Mugsy puts everything into book – just like he did his football
Initially, the journalist was very encouraged.
He and the ex-player would arrange a meeting. The player, who often turned up late and with a few drinks on board, would chat openly, recounting great tales that would make a fantastic book.
The journalist was excited. The trouble started when he would show the player the manuscripts from their conversations. Sober, and sobered by seeing his stories in black and white, the former star would go through every page with a pen. A transcribed interview, which lasted several hours, would be reduced to a few sheets of paper. The book bombed.
Suffice to say, Orla Bannon didn’t encounter that problem when she was working alongside Owen Mulligan for Mugsy – My Story.
After Mulligan would tell Orla about yet another jaw dropping, hell-raising escapade, she would gently warn him. Conscious of his devoted mother, Heather, to whom the book is dedicated, Orla would say: “Do you really want that to go in?”
“Stick it in,” was the standard response. On countless occasions, Orla thought that when ‘Mugsy’ saw the draft of a chapter he would reach for the red pen. It never happened once.
Consequently, the book is a riot. Having read it in two sittings, I’m glad to report that it is the antithesis of the watered down GAA life story which is essentially a series of match reports.
Indeed, far from being watered-down, ‘Mugsy’ is awash with alcohol. There are also women, parties, pranks and trouble — lots of trouble.
It’s probably fair to say that ‘Mugsy’ gets into more bother in the first two chapters than some footballers manage to get into in their entire lives.
The book starts in a police cell, the place our intrepid hero woke up the morning after he attacked a bar in Cookstown with a paint-scraper.
By page 11, ‘Mugsy’ is a pupil at Holy Trinity Cookstown and he gets suspended for mooning at Martin McElkennon from a classroom window. The punishment clearly had little effect as more than a decade later, Mugsy performs the stunt from the passenger window of a car. His sparring partner Raymond Mulgrew offered him £100 if he would moon at Mickey Harte, who they spotted driving in front of them as they returned from training. ‘Mugsy’ did it for nothing.
A recurring theme in the book is that people tend to get very angry when they are in Mugsy’s company.
On page 12, he swears at his schoolteacher and hero, Peter Canavan. Peter’s reaction? “He went mental.”
A few pages later, the pupils of Holy Trinity are on a school trip and the owner of a pair of skis that Mugsy “wanted to have a wee go on” is also “going mental”.
Once again, the police are involved but thanks to Mugsy’s good friend Master Brendan Convery, he escapes with a warning.
It is the blasé manner in which Mugsy’s stories are told which makes them so enjoyable. By way of a defence, he says: “I didn’t realise that taking a pair of skis over there is like stealing a car.”
Three pages later, ‘Mugsy’ has taken a car without permission. It’s his mother’s Toyota Carina. True to form, he wrecks it.
By page 23, the three-time All-Ireland medallist has attacked a bar, crashed a car, been suspended and caused chaos on a ski-holiday. And that’s only the first course.
The book starts at a sprint and the pace never relents. The drinking adventures are off the charts. One night Mugsy goes to a party in Dungannon. When he wakes up, he suspects he is in a different house. His suspicions are correct. He is also in a different county.
‘Mugsy’ even coins a new phrase. It describes his style of alcohol consumption when he enters the VIP lounge in Croke Park. He calls it “power drinking” because “you only have a short space of time to sink as many bottles of beer as you can and then stuff a few in your pockets for the bus”.
The aforementioned anecdotes are only a small taster of a book that charts the 15 years the Father Rocks’ clubman spent wearing the Tyrone jersey at minor, U21 and senior level.
Perhaps the most redeeming feature about Mugsy’s memoirs is the total absence of self-pity. Unlike many autobiographies, he doesn’t use the book to settle old scores. There is no finger-pointing or recrimination.
At the height of the ‘boom’, ‘Mugsy’ had money to burn. He was driving a BMW X5. But in 2010, he was pulling a cap over his head as he tried to disguise himself when signing on the dole. No one is blamed.
When he’s at fault and has done something wrong, he accepts full responsibility. When commenting on Tyrone defeats, it’s the same. There is no carping about referees or the opposition. There is only one exception. When it comes to the manner in which his playing days ended, ‘Mugsy’ can’t hide his annoyance.
Beaten by Kerry in Killarney in 2012, ‘Mugsy’ didn’t want that game to be his last in a Tyrone jersey.
However, the next call-up never came. Despite attending two in-house trial games, he was considered surplus to requirements. Reading the book, it’s impossible not to feel a pang of sympathy for him.
While Roy Keane continues to lament the manner in which Alex Ferguson ended his tenure at Old Trafford, it’s worth remembering that the Corkman was earning about £100,000 a week. When Keane departed, his contract was paid in full and he was given a testimonial.
By 2010, ‘Mugsy’ had three All-Ireland medals but he was also unemployed.
In the GAA, we probably need to be more mindful of the huge impact it can have on players when their careers come to an end.
A lack of closure can cause a lot of pain. Last year, Paddy Bradley tore his cruciate ligament in a club match. Although eager to return to county football, he was unwanted by new manager Brian McIver.
After a 12-year senior career, Bradley found himself waiting for a call that was never going to come.
Like Mulligan, Bradley’s career petered into extinction. Because there was no retirement, there was no acknowledgement for services rendered.
It’s a highly unsatisfactory way for a player to end his career. Managers and county boards should take note of an observation made by ‘Mugsy’.
“If you worked for a company for 15 years and they told you they were replacing you with a younger employee, the least you’d expect would be a thank-you and a handshake. That’s all I wanted — a bit of respect.”
It is easy to understand why Mugsy’s enforced retirement was so painful. From the summers when he competed in the family-run ‘Mulligan Cup’ his only ambition in life was to play for Tyrone.
Having achieved that goal, his status as a Tyrone footballer was his identity.
For all the capering and cavorting that takes place in ‘Mugsy’ it is still abundantly clear that the most important thing in his life was playing football for his county.
Furthermore, irrespective of all the laughter and good times that took place before and after games, ‘Mugsy’ makes it abundantly clear the biggest thrills of his life occurred on a football pitch.
And considering the life Owen Mulligan has led, that’s saying something!
