Galway hurlers cannot escape the blame game
They’d need to be, because managing - the key word - a group of aggressive, dedicated, strong-minded high achievers from diverse backgrounds, with wild variations in life experience, maturity and background, is a challenging brief which consumes one’s entire life.
Off-field scrapes, on-field mistakes, round-the-clock counselling. It’s all part of the job.
One of those intercounty managers once made a joking promise to me: “When I pack it in, come and have lunch with me. I’ll tell you what it’s really like to manage an intercounty team.”
The emphasis he put on the word ‘really’ made that a save-the-date promise.
I raise this because of the recent problems in Galway, which showed, in living colour, the seven stages of GAA player unrest when everything goes wrong.
Rumour, Meetings and Confrontation, followed by Entrenchment, Speculation, Statements and, ultimately, Resignation.
Galway followed that narrative pretty faithfully. Pub talk about a row in their dressing-room at half-time in the All-Ireland final was quickly followed by the words no intercounty manager wants to hear: player meetings.
After that the story played out as you might expect; even if it was a good deal briefer than some of the marathon stand-offs we’ve lived through, Anthony Cunningham’s eventual departure as manager came as no surprise.
Or did it?
At this point it’s academic, because Cunningham has gone, but some of the now-accepted wisdom about his management style doesn’t ring true.
For instance, it’s believed since the All-Ireland, Cunningham had been speaking to respected outside coaches with a view to bringing them on board for next season with Galway.
This kind of initiative is usually dismissed as ‘too little too late’ by those summing up proceedings but it does contradict the notion of an intransigent manager.
Another regular charge levelled at players in this situation is the belief the resolution to get rid of the manager is stronger among some players - usually the older cohort - than others, with the younger players habitually described as either going along for the ride or feeling intimidated into supporting the initiative.
In-house player polls went against Cunningham but weren’t unanimous, and there are plenty of people in Galway who are confident they could name the prominent players who’d have been happy to keep Cunningham on.
Finally, the Galway players’ statement struck me as a dangerous hand to play.
It’s all very well citing errors that a manager has made, which their statement did, but - going back to the start of this column - isn’t that inviting a response in similar terms?
If Anthony Cunningham were minded to do so, could he give examples of errors made by his players?
There have been many tributes paid to Jonah Lomu, who passed away last week. Most of them revolved around his size, speed and general revolutionising of the game of rugby. Not much mention of the trouble he posed for me.
A few years ago I was in a hotel room in London with several other Irish journalists on a press gig, talking to one Dan Carter. The All Black out-half was on a promotional trip.
Lomu was also there, and of course he dwarfed everybody. The meaty forearms and vast shoulders were no surprise, but his speaking voice was. I found myself leaning forward to try to catch the low tones when we asked question.
No, nobody told him to speak up. When I replayed the tape of the conversation later it wasn’t much easier, the New Zealand accent trailing off and fading. It was a struggle to make out the answers. The huge presence and the non-insistent voice. Now all gone.
*Also here, my condolences to colleague and friend Enda McEvoy on the passing of his father Dan last week. Ar dheis De go raibh se.
Last week here I referred to RTÉ losing out on Six Nations coverage, TV3 beating the State broadcaster to the tape.
I don’t mean to say I told you so (for a change — everybody) but I did round off that column by pointing out the competitiveness of the environment RTÉ (and TV3) operate in, the plethora of channels fighting it out for a limited number of events.
That was brought home with a bang a few days ago with news from across the water even a behemoth like the BBC is facing cuts in its sports coverage.
The British broadcaster is looking at an overall hole in its budget of about £150m (€214m), and its sports department alone has been tasked with finding £35m (€50m) in savings.
This means cutting coverage, and there has been much speculation across the water about what is likely to face the axe: Formula One? Darts? Tennis? Or even . . . soccer?
What caught my eye is that while the current Match of the Day contract runs until 2019, that alone is worth over £200m (€285m).
£200m (€285m) for a highlights show. Seriously.
Those who regularly subject themselves to my thoughts know I’m a fan of Vladimir Nabokov, so you will either rejoice or roll your eyes when I tell you a book, Letters to Véra, has been published.
It consists of letters to his wife (see above for name).
I’m not going to justify this element of the column by getting into Nabokov’s love of goalkeeping, or his descriptions of tennis: the latter alone are enough to make you give up the ghost, basically, when it comes to writing about sport (I can see interest perking up among some in the audience).
I’m not even going to mention the fact English wasn’t his first language; I’m just giving you this excerpt from his second-ever letter to Véra.
“I cannot write a word without hearing how you will pronounce it — and can’t recall a single trifle I’ve lived through without regret — so sharp! — that we haven’t lived through it together..You came into my life ... as one comes to a kingdom where all the rivers have been waiting for your reflection, all the roads, for your steps.”
They were married for over 50 years.
