Michael Moynihan: Fit for selection? It depends on your point of view

7 May 2022; Kerry manager Jack O'Connor with kit manager Colm Whelan and selector Diarmuid Murphy, right, during the Munster GAA Football Senior Championship Semi-Final match between Cork and Kerry at Páirc Ui Rinn in Cork. Photo by Stephen McCarthy/Sportsfile

Good to chat last week to Micheal Donoghue and TJ Ryan about selectors and managers, one of my long-time obsessions.

When you’re at an intercounty game and you clock the little gathering on the sideline, you can’t help wondering: what are they talking about?

Micheal and TJ were suitably serious (once I stopped them both talking about the greatness of Jurgen Klopp), pointing out that the discussions often centre on what-if scenarios: what happens if this player is injured, or if that one’s sent off.

“I know the old school of thought was to have three or five selectors,” said TJ, “So there’d be a casting vote if there was deadlock picking a team, but really those days are gone.” 

I have to confess to being a little bit disappointed at that revelation, because a part of me would like to think there’s still a rogue selector or two out there who’s motivated by something a little less elevated than what’s best for the team.

It’s not as if there isn’t evidence to support that school of thought. A friend of mine from another county often recalls the club side his father’s team always beat handily in their time, largely because of the inability of one of the opposing corner-backs to put one foot in front of the other, never mind stop any forward in his vicinity.

Only years later did it all become clear. The hapless defender was the son of the biggest employer in the area, and the team selectors felt it politic to hand him a number two or four jersey every Sunday afternoon, given they’d be facing his father at work on Monday morning. Approximately 40 miles southwest of that club an even better yarn emerged back in the fifties.

The presence of a middling club player on the county minor side puzzled all and sundry, particularly when the same club had a minor who was recognised as one of the finest prospects in the county - yet he wasn’t even on the county panel.

Again, a little investigation revealed the truth. One of the county minor selectors was a strong farmer who did quite a lot of business with another strong farmer whose son was the run-of-the-mill player on the minor side.

His clubmate the star was the son of a farm labourer, but not just any farm labourer: one who worked for the big farmer whose son was on the team. And the selector clearly wasn’t about to endanger his pal’s son’s place on the team by including a labourer’s son who might show him up.

I have two regrets about this story. One is that Breandan Ó hEithir did not live to comment on it, and the other is that the odd time I’ve recounted it in company there have been people present have refused to believe it.

My usual rejoinder is ‘what airport did you land in?’, as I refuse to believe there’s a native Irish person who doesn’t recognise the immediate truth of the yarn (depending on how trustworthy the company is, I sometimes name the county and club involved).

Not all stories of selectors plunge listeners or readers into despair at the state of the nation. In Adrian Russell’s The Double there’s an account of the Cork hurling selectors picking the team for the 1990 All-Ireland final, only for the meeting to stretch into the evening.

“One of the selectors, Denis Hurley, worked for Irish Pride, and during the long meeting disappeared to his bread van and returned with a selection of Gateaux cakes,” Russell wrote. “‘We had a right good feed,’ said (Canon Michael) O’Brien, ‘And, feeling refreshed, we got on with our job as selectors and finally agreed on the All-Ireland line-up at about two in the morning.’” 

Now you know. At the next championship game keep an eye on the management team lurking by the tunnel entrance at half-time. Maybe you’ll see the odd chocolate slice or apple turnover change hands.

Boxing plus opera — what’s not to love?

Many thanks to the reader who alerted me to Champion: An Opera in Jazz (music by Terence Blanchard, libretto by Michael Cristofer).

It tells the story of boxer Emile Griffith, world champion at welter- and middleweight, and specifically his torment after killing opponent Benny ‘Kid’ Paret: the two men fought for the welterweight title in 1962 bout and 10 days after the fight Paret died from injuries sustained in the bout. The fight had a homophobic backstory — Paret abused Griffith verbally at the weigh-in — which might explain why Griffith’s life has also been the subject of a book by the great Donald McRae ( A Man’s World: The Double Life of Emile Griffith) as well as a documentary by filmmakers Dan Klores and Ron Berger — Ring of Fire: The Emile Griffith Story.

But an opera? That’s another level altogether.

Rice and Grealish do their country proud

Dispatches from the European front line.

I see that Declan Rice of West Ham United made an absolute fool of himself the other evening as his side exited the Europa League, beaten by some crowd whose name I’ve already forgotten.

Anyway, Rice finished his night by shouting at the referee in a not at all performative slice of overacting, using bad language to underline his seriousness or his annoyance or both.

Having delivered an F-bomb or two, Rice stormed off, quiff waving, like someone who had failed an audition to play bass for China Crisis.

However, Rice’s embarrassing theatrics were a bit more overt than the force field of shame generated by Jack Grealish on another European evening — the one on which Manchester City lost to Real Madrid having conceded two goals in three seconds. Or something.

Grealish’s display was so bad that Arsene Wenger noticed.

“The only thing you can say,” Wenger told beIn Sports, “is that when you look at 1-1, when Grealish is against Carvajal [on the wing]. He is passed easy, too easy, he must absolutely fight to stop that cross.”

Yes. Arsene Wenger, whose myopia as manager of Arsenal was so legendary that his name was used by other sportspeople to illustrate a particular syndrome. (“It’s the classic Arsene Wenger, I haven’t seen it” — Derek McGrath back in 2017).

That Arsene Wenger.

All I can say is that we are well rid of the pair of them.

I’ve a good feeling about ‘The Premonitions Bureau’

It’s getting to that time of year when I receive the odd query about a beach read or two.

Don’t lose the run of yourself with a bit of sun is all I’m asking, it’s not even the middle of May.

Anyway, this new Sam Knight book looks like a good bet.

The Premonitions Bureau is a gripping story about how two men set up an office with just that title in Britain in the late 1960s and invited people to send in their premonitions. It’s much better than that bare-bones description and better even than the old newspaper joke on the same topic.

Editor calls in horoscope writer and says: “We’re letting you go.”

“I wasn’t expecting that,” says the horoscope writer.

“Yes,” says the editor. “That’s why we’re letting you go.”

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