DUFFER’S TOMY TIMEOUT
If a week is a long time in football, as the truism rings, then a week and a half on the road for an international double-header must feel like an eternity.
I attempted to find out just what the Ballyboden native and his Irish roomies do for entertainment on trips stamped in green. And I decided to have this chat over a game of Tomy Super Cup Football.
For those wretches unfamiliar with the joy that is Tomy Soccer, as we knew it, I must explain that it was the pinnacle of sporting gaming in the 1980s. Produced by the Japanese toy giants (the now-faded box features a picture of Graeme Sharp in his Everton blue jostling with Manchester United’s be-mulleted Arthur Albiston) it features two teams of tiny (and fragile) players who are moved up and down using levers, striking the ball with a flat paddle attached to their base.
If American presidents and supreme court judges face the crude litmus test of the abortion debate, we children of the 80s divided all men into two groups; Tomy Soccer and Subbuteo.
Duff’s languid style and magician’s trunk of tricks betrays a flick-to-kick merchant, and he eyes suspiciously the battered cardboard box. I try to sound confident in challenging a talented, millionaire football star to a showdown, in an empty room, on a tiny, mechanised pitch.
“Go on then,” he says, “Let’s have a game.”
Tension builds in the famous old stadium, as the teams line up
SUBBUTEO was a game designed for the decade’s New Romantics; Tomy was a game played by skinned-headed boot-boys with Madness patches sewn to jackets. In contrast to the Highbury-like silence the other code is played in, here, the players fizz up and down the field spinning and whirring amid an impressive racket. This is because the game is battery-powered; it makes interviewing one of our great sports stars a challenge.
I do turn off the machine however, to impress on a bemused-looking Duff, the one rule of Tomy: do not talk about Tomy. No, actually, it’s: if the ball leaves the arena – which they are wont to do – then turn off the switch, immediately, get on your hands and knees and find the missing piece. Only then may the game restart. This was a lesson learnt the hard way by many an enthusiast who was forced to compete with rolled up Blu-Tack.
Irish Examiner goes one-nil up as Duff left reeling.
THE mood, as they say, in the camp, was upbeat despite some early Duff pressure as he quickly found his groove, despite not playing in years, he admits. But then the Fulham winger was hit with a sucker-punch as a well-worked move down the left flank isn’t dealt with and as I have forgotten to tell him his goalkeeper control is behind the goal, I dispatch a crisp centre to the penalty box area.
Get in.
Though he hasn’t packed any games – Liam Lawrence admitted this week that he and his Stoke team-mates play online war simulations nightly – Duff folded away a few DVDs and an iPod for the trip to Dublin, then Cyprus, before hitting the base in Tipp ahead of last night’s Thomond Park fixture.
And despite perceptions of Premier League footballers, his taste in music, I reckon, is good. “I pack an iPod, like everyone else. What have I got on the mp3? I’m into this band at the moment – Florence and the Machine? Well, I think they’re the big thing at the moment aren’t they?”
When I tell him I’ll be forgoing watching him take on Cyprus to attend the Electric Picnic, when Florence Welsh and her band will draw as big a crowd as Nicosia’s GSP Stadium, he admits it’d be nice to one day be able to get to gigs and festivals. “They’ll be good at the Picnic, I’d say; I’ve never been. The music scene in London is obviously amazing and I like to take advantage but I wouldn’t say it was exactly a motive for a move back there, no,” he deadpans when I ask, distractedly.
Duff controversially equalises to set up dramatic finale
AS the play stretches a bit and chances start to materialise for both teams, Duff paints a picture of life in the team hotel. Now one of the senior members of the panel, he rooms on his own these days. “I bring a few DVDs too on these trips and it’s good to have a bit of your own time during the week,” says the former Chelsea player, who was encouraged to sleep as much as possible by then-boss Jose Mourinho. “I’m into this American series, I don’t know if you’ve heard of it, Entourage?” Have you seen the newest season (currently running on HBO stateside)? “Like a pirates version you mean? I wouldn’t know anything about that.”
As I’m pondering the similarities between World Cup Qualifying Group 8 and a tale of friendship in the cutthroat Hollywood world, Duff takes advantage of some confusion when the spare ball, sensationally, gets on the pitch and he cruelly equalises late on. “Next goal wins!” we both half-shout.
Last-gasp winner brings curtain down on inaugural tournament. Stop press
THE clock ticks down and the pace is frenetic. Any hopes of an in-depth interview are abandoned as we both sit in silence – apart from the industrial burr of the game – and play with furrowed brows, hunched over a 20-year old Japanese toy. I get the feeling Duff might hit the hay after this epic battle.
“The sleep thing is funny, I’m not the worst by a long shot really,” argues the 30-year-old, “I’ll name names; Andy O’Brien, for one. When he was in the squad he was a lot, lot worse than me for the sleep.”
And then, as I hit the snooze button in defence, Duff latches onto a loose ball in midfield and hits a speculative drive that I let reach his forward who tucks it in the corner. Game over. Duff sits back smiling, despite himself. I collapse onto the game like a widow on a coffin. Gutted.
But there’s not many can say they experienced Duff smack-talk. “You’d better put that back in your press for another 10 years,” comes the cruel sledge as he slides the machine away. We had agreed I’d play as Italy beforehand, whereas he, of course, was Ireland. Let’s hope it’s an omen.
And then I leave, head bowed, box tucked under my arm, to prepare for my game of Hungry Hippos with Mr Trapattoni.
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