Life after deadline

IF YOU thought the Kop looked shell-shocked when John Arne Riise headed into his own net with virtually the last touch of the game on Tuesday, then you should have seen the reaction in the press box.

All around me grown men and the odd woman either burst into fits of spontaneous weeping or exploded in paroxysms of foul-mouthed panic — or even, as in my own case, did both, with repeated banging of laptop with forehead for added effect.

Not that we were being anything other than professionally, even scrupulously neutral, you understand. It’s just that, for the hack with a deadline hanging over his head like a guillotine, a fit of the Riise headstaggers is, almost literally, the very last thing he needs.

A friend of mine recently proposed a new economic law which runs along the lines of: the more menial the job, the sillier the hat. But someone even smarter than him will have to coin a name for the new media law which seems to dictate that the more sophisticated the technology, the less up to date the paper. Laptops mean that match reports can be more or less instantly transmitted to headquarters from anywhere in the world these days, yet somehow they still can’t quite keep up with the pace of ever receding print deadlines.

Back in the mists, the presses used to roll way into the night. A colleague, even more seasoned than myself, recalls a time when he could cover a Friday night match in Dublin, linger for the post-game nanny goats and then catch a bus back into his city centre office where he would finally hunch over a manual typewriter and bash out a top-notch intro, perhaps along the lines of: “We’ve had the ‘rumble in the jungle’ and the ‘thrilla in manilla’ and last night we had the ‘no-score bore in Inchicore’. Time then for a deserved break, a quick snifter in the local and maybe even an open top bus tour of the city, before he would languidly resume his labours in the inky trade.

If I exaggerate, it’s only slightly; the point is that now things couldn’t be more different. These days, papers are put to bed like a child — early — and the knock-on effect for the hard-pressed football hack can be brutal. Some first editions are so premature that they almost come out the previous day, which is why, when a match goes to extra time, the early bird purchaser reading the report the next day will sometimes be none the wiser about anything which happened after 90 minutes were up.

Where the deadline actually coincides with the final whistle, the hack is obliged to “do a runner” — which doesn’t mean that he flees in panic, however much he might like to. Rather, he will crank out a blow by blow account with a bit of “top” and “tail” added at the death, in a heroic last-ditch effort to create the false impression of thoughtful, all-wrapped-up analysis. The sometimes lop-sided nature of this approach also explains why you can read match reports in which a dull first-half is treated with forensic detail, while the penalty miss, two goals and three red cards of the final quarter hour are jammed into a couple of chaotic pars.

All of which is by way of explaining why the timing, nature and impact of John Arne Riise’s intervention on Tuesday was the stuff of nightmares for the press box. Consider what was almost certainly being written as the game entered the final minute of time added-on: Liverpool go into the second leg firmly in control of the tie; Chelsea never even looked like coming close to grabbing a vital away goal; Rafa Benitez has once again given the Anfield faithful a welcome break from the boardroom wars; and Avram Grant is once more back under the cosh as the pressure mounts.

Then, just as the hacks were about to press the ‘send’ button, John Arne Riise, like a man looking for a dropped contact lens, got down on his hands and knees and headed the ball into his own net.

Then again, it must be a wee bit harder for, say, war reporters. I’d like to think so, at any rate.

Which reminds me of the celebrated yarn about the elderly, cloth-capped rugby league correspondent who happened to find himself covering an exhibition game in Paris when the famous riots of ‘68 suddenly erupted all around him.

With lines down all over the city, the news desk in England were overjoyed when his bluff Yorkshire tones unexpectedly materialised over a crackly line from a pay-phone. “What’s happening there Albert?” the news editor breathlessly inquired. “’Appen these French folk are very excitable,” Albert replied agreeably. “Why, I’ve just seen tank almost crashing into lobby of hotel ‘ere ah speak to thee.”

“Fantastic,” the desk gushed. “Now, look, don’t say another word — we’ll put you straight onto copy and just give it everything you’ve got. Don’t worry, we’ll tart it up at this end. And I can promise there’ll be a nice little bonus in it for you, old boy. Now, just let it sing.”

Whereupon, old Albert, delighted with his new-found stature, opened his notebook, cleared his throat and carefully began dictating down the line: “Alf Cartwright, Widnes prop forward, will ‘ave to ‘ave late fitness test on suspect left knee…”

Before I finish, I should point out that none of the points made in this column apply to this here newspaper. With the interests of our readers always paramount, they can rest assured that nothing which appears in the sports pages of the Irish Examiner will ever suddenly end in mid