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http://www.independent.ie/sport/soccer/the-day-sligo-put-soul-back-into-irish-sport-2479536.html
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http://www.independent.ie/sport/soccer/the-day-sligo-put-soul-back-into-iris...
It was the year the people hit back. Even though the GAA sought to pen us in behind the looking glass, the IRFU seemed intent on forcing us to sign up to Sky TV for ever more and the FAI gave away tickets to some folk and charged insane tickets prices to others, it was possible for the little people to enjoy their sport without being tainted from above.
For some, the GAA remain the true soul of Irish sport and the sense of classless communality that coexists on the big days out during the summer remains unmatched by its rival codes.
Rugby's arrival as a true threat to the vast following enjoyed by the GAA and FAI during the past decade has been a belatedly welcome concept; Munster were always a classless following and, ultimately, Leinster have succeeded in branching out and ridding themselves of their elitist tag.
Thanks to the efforts of the smart boys in IRFU head office, who dismissed fears that their tickets would be too expensive for the common man -- and the not so common man -- they delivered a stunning two fingers to a decade of development.
pricing
The damage wrought will be hard to repair, despite their panicked attempts to rescue the situation by altering the pricing structure for the Six Nations.
The FAI's position was similarly dismissive of their fan base; the minor difference in their case was that, unlike the IRFU, who could have filled their stadium had they only reduced prices, the FAI couldn't even fill Lansdowne Road by giving tickets away.
The prevailing economic crisis has forced us, as a society, to retreat into the bosom of our community; it seems much safer there, and certainly better value.
Last September, my eldest kid started turning out with Ballyboden St Enda's, which is transformed every Saturday morning into a giant outdoor creche. But his sporting highlight was arguably not the opening-day hat-trick or the bawled instructions to the floppy-haired guy in Laois colours that he was playing the wrong way. The FAI Cup final in November trumped all that.
It was a last-minute decision to go, but, like many of the 36,000, it was primarily provoked by some tardy enlightenment within the corridors of officialdom that set prices at just €10 for adults and a fiver for nippers.
Not being repelled by the fact that the car wouldn't start -- forcing us to take the bus -- being on public transport actually enhanced the feeling of community; one imagined the 1950s heyday of the domestic game when the trams were thronged with soccer folk heading to Milltown.
The match itself was a thriller, but the intimacy of the occasion was even more visceral. Spending nearly every working week collecting banalities from either very wealthy rugby folk who could have lots of interesting stuff to say, but little interest in saying it, or multi-millionaire soccer players who have nothing to say and take great efforts to confirm that that is the case, rendered the occasion a blessed relief.
Mercifully, Irish rugby players remain embedded within their community and retain both a sense of humour and humanity; Kevin Doyle and a handful of notable exceptions aside, the Irish soccer team is riddled with both precious egos and selfish insecurity.
The cup final day was different. Many of these sportsmen were unknown to the wider sporting public, and could walk down their street -- or even their stairs -- unmolested.
Many of them had emerged from a period of dire economic straits and, at more than one stage, had been forced to play for their very professional and personal future.
Now there were over 36,000 turning up to see them perform on the biggest day of their sporting lives (who can remember Joey Ndo's World Cup bow? Thought not!). Hence, there was a real bond with their endeavours.
A family connection to Sligo gave the occasion an added frisson and, although scoreless, it was a gripping game. Despite being chilled to his small bones, my willing accomplice greeted the penalty shoot-out with as much enthusiasm as his sprint down the stairs on Christmas morning.
During extra-time, we had been joined by a woman in her late 40s whose gloved hands grabbed my shoulders violently as every missed Sligo Rovers chance imperceptibly heightened the sense that they may fall to a sucker punch.
Having spent much of the previous months indulging in soulless occasions in a new stadium that seemed to have disinfected itself against riotous enjoyment and spontaneous combustions of joy, to experience such a thrilling busman's holiday was restorative.
Ciaran Kelly's remarkable four saves in succession may have ultimately clinched the occasion, but what enthralled me as much as the accompanying innocent six-year-old was the standard of the football.
Even a journalist, immersed in the world of agents and spin doctors and plastic participants, absorbed warmth in the winter chill from such a primeval gathering of the people.
Later, when the snows came, and our 100-house estate was engulfed, a similar spirit of community engaged many of us in hours of arduous work to clear the way.
Snarling
We thought we may return to being the same snarling neighbours as before, but that hasn't happened; friendly nods of familiarity with previous strangers reveal a sense of shared existence.
Those of us who went to the cup final felt the same thing. After being treated like pieces of meat by all our administrators for so long, this was a demonstration that the power of the people can still thrive.
As the FAI and IRFU and the GAA all indicate that they are going to address ticket prices on an ongoing basis, that glorious November afternoon may have represented a turning point in Irish sport, which can't afford to take its supporters -- please don't call them customers or clients -- for granted. Especially the younger generations.
By vacating Lansdowne Road in such vast numbers, a potent point had been made. The FAI Cup final demonstrated that our passion for sport remains undimmed. As a nation, we have little else left, whether you're from Seapoint RFC, Naomh Conaill GAA club or Sligo Rovers.
The value of sport may be inestimable because it affects so many of us so deeply. Sadly, in recent times too many people have put an exorbitant price on sport. Hopefully, 2011 will correct the mistakes of 2010.
Because without the people, there would be no sport. Pity it took an economic tsunami to remember it.
- David kelly
For some, the GAA remain the true soul of Irish sport and the sense of classless communality that coexists on the big days out during the summer remains unmatched by its rival codes.
Rugby's arrival as a true threat to the vast following enjoyed by the GAA and FAI during the past decade has been a belatedly welcome concept; Munster were always a classless following and, ultimately, Leinster have succeeded in branching out and ridding themselves of their elitist tag.
Thanks to the efforts of the smart boys in IRFU head office, who dismissed fears that their tickets would be too expensive for the common man -- and the not so common man -- they delivered a stunning two fingers to a decade of development.
pricing
The damage wrought will be hard to repair, despite their panicked attempts to rescue the situation by altering the pricing structure for the Six Nations.
The FAI's position was similarly dismissive of their fan base; the minor difference in their case was that, unlike the IRFU, who could have filled their stadium had they only reduced prices, the FAI couldn't even fill Lansdowne Road by giving tickets away.
The prevailing economic crisis has forced us, as a society, to retreat into the bosom of our community; it seems much safer there, and certainly better value.
Last September, my eldest kid started turning out with Ballyboden St Enda's, which is transformed every Saturday morning into a giant outdoor creche. But his sporting highlight was arguably not the opening-day hat-trick or the bawled instructions to the floppy-haired guy in Laois colours that he was playing the wrong way. The FAI Cup final in November trumped all that.
It was a last-minute decision to go, but, like many of the 36,000, it was primarily provoked by some tardy enlightenment within the corridors of officialdom that set prices at just €10 for adults and a fiver for nippers.
Not being repelled by the fact that the car wouldn't start -- forcing us to take the bus -- being on public transport actually enhanced the feeling of community; one imagined the 1950s heyday of the domestic game when the trams were thronged with soccer folk heading to Milltown.
The match itself was a thriller, but the intimacy of the occasion was even more visceral. Spending nearly every working week collecting banalities from either very wealthy rugby folk who could have lots of interesting stuff to say, but little interest in saying it, or multi-millionaire soccer players who have nothing to say and take great efforts to confirm that that is the case, rendered the occasion a blessed relief.
Mercifully, Irish rugby players remain embedded within their community and retain both a sense of humour and humanity; Kevin Doyle and a handful of notable exceptions aside, the Irish soccer team is riddled with both precious egos and selfish insecurity.
The cup final day was different. Many of these sportsmen were unknown to the wider sporting public, and could walk down their street -- or even their stairs -- unmolested.
Many of them had emerged from a period of dire economic straits and, at more than one stage, had been forced to play for their very professional and personal future.
Now there were over 36,000 turning up to see them perform on the biggest day of their sporting lives (who can remember Joey Ndo's World Cup bow? Thought not!). Hence, there was a real bond with their endeavours.
A family connection to Sligo gave the occasion an added frisson and, although scoreless, it was a gripping game. Despite being chilled to his small bones, my willing accomplice greeted the penalty shoot-out with as much enthusiasm as his sprint down the stairs on Christmas morning.
During extra-time, we had been joined by a woman in her late 40s whose gloved hands grabbed my shoulders violently as every missed Sligo Rovers chance imperceptibly heightened the sense that they may fall to a sucker punch.
Having spent much of the previous months indulging in soulless occasions in a new stadium that seemed to have disinfected itself against riotous enjoyment and spontaneous combustions of joy, to experience such a thrilling busman's holiday was restorative.
Ciaran Kelly's remarkable four saves in succession may have ultimately clinched the occasion, but what enthralled me as much as the accompanying innocent six-year-old was the standard of the football.
Even a journalist, immersed in the world of agents and spin doctors and plastic participants, absorbed warmth in the winter chill from such a primeval gathering of the people.
Later, when the snows came, and our 100-house estate was engulfed, a similar spirit of community engaged many of us in hours of arduous work to clear the way.
Snarling
We thought we may return to being the same snarling neighbours as before, but that hasn't happened; friendly nods of familiarity with previous strangers reveal a sense of shared existence.
Those of us who went to the cup final felt the same thing. After being treated like pieces of meat by all our administrators for so long, this was a demonstration that the power of the people can still thrive.
As the FAI and IRFU and the GAA all indicate that they are going to address ticket prices on an ongoing basis, that glorious November afternoon may have represented a turning point in Irish sport, which can't afford to take its supporters -- please don't call them customers or clients -- for granted. Especially the younger generations.
By vacating Lansdowne Road in such vast numbers, a potent point had been made. The FAI Cup final demonstrated that our passion for sport remains undimmed. As a nation, we have little else left, whether you're from Seapoint RFC, Naomh Conaill GAA club or Sligo Rovers.
The value of sport may be inestimable because it affects so many of us so deeply. Sadly, in recent times too many people have put an exorbitant price on sport. Hopefully, 2011 will correct the mistakes of 2010.
Because without the people, there would be no sport. Pity it took an economic tsunami to remember it.
- David kelly
Tears streaming down my face reading this, magic stuff
Wonderfully versatile writer is David KLelly. Thought he was predominantly a rugby man but there you go.
i hate advocating journalists but i thought it sums up a lot of what is wrong with english fooball
Lions owned by reptiles
By Eamonn Sweeney
Sunday January 23 2011
Ponder the deeds of Gianfranco Zola. The gravity-defying spin and finish against Wimbledon in the 1997 FA Cup semi-final, the blistering drive which won Chelsea the Cup-Winners Cup decider against Stuttgart the following year and the amazing backheeled goal against Norwich City in 2002 are on the personal highlight reel of any soccer fan who admires the combination of audacious conception and precise execution.
Yet Zola's attractiveness doesn't just derive from his extraordinary talent. Modest about his achievements, magnanimous in victory and philosophical in defeat, he always came across as a most decent character. That's why it was a pity to see his obvious discomfort last year as he was first undermined and then fired by David Sullivan.
Ponder the deeds of the aforementioned David Sullivan. He began his business career by selling photocopied sheets of pornographic pictures and swiftly moved on to the publication of hardcore porn magazines and the production of sex films, some of which starred his then girlfriend, Mary Millington, who committed suicide at the age of 33. Sullivan has served jail time for living off immoral earnings and at one stage was responsible for over half the sales in the English adult magazine market.
I don't think it's fair to describe anyone as a loathsome person. But it's fair to say that Sullivan made his money in a loathsome manner. And anyone deluded enough to claim that the porn business is a decent, harmless industry should ask themselves the following question: would you like your mother or daughter to work in it? Because if you wouldn't, you're not entitled to think that it's OK for other people's mothers and daughters to do so.
Yet such is the topsy-turvy logic of professional football that a man like David Sullivan, and his associate David Gold whose money was made in a similar manner, can humiliate a man like Gianfranco Zola. And now they're behaving in the same manner with Avram Grant, another decent football man being traduced by this fine upstanding pair. Left playing gooseberry as The Two Daves cast lustful glances at Martin O'Neill, Grant is a dead man walking.
One of the more lamentable contemporary notions is that a pig with money is a pig who must be respected. This isn't unique to the world of professional football. If Sullivan was in this country, he'd probably be playing golf with the Taoiseach and columnists would be pointing out his critics had no right to complain given that they hadn't actually created any jobs in the sex trade themselves. But there is something immensely sad about seeing a club which was once a by-word for skill, sportsmanship and sophistication being run by the kind of character most of us wouldn't let into the house.
Then again, The ****'s Friend is not the only questionable character who owns a Premier League club. In fact, he might be entitled to claim that he's in the ha'penny place as regards moral turpitude compared to Thaksin Shinawatra, who as Prime Minister of Thailand began a 'war on drugs' which led to over 2,000 deaths. An investigation later suggested that over half of those killed had nothing to do with the drug trade at all. Shinawatra was welcomed with open arms when he took over Manchester City in 2007 before selling it to the Abu Dhabi Group. Portsmouth were owned for a spell by Arcadi Gaydamak, a convicted gun runner recently indicted on charges of money-laundering in his native Israel.
And then there's Roman Abramovich, sued for billions by a Russian company which claims it was cheated out of its assets, once investigated in connection with the theft of millions of roubles worth of government property and sued over an allegedly unpaid loan by the European Bank for Reconstruction and Development. And, it must be pointed out, never found guilty of any charge.
Perhaps we shouldn't worry about all this and just get on with enjoying the football. (Though I will say that the day Sligo Rovers announce the club's purchase by the FitzPatrick, Drumm and Fingleton consortium is the day I'll hang up my red and white scarf.)
And maybe the porn trade is actually a perfect training ground for the aspirant football club supremo, given that both of them involve the employment of youngsters with negligible educational qualifications to provide entertainment for a mass audience. Though anyone who's seen The Two Escobars, a recent movie about the connections between Colombian football and the drug trade in that country during the 1980s and '90s which is probably the finest sports documentary ever made, will have seen how giving sleaze a free pass can eventually lead to the game being destroyed.
The fact that Sullivan was arrested on suspicion of fraud and false accounting at Birmingham City, before being cleared, does make you think. And so does his behaviour not only towards Zola and Avram Grant but towards Steve Bruce who he blamed for Birmingham's problems on the pitch long after the current Sunderland boss had departed St Andrew's. A certain style of behaviour seems to have persisted even after Sullivan swapped one field of endeavour for another.
Bruce is another credit to the game, a warrior on the field who has been patient and brave during some difficult times as a manager and is now reaping the benefits as boss of the much improved Mackems.
In fact, for all the tabloid coverage of their personal peccadilloes, most top professional footballers deserve our respect for the talent which sees them thrive in this peculiarly demanding profession. Yet seeing the calibre of people who oversee their destiny, I'm reminded of the old phrase about British soldiers in the First World War being 'Lions led by donkeys.' Footballers, by contrast, are 'Lions owned by reptiles.'
It could be that the plight of the modern Premier League fan, made to pay through the nose for tickets, replica jerseys, food and drink also has something to do with the kind of people who run football these days.
Because, back in the days when he was photocopying his first skin pics, young David Sullivan would never have suspected that he'd end up in a line of work which differs from pornography in one crucially important respect.
In professional football, you get to screw the audience.
backpage@independent.ie
- Eamonn Sweeney
Lions owned by reptiles
By Eamonn Sweeney
Sunday January 23 2011
Ponder the deeds of Gianfranco Zola. The gravity-defying spin and finish against Wimbledon in the 1997 FA Cup semi-final, the blistering drive which won Chelsea the Cup-Winners Cup decider against Stuttgart the following year and the amazing backheeled goal against Norwich City in 2002 are on the personal highlight reel of any soccer fan who admires the combination of audacious conception and precise execution.
Yet Zola's attractiveness doesn't just derive from his extraordinary talent. Modest about his achievements, magnanimous in victory and philosophical in defeat, he always came across as a most decent character. That's why it was a pity to see his obvious discomfort last year as he was first undermined and then fired by David Sullivan.
Ponder the deeds of the aforementioned David Sullivan. He began his business career by selling photocopied sheets of pornographic pictures and swiftly moved on to the publication of hardcore porn magazines and the production of sex films, some of which starred his then girlfriend, Mary Millington, who committed suicide at the age of 33. Sullivan has served jail time for living off immoral earnings and at one stage was responsible for over half the sales in the English adult magazine market.
I don't think it's fair to describe anyone as a loathsome person. But it's fair to say that Sullivan made his money in a loathsome manner. And anyone deluded enough to claim that the porn business is a decent, harmless industry should ask themselves the following question: would you like your mother or daughter to work in it? Because if you wouldn't, you're not entitled to think that it's OK for other people's mothers and daughters to do so.
Yet such is the topsy-turvy logic of professional football that a man like David Sullivan, and his associate David Gold whose money was made in a similar manner, can humiliate a man like Gianfranco Zola. And now they're behaving in the same manner with Avram Grant, another decent football man being traduced by this fine upstanding pair. Left playing gooseberry as The Two Daves cast lustful glances at Martin O'Neill, Grant is a dead man walking.
One of the more lamentable contemporary notions is that a pig with money is a pig who must be respected. This isn't unique to the world of professional football. If Sullivan was in this country, he'd probably be playing golf with the Taoiseach and columnists would be pointing out his critics had no right to complain given that they hadn't actually created any jobs in the sex trade themselves. But there is something immensely sad about seeing a club which was once a by-word for skill, sportsmanship and sophistication being run by the kind of character most of us wouldn't let into the house.
Then again, The ****'s Friend is not the only questionable character who owns a Premier League club. In fact, he might be entitled to claim that he's in the ha'penny place as regards moral turpitude compared to Thaksin Shinawatra, who as Prime Minister of Thailand began a 'war on drugs' which led to over 2,000 deaths. An investigation later suggested that over half of those killed had nothing to do with the drug trade at all. Shinawatra was welcomed with open arms when he took over Manchester City in 2007 before selling it to the Abu Dhabi Group. Portsmouth were owned for a spell by Arcadi Gaydamak, a convicted gun runner recently indicted on charges of money-laundering in his native Israel.
And then there's Roman Abramovich, sued for billions by a Russian company which claims it was cheated out of its assets, once investigated in connection with the theft of millions of roubles worth of government property and sued over an allegedly unpaid loan by the European Bank for Reconstruction and Development. And, it must be pointed out, never found guilty of any charge.
Perhaps we shouldn't worry about all this and just get on with enjoying the football. (Though I will say that the day Sligo Rovers announce the club's purchase by the FitzPatrick, Drumm and Fingleton consortium is the day I'll hang up my red and white scarf.)
And maybe the porn trade is actually a perfect training ground for the aspirant football club supremo, given that both of them involve the employment of youngsters with negligible educational qualifications to provide entertainment for a mass audience. Though anyone who's seen The Two Escobars, a recent movie about the connections between Colombian football and the drug trade in that country during the 1980s and '90s which is probably the finest sports documentary ever made, will have seen how giving sleaze a free pass can eventually lead to the game being destroyed.
The fact that Sullivan was arrested on suspicion of fraud and false accounting at Birmingham City, before being cleared, does make you think. And so does his behaviour not only towards Zola and Avram Grant but towards Steve Bruce who he blamed for Birmingham's problems on the pitch long after the current Sunderland boss had departed St Andrew's. A certain style of behaviour seems to have persisted even after Sullivan swapped one field of endeavour for another.
Bruce is another credit to the game, a warrior on the field who has been patient and brave during some difficult times as a manager and is now reaping the benefits as boss of the much improved Mackems.
In fact, for all the tabloid coverage of their personal peccadilloes, most top professional footballers deserve our respect for the talent which sees them thrive in this peculiarly demanding profession. Yet seeing the calibre of people who oversee their destiny, I'm reminded of the old phrase about British soldiers in the First World War being 'Lions led by donkeys.' Footballers, by contrast, are 'Lions owned by reptiles.'
It could be that the plight of the modern Premier League fan, made to pay through the nose for tickets, replica jerseys, food and drink also has something to do with the kind of people who run football these days.
Because, back in the days when he was photocopying his first skin pics, young David Sullivan would never have suspected that he'd end up in a line of work which differs from pornography in one crucially important respect.
In professional football, you get to screw the audience.
backpage@independent.ie
- Eamonn Sweeney
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