The Lion King: Part 2

Where does the time go? I remember writing a piece four years’ ago about the appointment of Warren Gatland as British and Irish Lions head coach. In a very cliched way, I called it “Gatland: The Lion King.” Well, we’re all set for the sequel. This week’s reappointment of the Wales coach was as predictable as the rising of the sun. Gatland joins Ian McGeechan as the only coaches to lead the Lions on consecutive tours in what is undoubtedly the toughest assignment of them all: a tour to New Zealand. It’s not a coincidence that only one Lions squad has won a Test series in the land of the long white cloud (the 1971 side coached by Carwyn James was one of the greatest rugby teams of all-time). New Zealand is a fiendishly difficult touring destination-as seen in the Lions last visit there 12 years’ ago, when Clive Woodward’s tourists were whitewashed 3-0 by Graham Henry’s irrepressible All Blacks side. The Lions committee has deemed the irascible Kiwi as the right man to take on mission impossible-the withdrawals of Eddie Jones and Joe Schmidt from the race meant that Gatland’s ratification was a mere formality. That there wasn’t a host of viable contenders shouldn’t detract from Gatland’s achievement, though. This appointment is as meritocratic as it gets. The New Zealander’s record is second to none: a Lions series victory, two Grand Slams, and a Heineken Cup speaks for itself.

Despite having amassed such unimpeachable credentials, the Wales coach remains a polarising figure in this part of the world. Much of the animosity was generated by the infamous dropping of Irish legend Brian O’Driscoll for the third Lions Test against Australia in 2013. The fact that the Lions handsomely won the encounter failed to vindicate Gatland’s controversial selection in the eyes of most Ireland fans. As I wrote at the time, while I understood Gatland’s rationale in jettisoning the Irish icon for the decisive Test, I felt nevertheless that the Wales coach missed a trick. Although changes were undoubtedly needed for the series finale, there wasn’t a compelling enough case for O’Driscoll to be omitted from the match-day squad. Gatland has complained repeatedly (as elaborated last week) that the hostility generated from dropping the Irishman tarnished the greatest achievement of his coaching career. I believe firmly that the Kiwi could have had his cake and eaten it. By making key changes, but keeping O’Driscoll in situ, the Lions supremo could have enjoyed his historic achievement without the unnecessary controversy that emanated from his contentious third Test selection.

That’s all ancient history now, but the episode tells us much about the Kiwi’s character:tough, uncompromising, ruthless and stubborn. That’s why Gatland’s a winner. Although Wales’s main man is universally respected, it’s hard to think of the former Waikato hooker in terms of affection. Yes, Gatland and his achievements are roundly admired, but liked? Probably not. Winners are rarely likeable characters in sport, though. Look at Sir Alex Ferguson or Jose Mourinho as cast-iron proof of that! Prodigious winners both, but they wouldn’t be obvious candidates for the diplomatic corps. I think Gatland falls into that category too. The Wales coach loves to win and he isn’t too bothered who gets offended or affronted along the way. When push came to shove, therefore, you can see why the Lions’ blazers opted for the incumbent to take on their latest crusade. For a mission as challenging as the New Zealand tour, you have to be led by the best man available. That man is Warren Gatland.

The scale of the Lions’ challenge is underlined by the lengthening achievements accrued by the world champions. The current All Blacks are majestic, a class apart. I rose early yesterday to watch them in the Rugby Championship. The best team in the world was playing Argentina and struggled initially to find its rhythm. The Pumas played extremely well for the first 50 minutes or so, competing ferociously at every breakdown and contact area. New Zealand, on the other hand, looked sluggish and lethargic for large portions of the match. The final score? 57-22 to New Zealand! The All Blacks pulled away in the second half, impressively routing the Argentinians with a barrage of late tries. It was the world champions’ 14th consecutive victory-incredibly, the All Blacks haven’t lost a home match since 2009! The win was instructive and tells us much about the relentless New Zealand juggernaut. This team knows how to win in virtually any circumstance. They invariably find a way, even when subjected to fierce pressure throughout the pitch. When they’re good, they’re sublime, but even when not playing well, the All Blacks usually get the job done. Just ask Ireland about November 2013. This is the size of the task facing the 2017 Lions, then. In order to make history, the tourists must outwit and outplay one of the greatest teams ever to play the game. Mission impossible indeed. There is a glimmer of hope, though, for the Lions have got their first big decision right by appointing the correct coach. Things are about to get very interesting. It’s time for the most eagerly awaited sequel in rugby: The Lion King, Part 2!

Twitter: @RoryMcGimpsey

Pienaar’s Departure: Rhetoric and Myth

Ulster rugby fans are in a daze. Their state of discomfiture has been caused by the shock announcement that star scrum-half Ruan Pienaar is departing Belfast’s shores at the end of the current season-2016/17. The unexpected announcement came yesterday and follows seemingly intensive negotiations between the player, his employers in Ulster Rugby and the governing body charged with the administration of the sport in Ireland: the IRFU. In a brief statement yesterday, Ulster Rugby confirmed that their best player will leave at the end of the season and the wording left no doubt that this devastating decision was the IRFU’s call. The union’s rationale centres around their so-called “succession” policy, that is the IRFU’s insistence that only one non-Irish qualified player is permitted across the four provinces in each position. Given the dearth of indigenous scrum-halves following last season’s retirement of Eoin Reddan, Pienaar’s position at Ulster has become increasingly untenable, it seems. The news prompted predictable bile on the internet and social media from the fair-weather keyboard fans, who haven’t the first clue about Irish rugby structures or Ulster’s role within the national system. A lot of these guys are new to the sport and their knowledge of Irish rugby could be written on the back of a postage stamp, leaving plenty of room to spare.

The IRFU has been cast as the villain of the piece, the big bad wolves who have come to take our beloved Ruan away. Is this an accurate depiction of events? Is it fair, even? I don’t think so. Leaving emotion and sentiment aside for a moment, let’s look at the facts. Pienaar has been with Ulster for six years and counting. It’s extremely rare-unprecedented even-for a foreign player to survive so long within the Irish system. It just doesn’t happen. The only comparable figure in terms of longevity is Leinster’s Isa Nacewa and he’s currently enjoying his second stint at his province, having returned from retirement in New Zealand. In reality, Ulster have done extremely well out of their superstar scrum-half and have undoubtedly seen the best of him since his arrival in 2010. The South African international was an instrumental figure in Ulster’s march to the Heineken Cup final in 2012 and Pienaar was one of the key men in making the red hand province the perennial contenders they are today. That the province has come up short of silverware can hardly be laid at Pienaar’s door. Think where the Ravenhill men would have been without him these past few seasons. In truth, Ulster are fortunate to have had Pienaar for so long. Remember, he was nearly gone two years’ ago when French giants Toulon came calling. Only the adroit negotiation of David Humphreys kept Ulster’s star man at Ravenhill in one of his final acts as Operations Director.

Ireland’s scrum-half shortage isn’t a myth. Following Reddan’s retirement, international class nines in Ireland consist of Conor Murray and Kieran Marmion. That’s it. And Marmion is a comparative rookie in Test terms. One of the main arguments in favour of keeping Pienaar in situ at the Kingspan was his pivotal role in nurturing, developing and mentoring young Ulster scrum-halves. Bringing native talent on. Except it hasn’t really worked out like that. Ruan’s deputy is still veteran Paul Marshall, while the promising David Shanahan is untested at the highest level. Pienaar has been the integral figure in the development of Ulster’s half-back play. There’s no doubt that the Springbok superstar has taken his side’s back line to new levels. But if Pienaar’s continued presence, six years into an already extended stay, is  now impeding the development of indigenous Irish talent, then surely the time is right for a parting of the ways? This certainly seems to be David Nucifora’s train of thought. The Irish provinces exist to serve the national team, not the other way round. Some of our new fans might not like that fact, but that’s how it is. Like it or lump it.

While the fans’ disappointment is understandable, there’s been an unduly emotional and sentimental angle to this story that’s not helpful. Since yesterday, I’ve read several people complaining how it’s unfair that Pienaar is being uprooted from Ulster against his will. How exactly? Well, it’s claimed that Pienaar’s family is well settled in Belfast and apparently they have a strong association with a local church. While that’s terrific to see, it seems preposterously idealistic to expect the IRFU to take such factors into account while negotiating a professional contract. Ruan Pienaar is a professional rugby player and a very well remunerated one at that. He knows the drill. Professional rugby is an unsentimental business and it’s naive to think of such dealings in terms of fidelity. This is business. Emotion doesn’t come into it. At the end of the day, it’s a reciprocal relationship. Ruan Pienaar has been brilliant for Ulster Rugby and Ulster has been good to Pienaar, but all good things come to an end eventually.

That said, I’m sorry to see him go. Ruan is undoubtedly the greatest Ulster player I’ve seen, bar none. He is indisputably world class. When it comes to quality, I didn’t think David Humphreys would be surpassed, but Pienaar is a cut above the rest. The very personification of class. More than that, he’s a good bloke. Everyone in Irish rugby will wish him well and we’ll be delighted if he comes back in a coaching or off-field capacity some day. It’s sad indeed to see Ruan go, but even the greats must depart the scene some time. Irish rugby doesn’t owe anyone a living, however, and although the IRFU will be criticised over this, they’re right to put succession above short term expediency. At the end of the day, Irish interests will always come before any non-qualified player, no matter who they are. Thanks for everything, Ruan. You’ve been the man. Now the time’s come for your adopted province to prosper without your expert guidance.

Twitter: @RoryMcGimpsey

 

The Fall of Olympia

I doubt it’s escaped your notice, but the Olympic Games have just concluded in typically sun-kissed Rio de Janeiro. Depending on your perspective or predisposition, the Games were either a marvellous success or a shameful manifestation of the worst excesses of modern sport. Take your pick. I must concede I’ve rather fallen out of love with the Olympics. Like most of us, I grew up with the Games as a constant backdrop to seemingly endless childhood summers. Rose-tinted recollections of Carl Lewis, Linford Christie, and Wayne McCullough are permanently etched in my mind’s eye. The Olympics, with its fabled champions of a bygone era, were superb-or at least they seemed to be. Elite sport combined with mesmerising, hypnotic spectacle. It was one hell of a combination, transfixing sports fans once every four years. Even the poor relation (the infinitely less prestigious Winter Olympics) was worth a butcher’s. Bob sleighing, ice-hockey, and Eddie “The Eagle” Edwards. Ah, the memories!

I didn’t see much of it this time. At least, nothing of any note. I might have grabbed a few of rounds of boxing featuring two blokes I hadn’t heard of (the lack of headgear still looks weird to me). But that’s about it. There wasn’t anything else. Nada. Granted, the time difference didn’t help, but I’m not sure it would have mattered if the Olympics was happening across the street. It doesn’t interest me. Like Wimbledon or Formula 1, The Olympics now fall into the category of irrelevance for me. Yes all are massive events, but I no longer see any appeal or value in them. What’s the point in watching sport if the action leaves you apathetic at best, bored senseless at worst?

“But you used to like the Olympics”, I hear you yell. What happened? Well, in my view, cheating and the chronic misuse of performance-enhancing drugs have ruined the Olympics. They’ve destroyed the credibility and reputation of the Games. Of course, there’s nothing new here. Cheating in sport has been around since time immemorial and the abuse of drugs has long been a feature of elite competition. But why believe in an event when you know there are probably scores of competitors cheating? It happens at every Games. Detection and sanction may be deferred (if the wily cheats get caught at all), but we all know it’s going on. History confirms as much. The trouble is: cheating destroys the illusion. Much like when a magician reveals his methodology, their aura disappears. There isn’t the same interest when you know how the trick is done.

I’m revealing my age again, but I’m old enough to remember Ben Johnson. For those of a modern vintage, Johnson was the golden boy of the 100 metres; the king of track-and-field athletics. In Seoul ’88, Johnson was the poster boy, the Usain Bolt of his generation, the biggest name in sprinting. A real superstar. True to form, Johnson romped home in the 100m final, leaving a trail of competitors in his wake, Lewis and Christie included. A new world record was clocked by the superstar, a breathtaking 9.79 seconds. The trouble was, Johnson was cheating. Three days after the final, he was disqualified after irregularities were found in blood and urine samples. The Canadian sprinter was subsequently stripped of his gold medal, with Lewis promoted to champion in his stead. A remarkable turn of events that lifted the lid on the use of anabolic steroids in sport. A line in the sand? Surely, such a high-profile case inspired change and eradicated the cheats? Alas not. Cheating has continued and the Games regularly tarnished.

That’s not to say that the IOC hasn’t attempted to come to grips with the problem. The establishment of WADA in 1999 created a coherent mechanism for stamping out doping in sport. And the anti-doping body has achieved a measure of success. However, cheats are still regularly unmasked and athletes are failing tests. The heartfelt denials are meaningless. Lance Armstrong was the undisputed superstar of cycling until he finally came clean, so to speak. Cheating blights the Olympics, casting an ugly stain on the Games. The unmasking often happens years after the conclusion of competitive action, but that fact shouldn’t dim our indignation. Consider this. The Telegraph reported recently that in excess of 60 competitors from London 2012 might have been doping. The allegations stem  from retesting of athletes’ samples; with 23 competitors affected by the results- 39 athletes having already had results annulled from the London games. And London was supposed to be the most successful Olympics of all-time?

I have no hard evidence to support my assertion, but I believe the vast majority of athletes are clean. However, the reputation of the Olympics will suffer until the doping issue is systematically and permanently addressed. Of course cheating isn’t the only issue to afflict the Olympics. Ticket pricing in Rio seems to have gone awry-the sight of empty venues didn’t help the spectacle. Many also felt the judging of the boxing competition at times left a lot to be desired.  Such allegations hardly bolster public confidence. Assessing boxing matches is undoubtedly a highly subjective business. That said, it’s unfortunate so many observers were dissatisfied with boxing results. Outside the competitive arena, the public arrest of 71-year old Irish official Pat Hickey in a bathrobe was as unedifying as it was shocking.  So what of the future? No doubt the Olympic Games will continue, but it’s getting harder to argue the case for sustainability. The fact is the Games are typically loss making enterprises for the host nations, and the only tangible Olympic legacy  is often debt. It can even be argued that it’s unethical for troubled economies to spend hundreds of millions on a glorified circus. The modern Games are something of an anachronism and debate rages regarding how they will evolve. My view? While giddy observers are revelling in talk of medal tables and closing ceremonies, I’m just glad it’s over. Now the circus has left town, real sport can resume.

Twitter: @RoryMcGimpsey

GAA: The Heart and Soul of Ireland

I visited Kilkenny for the first time last weekend. My wife and I were attending a friend’s wedding and took the opportunity to enjoy a long weekend in a beautiful county. Rural Kilkenny is a wonderfully scenic and photogenic place. Its views are simply stunning. However, Kilkenny city was the real and unexpected delight. The street signs hail Kilkenny as the Medieval City and it’s easy to understand why. The city is dominated by a large castle and its clean, cobbled streets are evocative of a lost age. We were extremely lucky in that the weather was kind, enabling us to enjoy leisurely strolls through Kilkenny city. We took a sightseeing tour on the Sunday and marvelled at Kilkenny’s rustic facades and ornate churches. There was no shortage of pubs and restaurants either. It was easy to see why hordes of tourists had flocked to this unheralded gem. I know I sound like a Fáilte Ireland employee here (who needs Trip Advisor?), but I think it’s nice to share pleasant destinations. After all, I wish somebody had told me about Kilkenny before now. I thoroughly recommend this delightful city for anyone remotely inclined to go.

I saw something else in Kilkenny too. Something besides the tourist trail. Probably for the first time, I realised the overarching and ubiquitous reach of the GAA. Of course as an Irish sports fan, I know about the intrinsic relevance of the organisation to Irish life and culture. However, it’s only when you visit somewhere like Kilkenny that you really understand the significance of the GAA. Our visit coincided with the Senior Hurling semi-final between Kilkenny and Waterford. The game ended as a pulsating draw, although Brian Cody’s men predictably prevailed in last night’s replay. Hurling is massive in Kilkenny. It has to be seen to be believed. Even with the mass exodus to Croker, the city was absolutely buzzing with excitement. The love of hurling was everywhere. You see, in Kilkenny there are no replica Man United, Liverpool, or Arsenal shirts. There isn’t the usual glory hunters rocking up in Man City tops (ten years ago, did anyone support City?). Literally every other person was wearing a Kikenny shirt. Forget the Red Devils. In these parishes, it’s all about The Cats.

The experience encapsulates what the GAA means to the people of Ireland. In defining the role of the organisation, we can’t really generalise. The GAA means different things to different people. That said, there are several characteristics that go some way to defining the enduring success of the association. While the GAA is undoubtedly a key part of the cultural fabric of Irish life, it’s much more than that. The GAA is about community. It’s about both local pride and national identity. It’s about association and affiliation; an identification with your parish and locality. It’s about volunteerism and amateurism. The GAA is about all these things and much more. In my opinion, the secret of the GAA’s success is that it works on several levels. It’s both parochial AND national. Its influence pervades the length and breadth of Ireland. From Skibbereen to Ballycastle, the GAA arouses passions and interests throughout the land.

As a rugby fan, I understand the GAA’s appeal. In fact, I see a lot of parallels between the sports. The club ethos, the Corinthian spirit, the emphasis on physical dominance and hard work. The sports share these characteristics. The difference is scale. While rugby is a minority sport-albeit a successful one-Gaelic games are the undisputed national sports of Ireland, possessing an appeal that’s difficult to contest. Only in Limerick, where rugby is the game of the people, does the oval ball game come close to challenging the GAA’S dominance. And therein lies the rub. Ireland is a small country. Despite that, we consistently manage to punch above our weight in the international arena in a variety of sports. However, the global ambitions of rugby, soccer, and every other international sport in Ireland are always going to be curtailed by a critical factor. For any Irish sport to be globally successful, it has to find a way to persuade young people to choose it over the others. In so doing, it has to compete with the GAA. The influence of the GAA, therefore, places an inbuilt restriction on the growth of other sporting codes.

That’s not the GAA’s problem, though. While other sports struggle for relevance in a world littered with increasing distractions, the GAA goes from strength to strength. Witness the new generations lining up to play and follow Gaelic games in substantial numbers. Rival sports can only look on with envy, demoralised by the reality that the success of the GAA can’t be emulated. It’s simply not possible for any other organisation to knit its way into the fabric of Irish life on the same terms. It just can’t happen. You only need to talk to GAA fans to appreciate the scale of their devotion. I was chatting to a Donegal fan last night and while he was disappointed with his team’s exit from the championship, he had plenty of ideas about what the county had to do to improve next season. I suspect he could have talked GAA for hours. And that’s the essence of it. When GAA folk talk about their sport, they betray a passionate affection that’s just not seen in other codes. Because GAA isn’t a hobby. It’s a way of life.

That’s not to say there isn’t room for improvement. As an outsider, I read with interest the Gaelic football pundits who argue that their sport has become too defensive. The demands for rule changes are interesting. Maybe Gaelic football has become too tactical and complicated? I’m not really qualified to offer a view. I understand that there’s also a disconnect between the county and club game that needs to be addressed. I also think, going forward, the GAA still has some way to go in terms of outreach. As someone born and bred in an area-North Down-that isn’t renowned as a GAA stronghold, I can see a huge untapped potential that’s yet to be explored fully. The GAA has evolved from its political origins to become a thoroughly modern and inclusive organisation. Wouldn’t it be great if that process was taken a step further?-uniting Catholic, Protestant, and dissenter, to coin a phrase! Why not? In modern, pluralist Ireland, anything is possible. That said, it’s easy to criticise the GAA for what is isn’t, when we should be celebrating it for what it is. The heart and soul of Ireland. While some may yawn if Kilkenny’s giants win their 37th All-Ireland title in a few weeks, there’s sure to be one hell of a party in one of the most beautiful cities in Ireland.

Image Courtesy of Wikipedia: [[File:Cillian Buckley.jpg|Cillian Buckley]] https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/User:Seaninryan

 

Twitter: @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