Colin Sheridan: Spare a thought for the brother

Mon, 31 Oct, 2022 - 06:57

Not for the first time in my life, I have a problem with Harry/Prince Harry/Harry Wales/Harry Winsor/Spare Harry. Having just pitched my memoir Fifth of Six to publishers last week, I expected my inbox to crash with offers of wild advances and serialisation in the New Yorkerbecause my story - that of being the second youngest in a family of half a dozen kids - was one worth telling, so universal was its theme, so biblical was its significance.

Yes, Fifth of Six would tell the story of a boy who grew up in the shadow of a star that - in my limited worldview then - shone brighter than the sun itself.

Lo and behold, just as my pitch landed on the desk of Simon & Schuster, Bonny Prince Harry announced that his own tale of filial fallibility, Spare, was due to drop this coming January, thus cornering the market for the “I didn’t get steak at dinner when my brothers did” non-fiction genre for the foreseeable future.

Normally, I can generate some sympathy for disenfranchised princes unhappy with the underwhelming security detail afforded them, we’ve all been there, but Harry’s petulance and insensitivity in choosing now as the moment to drop his tale of woe - before they've even had the month's mind for the granny - is a little much to stomach.

Even the name, Spare? Will the reluctant Prince change it for Irish audiences? Usually the noun spare, especially in the sporting or social context, is followed by a pejorative term round these parts, describing belligerent uselessness, something I was all too accustomed to as a young footballer with an older brother who soared like an Icarus, as I, the fifth of six, floundered like a flightless bird - ”and him standing at the edge of the square like a spare p***k”. You get me. “Spare” has no positive connotation, unless you’re a tyre, or a rib.

Truthfully, I know there is nothing this book could tell me about being a forgotten brother, for I, like younger brothers from sporting families the world over, know only too well what it is like to be judged against an unreasonable metric. If anything, Harry’s older brother, the watery William, made no minor team I’m aware of, he was never top scorer in the championship, never won a Sigerson or got nominated for an All-Star. His was a reputation inherited, not earned through 10,000 hours of place-kicking practice, he could never hit a 60-yard spinner into the breadbasket of a teammate without him breaking stride. He never had the eyes of a country on him on All-Ireland final day. He never silenced Tuam Stadium with a faded 50 off the turf into a cross breeze.

Which begs the question, why did I accept my fate as the Spare? Did I nominate myself as forgotten before I was even worthy of remembering? Watching the All-Stars the other night, it struck me that David Clifford clearly saw his older brother Paudie as a step ladder to greatness, not a ceiling to lounge comfortably beneath. So too Michael Meehan, whose older brother Declan was one of the best to ever do it. Alan Brogan after Bernard. Joe Canning after Ollie. Eli after Peyton. Is the difference between them, Harry and me, that they chose to follow and surpass, rather than sit and admire? Did they demand steak instead of lasagne?

So, I’m not buying The Spare, Harry, not metaphorically and not literally. I’ll wait two years and publish my own memoir, but with a postscript acknowledging my teenage mistake, one I have come to reluctantly understand as a geriatric millennial - that I had the tools to achieve greatness, but chose to watch from the courtside instead. I should thank him, really, the embattled prince, for challenging me to confront the continent sized chip on my shoulder, and instead focus on the incredible good fortune that was bestowed upon me as a kid to have such an example of excellence, not even on my doorstep, but in the bedroom next to me. It should never have been a burden, only a blessing. I guess realisation is the first step on the road to redemption.

Arteta's Gunners still pretenders

Another weekend, another tease from the Premier League Gods, who have decided this is the year, with a split season and a new striking sensation hewn from Nordic wood, to titillate us all with the possibility of anybody other than Manchester City winning it.

As Liverpool continue to capitulate and Chelsea continue to confound, it’s been left to a rather unremarkable but game Arsenal side to set a pace that is unlikely to be maintained post Qatar. The World Cup will elongate the tension, only because, with no points to accumulate for City and inevitably drop for Arsenal, we will reach January uncertain when exactly the penny will drop, but drop it sadly shall.

Mikel Arteta’s Gunners are still three players and a personality away from being genuine contenders, a December hiatus will only prolong the pretence.

Brady is human after all

After weeks of speculation, memes and some brutal (and unhinged) trolling by his former teammate Antonio Brown, Tom Brady and Gisele Bündchen announced they were uncoupling after almost 14 years of marriage. To be fair, they chose not to use the phrase uncoupling, choosing instead to stick to the more traditional verbiage of “growing apart” and “wishing each other the best'', likely due to Brady’s Irish heritage which would never allow such pretentious declarations in a time of family strife.

Brady, 45, is arguably the greatest quarterback to ever play American football. His longevity - over 20 years in a league notorious for its toll on broken bodies owes much to an unnatural “game intelligence”, which saw him defy the best NFL defences and father time.

The personal lives of players should be off limits yet, no matter how much we would despise and resent similar attention, the sports media is conveniently using Brady’s marital demise as a logical excuse for a deterioration in performance, thus excusing a deeper dive into his life.

We all know by now that he returned this year after he said he was done, but that reversal was hardly a surprise when viewed through the prism of his obsessive genius. What is far more likely is, his sudden mortality is down to Time finally trumping Tom. No matter how much avocado ice cream you eat, no matter how intensively you stretch, the clock always wins. Never the most sympathetic of characters, you can't help but feel for Brady; facing two profound endings in quick succession is something that will test him more than any defensive line ever did. He’s human, after all.

Let the All-stars enjoy the night

While many regard the GAA’s split season a success in its reprioritising of player welfare, one obvious drawback became apparent at Friday night's All Star gala, as many players nominated for awards chose - understandably - not to attend, due to being involved in county finals this past weekend.

While the relevance of the All-Star concept continues to be debated, what is beyond question is the benefit it should give players to socialise with each other and their partners without any of the pressures that consume their otherwise hectic lives.

We get the calendar is already full, but one night can surely be found when the stars can literally align, and let their hair down.