Privilege of witnessing greatness trumps quibbles over medals
There is a brilliant interview with the great Tipperary hurler Jimmy Doyle — broadcast as part of the old Setanta Sports ‘Legends’ series — where he talks about Christy Ring.
Doyle describes going as a boy into the field in Thurles to watch Cork playing on summer Sundays and being entranced by Ring. The words he speaks are relatively mundane, but the way his face comes alive as he speaks of Ring and his genius and the way Ring was his inspiration is lovely to watch.
Best of all is Doyle’s wonder at getting to play with his hero on a Munster team when he was just 17. It was privilege enough to see his hero play, but almost beyond comprehension to share a dressing room and a field with him.
In time, of course, there were others who told stories of how profoundly their own lives were influenced by seeing Jimmy Doyle play — and, for a chosen few, there was the graduation from spectator to fellow player.
The wheel never stops turning, of course, and in time Jimmy Doyle ended up as a spectator, just as Christy Ring did. But they were never just spectators — they couldn’t be.
When they went to club games, it was a thing to play well in front of them, to be able to have it said that Jimmy Doyle or Christy Ring thought you were a good hurler (at least on that particular day).
There is a natural cycle to this. It is a cycle that was made absolutely apparent in the coverage of Colm Cooper’s retirement from inter-county football. At least Cooper still has the capacity to play for his club. His obvious love of kicking a football means he may prove to be one of those players who plays away with his club for many more years.
He may also prove to be one of those players who will turn out into his 40s and will not worry about the grade he plays at.
It is funny, sometimes, to listen to the rubbish of people who talk about players ‘staying on too long’, thereby supposedly diminishing the name they have made for themselves. As if the decision to play football or hurling should be dictated by the whims of what others consider to be their reputation.
Why should anybody who loves playing give it up if they don’t have to? The elemental joy of kicking a football or striking a sliothar is something that extends back in history across millennia; it is something that people have enjoyed time out of mind.
There is nothing in this world to replace that fundamental pleasure. That is not to say that there are not other pleasures there are as great — or even greater. It is merely to point out the pure fun of playing and the difference it can make to your life.
This essential point is sometimes lost against the noise of organised modern sport. The clamour of league and championships, the routine of training and the unending desire to find an edge (any edge) can obscure the essence of what sits at the core of a game.
It is patently silly to argue that the only thing that matters is taking part. The human condition is drawn to the idea of competition and the very fact of competition, itself, gives its own pleasure.
The problem with competition comes when a person sees victory as the only way in which sporting pleasure is defined. In his book, Over the Bar, Breandán Ó hEithir — the writer and broadcaster from the Aran Islands — spoke of how he got to know Christy Ring while making a film of the skills of hurling with him in the 1960s.
The film is a beautiful piece of work which has been reissued by Gael Linn and the style in which it is shot stands the test of time.
Ó hEithir was a brave writer who was willing to put in print unpopular things. Crucially, he did not believe in idolatry and he offered a rounded portrait of Ring: “While I found his dedication to hurling admirable, his skills formidable and his company most congenial, I must confess that I found his fierce competitiveness repellent and somewhat frightening. It did not apply to hurling only. Winning in any sport he took up was of the utmost importance to him. This attitude is beyond my own comprehension and seems to enter the realm of fanaticism.”
What is at issue here is not the pursuit of success, but the degree of importance that is ascribed to that pursuit. And the nub of the matter lies in the question: Does the pursuit of success trump everything else?
Nobody could argue that the great Limerick hurler Mick Mackey wasn’t driven, but he was also a big fan of perspective. And Mackey drew something of a distinction between himself and Christy Ring.
He recalled: “I suppose I was a cool class of customer. It was good crack. Even if you were beaten, somebody would say something and you could laugh about it. Maybe Ring didn’t get the same fun out of it.”
This fun manifest itself in various ways. There is a fine story that the Tipperary hurler, Tommy Doyle, used to tell about a tournament match between Ahane and his own Thurles Sarsfields down in Newport in 1947.
Doyle recalled how a huge crowd turned up to see a game that was billed as the unofficial Munster Club final.
Such was the importance of the game that the local parish priest decided to throw in the ball. As was still the norm, eight players from each team lined up in the middle of the field. As the priest stepped back to roll in the ball, Mick Mackey shouted out: “Remember lads, this is not the real throw-in!”
Several of the Thurles players stood back as Mackey swept up the ball and set off on a trademark solo run through the defence before shooting a point.
Doyle knocked great amusement out of the trick, and Mackey was gleeful.
When it comes to celebrating the career of Colm Cooper, what has been most striking is the enormous pleasure he has given people who have watched him play. That he has the full respect of those who he played with and against is abundantly clear, but there is also an acknowledgement that he was also different to the others.
It is futile to rank him, irrelevant to claim that he was the best, absurd to paint him as someone who did not do it when it mattered. The way he played was evidence that football always mattered. His unique blend of skill and grace was wondrous and was the product of a deep commitment to the game.
Of course, he was also a fierce competitor who struggled time and again to win. But, let’s say he had won two more All-Irelands, could he really be revered any more than he already is? In the end, the number of medals pinned to his chest does not determine who he is and what he has done.
There is only one thing to wish most for a player when they stop playing and that is that they do not miss it too much. This is as true for those who reach the very heights of the game as it is for those who toil away for their clubs.
The last time you pull on a pair of boots is a sad day — and there is no escaping that essential truth.
