Beauty and the beast
We go back a long way, me and Rino, forming an immediate and lasting bond on the first occasion we met, which was just after Italy and Bulgaria had shared the points in their opening World Cup qualifier in Sofia in 2008.
With a view to spying on Ireland’s main group opponents, myself and two colleagues had flown out to the Bulgarian capital for the game and, after the match, decided to split our forces in the mix zone, the better to maximise our chances of getting those all important ‘nanny goats’ from the English-speaking players on both sides.
My main quarry was Gattuso, although before he came out I was presented with the bonus of a quick chat with former Manchester United man Giuseppe Rossi. And a pleasant young chap he was too, although I couldn’t help but be conscious of the fact that just about the only thing of any consequence he said to me – “Yes, I’m looking forward to meeting John O’Shea again” – would not exactly have the Commander-in-Chief back on the Sports Desk calling for the presses to be stopped and organising an open-topped bus to greet me at the airport on my return.
So a lot was riding on me hitting it off big time with Gattuso – and, well, look, here he comes now, glowering in that familiar way as he passes on the other side of the barrier over which us poor hacks are forced to lean, waving our little tape-recorders and bleating plaintively for a kind quote, please, sir.
Gennaro stops once or twice to mutter a few words to the ladies and gentlemen of the Italian press but when he comes level with your correspondent he doesn’t even deign to make eye contact as he ignores a polite request for a comment and moves swiftly by.
Instinctively, I interpret this as Rino’s way of saying: “I see you, Liamo, but not in front of all these people, okay?”
And, of course, they don’t call me ‘Scoop’ Mackey for nothing either. Indeed, they don’t call me ‘Scoop’ Mackey at all. However, I do notice that surprisingly lax security means that when Gattuso reaches the end of the barrier he will be obliged to step outside it and walk some 50 metres across the stadium concourse in order to reach the Italian team bus. So I simply run after him and fall into step beside him.
“Excuse me, Gennaro, I wonder if I could have a quick word with you for the Irish media?”
Ignoring my entreaty, he signs for an autograph hunter without breaking his stride. I keep pace alongside him, the two of us for all the world like a couple of old pals out for a brisk evening stroll.
“Mr Gattuso?”
Zilch.
“Rino?”
Nada.
“Gatts, baby?”
By now, we’ve almost reached the door of the bus and I’m beginning to sense that this isn’t quite going to plan, indeed that Gattuso regards me as akin to something unpleasant he has discovered on the sole of his shoe, that’s if he is actually aware of my pitiful existence at all. The last I see of him is the broad expanse of his back as he steps on board, leaving me at the foot of the step like some abandoned lover in a B-movie, albeit one acutely aware that the young autograph hunters of Sofia appear to find the scene more hysterically funny than deeply moving. Mustering all the dignity I can, I call after him: “Lovely talking to you Gatts, let’s do lunch in Milan again soon, baby. Ciao!”
And with that, I trudge slowly back to the now almost deserted mix zone, where a delighted colleague reveals that none other than Dimitar Berbatov has practically shared his entire life story with him and, y’know, what with Berb and my man Gatts, why, we’ll have more than enough hot copy between us to keep Ireland’s sports presses rolling from here to eternity.
“Er, well, y’see, Gattuso wasn’t that great actually … but, hey, just wait till you hear what Giuseppe Rossi has to about John O’Shea”.
Of course, I realise now that it could have been worse. Gennaro Gattuso might have left me with a parting kiss of the Glaswegian kind, like the one he was seen planting on the forehead of Joe Jordan in the San Siro on Tuesday.
It was an act of madness on many levels, not the least of which is that sticking the loaf into Big Joe must be a bit like trying to nut one of the statues of Easter Island.
And it has to be acknowledged that Jordan, for all the fearsome reputation he had as a player, was commendably cool in his response, declining either to collapse in a heap or respond in kind, which he must have been sorely tempted to do. But then Spurs had already gotten their retaliation in first, as it were, Aaron Lennon’s blistering break and Peter Crouch’s cool finish ensuring that Harry Redknapp’s admirable side would chalk up another Champions League glory, glory night. That was the perfect riposte to both Mathieu Flamini’s horrible lunge at Vedran Corluka and Gennaro Gattuso’s headbanging during and after the game – a resounding one-nil win for Beauty over the Beast.
Needless to say, I’ll be sending heartfelt condolences to my old mate Rino.
- Contact: liammackey@hotmail.com
