:Genève Indoors 2014 – 20140114 – Roy Hodgson.jpg|Genève Indoors 2014 – 20140114 – Roy Hodgson]] https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Gen%C3%A8ve_Indoors_2014_-_20140114_-_Roy_Hodgson.jpg

Twitter: @RoryMcGimpsey

Brexit: A Sleepwalk into Disaster

“The United Kingdom has voted to leave the European Union”

My alarm clock went off at 6:00 as usual on Friday morning, but the world I woke up to was markedly different to the one I left when I fell asleep. It was the dulcet tones of Conor Bradford that relayed this cataclysmic news to  me. For those unfamiliar with the broadcast journalist, Bradford is a newsreader and anchor on BBC Radio Ulster’s Good Morning Ulster programme. His grand and patrician style is particularly appropriate for events of such significance. l couldn’t believe his words. Like most of us, I hadn’t seen this coming.

I’m a bit of political anorak and had spent most of Thursday evening watching the television analysis of the Brexit referendum. However, as I retired to slumber, all the meaningful early predictions and exit polls were calling a narrow but clear victory for the Remain campaign. Therefore, the mind-boggling news that the electorate had decided to end the UK’s 43 year membership of the EU came as an almighty shock. Coming from Northern Ireland, the Brexit debate has undoubtedly assumed a greater significance, given the complex dynamics of all-Ireland political and  economic structures. All of a sudden, we were facing the unsettling prospect of sharing a land border with the European Union. What would that mean for our industry and agriculture? On Friday morning, shock and confusion reigned above all else. Dismay was the prevailing emotion. The fact that Northern Ireland had voted to remain was scant consolation.

Once the shock had abated, my mind turned to a more rational analysis of these groundbreaking and unprecedented events. What did it all mean? How best to make sense of the madness? It occurs to me that whatever about the merits of the outcome, this was a decision made for the wrong reasons. My abiding impression of the Brexit fiasco is that this was a critical decision made by many without even a basic comprehension of the facts. I can scarcely recall a political debate where the campaign was so thin on information and rational argument. The Brexit referendum was a triumph of ignorance and alarmist rhetoric over rationality. There was plenty of noise, but no real substance. For a decision of such magnitude, the debate was painfully thin on detail. In fact, many people seemed genuinely confused about what they were actually voting about. Some folks seemed to think that the issue related to immigration. Although a misguided view, having regard to the EU’s insistence on the free movement of people, goods, and services, you can see how they came to that conclusion. Others strangely linked the referendum to terrorism. How bizarre! The idea that this unstable action has somehow made us safer in this volatile world must be the ultimate example of hysteria and ignorance triumphing over rational thought. The Brexit vote, it seems to me, is the result of a weird form of collective impulsiveness, individuals hastily making a vital decision without recourse to even the basic facts.

In truth, there are those who have no real interest in dealing with the facts in relation to this discussion . For events that are hijacked by such hysteria and febrile emotion, there is a form of “confirmation bias” at work here. Facts and details are consumed by a perfect storm of prejudice and preconceived ideas, sacred cows that cannot be challenged. It is my belief that the propagandists on both sides of this debate have no interest in hearing anything that remotely challenges their predetermined notions. For a debate of such fundamental importance, objectivity and emotional detachment were needed to drown out the rhetoric and emotion. Alas, the opposite appears to have been the case. As happens so often in these emotionally charged debates, individuals decide what side of the fence they’re on and then look for evidence, no matter how flimsy, to support and justify that preconceived view. That is an inherently flawed process when dealing with something so significant and fundamental.

The other curious factor was how many voters ostensibly sacrificed self -interest for  emotion.  It’s remarkable that Northern Irish farmers apparently derive over 70% of their income from the EU by virtue of the Common Agricultural Policy. And yet statistically, some of those same farmers must have voted for Brexit. In a region that is so dependent on EU finance and support, how can such actions be rationalised? And for that matter, it seems strange that the largest Unionist party supported a decision that seems, on the face of it, to be utterly detrimental to the stability and prosperity of their beloved United Kingdom. You wonder if they’ve given it any coherent thought. Maybe they want another Scottish referendum and the consequent break-up of the union they supposedly cherish?!  That’s before we even get to the dreadful miscalculation of David Cameron. The deeply flawed decision to hold this referendum is borne in arrogance and strategic senselessness. I’m no fan of Cameron and the Tory party, but I’ve always viewed Dave as an effective and clever politician; a consummate leader who  exerted an almost clinical control of an often dysfunctional and divided party. To have sacrificed his legacy, just a year after securing an impressive majority, is one of the greatest political errors of the last 50 years. Regret must be the least of Cameron’s emotions this morning.

In truth, Brexit has produced no real winners, aside from the remorselessly ambitious Boris and the eccentric, absurd Nigel. For all the well-meaning and naive talk of a second referendum, I think we’re stuck with this disaster. As someone living in Northern Ireland, we’re facing a particularly uncertain and potentially divisive time. What will the impact be in relation to our re-defined frontier? Surely there will be some form of enhanced demarcation and customs presence? No-one really knows for sure, but we’re about to find out. However, a time of great flux and uncertainty awaits the entire United Kingdom. Brexiteers. Strange term. Sounds a bit like musketeers. All for one and one for all? Not anymore following this seismic vote. Well, they’ve got what they wanted. The law of unintended consequences in all its dramatic glory. The UK has sleepwalked into Brexit. Now we all must face the consequences of this new and scary reality.

Image Courtesy of Wikipedia: https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/2/25/Boris_Johnson_July_2015.jpg

File:Boris Johnson July 2015.jpg

 

Twitter:@RoryMcGimpsey

You Don’t Have to be Brazil to Prosper

“My eyes have seen the glory of Espana ’82;

When little Northern Ireland showed the world what we could do….”

So goes the opening line of Northern Ireland fan favourite:”We’re not Brazil, we’re Northern Ireland.” The song goes to the very heart of the identity of the Northern Ireland international football team. “Our wee country.” The idea that you don’t need the resources of Brazil to be successful is embedded in the culture of Irish football, north and south. The Irish have long punched above their weight in the international arena. This week provided another example of this wonderful fact when lowly Northern Ireland defeated Ukraine 2-0 at the European Championships. This was a spectacular win by anyone’s standards. Michael O’Neill’s men had faltered in their opening game, losing 1-0 to Poland. Northern Ireland entered that game with a defensive mindset, seemingly determined to stifle the Polish with unrelenting pressure. The tactic worked to an extent, but eliminated Northern Ireland as an attacking force-there wasn’t a clear shot on target throughout the whole game. O’Neill was criticised for abandoning the positive philosophy that got his side to the tournament in the first place. A response was needed. And what a response it was. Northern Ireland were quite superb as they outplayed the Ukranians, with a display full of passion, commitment, and bravery.

Prior to Thursday’s game, Northern Ireland’s finest hour was the victory over Spain in 1982 to secure their place in the quarter-final of the World Cup. That win has assumed an almost mythic significance in the Northern Irish football psyche. Northern Ireland tore the form book into millions of pieces as Gerry Armstrong’s goal condemned the Spanish hosts to an embarrassing loss in their own tournament. That night in Valencia is etched into Irish football folklore, ranking alongside the Republic of Ireland’s win over Romania to reach the quarter-finals of the 1990 World Cup. The Irish don’t enjoy such nights very often, and that’s why they deserve to be celebrated when they come along. The victory over Ukraine has earned the right to be cherished amongst the greatest Irish sporting wins.

Sporting success has always had a disproportionate influence on Irish life and culture. The McGuigan fights, rugby Grand Slams, Rory McIroy’s rise to the top of the golfing world. They all have a special place in Irish life. Because sporting triumph means more to smaller nations and populations.  The likes of England, Germany, and the USA may beg to differ, but it’s true. The reason is pretty simple. Such successes resonate with possibility and hope. Small nations aren’t expected to succeed on the international stage, and therefore such success transfixes spectators when it happens. And it’s not just the underdog factor at work here. In these austere economic times, sporting victories have the capacity to enthuse an entire nation, to give hope that potential exists beyond the daily grind. Such  elation is short-lived, but it means a great deal in those fleeting, transient moments. Sport is the ultimate form of escapism, where millions can live vicariously through their heroes. It’s all very well cheering for the multi-millionaires of Manchester United or Barcelona, but we all feel much more involved when success is achieved by our international sportsmen, regardless of the pursuit. These are people we can relate to, our neighbours, whose exploits carry our own dreams and aspirations.

In a divided society, sport has always been a rallying point that unites us in the midst of polarisation. Soccer has often been the exception to this rule, where more tribal realities regularly come to bear. However, there are signs that times are changing. With both Irish football teams qualifying together for a major tournament for the first time, there had been fears that such division would manifest itself, both at home and in France. In the event, Irish fans have been magnificent thus far, their behaviour an exemplar of inclusiveness and tolerance. In the attitude of Irish supporters, a template has been set for cooperation among rival fans. In France, we have seen Irish fans united, united not in the support of one team, but united in mutual tolerance and respect. And therein lies the lesson.

Sporting rivalry doesn’t have to divide, doesn’t need to appeal to the worst tendencies of human expression. What the Euro 2016 fan experience has shown us is that sport should be about colour, fun, enthusiasm, and happiness. National identity exclusively expressed in a positive, joyful, and non-threatening way. Irish fans have set the example, but it’s clear that the vast majority of international football fans just want to cheer on their team in a positive and respectful manner. They want to participate and celebrate, celebrating great wins like Northern Ireland’s on Thursday night. In a tournament where the spectre of hooliganism has raised its ugly head once again, it’s heartening that the Irish (north and south) are leading the way in setting an alternative example. Best fans in the world. Regardless of what happens on the field, that alone is worthy of celebration. Just ask the Northern Ireland fans who are still celebrating an historic win. You don’t have to be Brazil to be successful.

Image Courtesy of Wikipedia: By Source, Fair use, https://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?curid=11297898

Shirt badge/Association crest

Twitter: @RoryMcGimpsey

Sublime Ireland Sink Boks

I’m finding it hard to make sense of it. You know the way events sometimes just don’t make sense no matter how hard you try and rationalise them? Well, I had that sensation in abundance yesterday. For those who missed it, Ireland defeated South Africa (Saturday 11 June 2016) at their Newlands stronghold. The win was significant enough in itself. Prior to Saturday’s game, the Irish had never tasted victory on South African soil. In truth, they hadn’t even come close. Therefore, their win was historic and unprecedented in equal measure. However, as anyone who witnessed the Irish performance will tell you, Saturday’s effort was so much more.

Typical of this enigmatic Irish side, they made history the hard way. The visitors found themselves down to 14-men after just 20 minutes thanks to the controversial sending off of their naturalised back row, CJ Stander, who was red carded for a clumsy challenge on his former compatriot and team-mate, Patrick Lambie. A Test match in South Africa is an unforgiving environment for any rugby team. The conditions are notoriously brutal, confrontational, and hostile. Therefore, for a young Irish side to think their way to victory in such challenging circumstances is nothing short of incredible.

I’ve been watching rugby for nearly thirty years, and can’t remember anything remotely like Saturday’s career defining performance. Indeed, I’m old enough to remember the bad old days when underpowered Irish sides were sent to South Africa to compete against enormous  Springbok sides comprised of utter behemoths. In those days, the men in green faced mission impossible, they were ritual lambs to the slaughter. In writing this piece, I think back to 1998 when an Irish team led by Paddy Johns faced shocking levels of aggression and attrition on the Highveld. The Battle of Pretoria and all that. Look it up on You Tube if you haven’t seen it. It was shocking stuff. Notorious. Madness everywhere. Nevertheless, Johns’s men didn’t take a backward step, meeting fire with fire on one of rugby’s darkest days. Thankfully, the game has come a long way in the ensuing years. Such overt and unfiltered violence simply isn’t tolerated in the uber-sanitised modern, professional game. Here’s the point, though. In those days, it was inconceivable, unrealistic even, to think that Ireland would ever defeat the Springboks on their home patch. That they did it in the midst of such adversity is remarkable in the extreme.

Of course many of Ireland’s woes were self-inflicted. What of the sending off? While Stander’s challenge was undeniably reckless and ugly (it doesn’t get any better with repeat viewing), CJ assuredly had no intention of hurting his former team-mate, and it’s hard to resist the impression that Ireland’s flanker was committed to a challenge he was unable to avoid in the heat of the moment. The post match consensus held that a yellow card was a more fitting sanction, and I don’t disagree with that analysis. Despite Ireland’s deeply ingrained propensity to make life difficult for themselves, this was a performance to be admired and treasured as a monumental effort. While Ireland’s tactics undoubtedly worked a treat, this was a win achieved with old fashioned grit and determination. The Irish refused to submit, just wouldn’t be beaten; even when reduced to 13-men following Robbie Henshaw’s first half sin-binning. This victory was all about belief and conviction; the young side showing unwavering heart and composure to withstand the South African onslaught.

Witness the way three Irish defenders bundled JP Pietersen into touch at the death to deny the South Africans a win they scarcely deserved. This display  was all about collective will and determination, the Irish simply wouldn’t be denied. In a side shorn of experience and leadership, good performances abounded everywhere. To a man, Ireland’s players emphatically rose to the occasion. Iain Henderson, Jordi Murphy, Jamie Heaslip, and Jared Payne all contributed outstanding performances. So too Paddy Jackson. The Ulster youngster has waited a long time for his opportunity and he grabbed it with both hands, with a performance full of composure and thoughtfulness. This was Jackson’s moment. And what about captain fantastic? Rory Best was magnificent. I lost count of the times the Irish skipper saved the day. Best was everywhere in a game where his leadership and character shone brightest. If anyone still doubts the class of the Ulster hooker, I suggest they look again at the video.

Incredibly, an historic series win is now within the ambit of Joe Schmidt’s men. After Saturday, belief and optimism must be surging through the veins of the entire squad. A word of caution, though. I can’t recall a worse South African performance. The Springboks were dire on Saturday, and this proud  rugby nation will unquestionably be smarting like never before. I fully expect a terrifying backlash next week. However, if Ireland can somehow withstand the mammoth onslaught, anything is possible. The bar has been set, and Schmidt’s men will be determined to make further history. It’s going to be a fascinating couple of weeks. It seems fitting to leave the final word to Man of the Match, Devin Toner. It’s been a difficult few weeks for the giant second row following the passing of his father. Toner has developed into a mature and vital member of Schmidt’s squad; his humble, modest demeanour reflecting the core values of this Irish team. On collecting his thoroughly deserved MOTM award, the big man simply said: “I just wanted to say, that’s for dad.” It was a poignant and evocative end to one of Ireland’s greatest days.

Twitter: @RoryMcGimpsey

Muhammad Ali: The Greatest

I woke early on Saturday to the sad news, news we were expecting, but no less awful for that. Muhammad Ali is gone. The most revered sportsman of all time. The Greatest. Despite having spent the last thirty years being ravaged by the debilitating condition that is Parkinson’s Disease, his passing still comes as a shock. Isn’t that the way it always works, though? Somehow, regardless of the relentless inevitability of death, we don’t expect our heroes to die. No matter how many times it happens, we find it hard to accept the mortality of heroic and iconic people.

It’s part of the human condition. Each of us are programmed to view our heroes as transcendent, quasi-immortal figures. Even the grim certainty of death is unable to penetrate this cruel illusion. Such deception of the mind is especially common with individuals as iconic as Ali. We just can’t accept they’re gone. It doesn’t seem right, plausible even, that someone so superhuman and powerful is as mortal as the rest of us. Even when we’re confronted with inescapable evidence of their fragility, as we had been  through Ali’s cruel, chronic illness, we find it difficult to accept the merciless truth. I suppose this syndrome is one of the reasons people still occasionally see Elvis in chip shops. Heroes just aren’t supposed to leave us. And that’s why it devastates us when they do.

I’m too young to remember Muhammad Ali fight. Instead, I came to him through my father. My Dad is the biggest Ali fan imaginable, Muhammad Ali is his all-time hero. Like many of that generation, Dad seemed to regard Ali as the personification of sporting perfection. Therefore, I grew up with stories of the legend. The iconic fights, the trash talk, the peerless record of achievement. As a young lad, I heard about Ali’s brutal three fights with Joe Frazier and of course the big daddy of them all: the Rumble in the Jungle when Ali dethroned the mammoth George Foreman to regain the heavyweight title. The Rumble intrigued me the most. Forget the amiable figure with the grill. Foreman was an utterly terrifying pugilist in 1974. My Dad would regale me with stories of this gigantic, intimidating man who seemed virtually indestructible.  And yet the immovable object was indeed defeated, Ali employing his controversial and innovative “Rope-a-Dope” strategy to fell the hitherto unbeaten Foreman. I subsequently watched the fight myself in later years, and the Rumble ingrained the Ali legend in my mind.

When I discovered more about the man, though, what really interested me was his life outside the ring. I’ve always been fascinated by Ali’s activism; the name change, his strident opposition to racism in all its ugly forms, and his courageous refusal to be conscripted into the Vietnam War. For me, these convictions and crusades truly illuminate Ali the man. His conscientious objection to  Vietnam, moreover, defined Ali’s career as much as anything else. His opposition to the controversial war cost Ali three years of championship bouts at a time when he was entering the peak of his athletic powers. The enforced sabbatical undoubtedly had a detrimental effect on the ascendant star. How good would Ali have been otherwise? It’s a sobering question! That Ali came back so spectacularly from this fighting exile to enjoy the most celebrated moments of his career in the 1970s tells us all we need to know about this remarkable man.

What about Ali the campaigner? Societal achievement can be hard to quantify, but the champion arguably did more for African-American rights and equality than any other individual. Long before Barack Obama, Ali was often a minority voice in the wilderness, shining a light on America’s inequalities and providing a vision of pride, integrity, and achievement to which millions of African-Americans could aspire. The champion had his faults, but I think it’s difficult for the modern mind to appreciate just how courageous and prescient Ali’s fearless stance against racism was. Of course one can be churlish and suggest that the sometimes vitriolic nature of Ali’s activism actually fostered division, but this view fundamentally misses the point. In becoming a global hero to millions of people of every class, colour, and creed, Ali promoted an inclusiveness that transcended petty human division. Ali’s mass appeal, in fact, helped eradicate prejudice in a way that legions of elected representatives can only dream of. And his vocal, unapologetic opposition to racism and inequality paved the way for the integrated American society millions take for granted today. This inspiration was felt throughout the world. That is Muhammad Ali’s lasting legacy, as far as I’m concerned. 

In sporting terms,  Ali boasted an aura and charisma that matched his supremely electrifying talent. Many have since imitated, but no-one has come close to generating the box office appeal so effortlessly exuded by the legendary  fighter. Boxers like Chris Eubank and Naseem Hamed attempted to captivate the sporting public with a crude simulation of Ali’s theatrics, but their performances were less than convincing. When it came to charisma, charm, and humour, there was only one Muhammad Ali. If illness hadn’t reduced him so savagely, this man could have done anything. Movie star, lecturer, President, who knows what he might have been if Parkinson’s Disease hadn’t intervened? I think that sense of loss one of the reasons Ali’s illness and death are so galling. We know we’ll never see his like again.

As if all that wasn’t enough, any fair summation of the man must also account for his humanity and character. For all Ali’s unprecedented exploits in the ring, the three-time Heavyweight Champion’s later years proclaimed him as a universal role model who set the bravest of examples. The proud and dignified manner in which the great man handled his illness speaks volumes for Ali’s character: he had integrity, fortitude, and humility in abundance. How ironic that Parkinson’s robbed him of that priceless ability to speak out, to elucidate his thoughts in the articulate way we were used to. In a strange way, though, Ali’s more muted appearances in recent years highlighted  the bravery and humanity of the man in a way that words simply cannot capture. Sometimes there are just no words capable of defining the human spirit. It’s horrible to think that any person should suffer the cruel symptoms inflicted by a degenerative disease like Parkinson’s. Nevertheless, patients of this cruel illness-and others like it-couldn’t have had a better advocate and role model to highlight their suffering. The great man has gone. How sad we’ve finally lost him. He has left us with a tremendous legacy, though. Muhammad Ali was the greatest. In more ways than one.

Twitter: @RoryMcGimpsey