LOCKERROOM: Heineken Cup? Won't catch on. Leeds? Too good for the drop (s). Jimmy White? His time will come. My sure things

THINGS THAT we have been wrong about. A list covering a fraction of the errors and howlers which have been a feature of our chosen vocation:

Only great players would ever wear boots that weren’t black in colour.

Leeds would always be too good to drop out of the top flight.

1995 marked the beginning of a new golden era for Dublin football.

The achievements of Notah Begay III would exceed those of Tiger Woods. On the course that is.

The Heineken Cup would never catch on.

Writing over and over again that Spain will always be the “dark horses” of the World Cup. Talk about flogging a dead cliché.

Allowing myself to be persuaded to take a financial interest in Leinster winning last year’s Heineken Cup.

Assuming Irish sports journalism would be as in the New York of 80 or 90 years ago, scribes wandering into the smoky equivalent of Toots Shors, men in hats slipping whispered shards of good gossip, agents and athletes begging the favour of a mention. Instead it’s trying to get hold of fellas who have piseogs about answering their phones. I’ve been on hold longer than a Chilean miner. And then there’s chat rooms and bloggers.

All bets on horses, dark or otherwise, I have been involved in.

Assuming probability theory and queuing theory meant at some stage before penury the law of averages would kick in.

Believing Leinster wouldn’t be spiteful enough to lose the Heineken Cup just because of Error 5 (above).

Crepe paper hats were timeless fashion items.

Bringing the kids to the afternoon of decadence, depravity and debauchery which is the Kentucky Derby.

Swallowing the lie that 40 is the new 30 when it comes to sport.

Having a good laugh in print at the game of darts and the fashion sense of some otherwise nice and normal men who were playing said game in the Hazel Hotel in Monasterevin. Leaving my bag in the Hazel Hotel in Monasterevin. Having to meet one of the nice men to get my bag back from him after the column appeared in the paper.

Thinking I looked good in cycling shorts.

Telling people Liverpool FC are like the Bank of England. And not Anglo Irish.

Not pursuing a career as a cage fighter.

Believing Alberto Contador would save professional cycling.

Agreeing to meet Tony McCoy for breakfast in Belfast once. Hard to eat the full Ulster while looking at a wraith nibbling a dry piece of toast.

Announcing I had seen the future and its name was Stephen McPhail.

Grumbling about being sent to the Winter Olympics. Best gig ever.

Mistaking Brendan Foley for the late Moss Keane at a charity rugby match and describing a thunderous meeting of the flesh between Foley and Gareth Chilcott as the mother of all belly bumps (or words to that effect) which we had come to see, Moss v Chilcott Oooooh. Moss Keane was sitting behind me in the stand at the time.

The Sunday Business Post boosted my fledgling freelance career by highlighting the incident as the Mother of All Howlers. In fairness, it did little to slow down my rise to the top of the rugby writing crop here in Irish Times Castle.

Thinking that no top GAA player would have the courage to come of out the closet.

Thinking no top former Taoiseach would have the courage to get into the closet.

Not smelling a rat when the former All Black rugby player John Gallagher chucklingly offered to pick me up at Leeds Bradford airport in his new sponsor’s car when I was going to interview him after his switch to rugby league. The sponsor’s car was a Lada and in fairness, a jockey would have had trouble getting into it. I ended up wearing the Lada as a belt. Enough said.

Thinking hitching to matches down the country was compatible with a reputation for reliability as a freelance.

Assuming I couldn’t be successfully sued for a column which neither mentioned or referenced the successful litigant. Grrrr.

Confidently announcing after my first visit to Páirc Uí Chaoimh as a young fella its “space age” design was the future of stadium architecture everywhere.

Believing that people would get tired of Sky Super Sundays and all the other manufactured excitements and would want to get back to something more authentic like playing or coaching or refereeing or giving lifts or being on committees. Anything.

That Andre Agassi’s autobiography would be a waste of time.

Leeds would always too good to drop out of the second flight.

Telling everybody the Rugby World Cup would also be a waste of time as the All Blacks would win it every year.

Forgetting I was in possession of a cell phone while at the World Matchplay championship in San Diego once. Thus letting the thing ring on and on and on as Pádraig Harrington looked over at me and I looked back at Pádraig Harrington shaking my head and rolling my eyes at the ignorance of the culprit.

All past financial investments in “this being Jimmy White’s year”.

Applauding the end of fences in Croke Park.

Thinking Muhammad Ali was going to turn up for an interview with me in London in 1990. Seven hopeful days later and empty tape recorder . . . Twenty hopeful years later still hoping for a little note.

Turning Katrin Krabbe away. Repeatedly.

Thinking columns in the winter would be more thoughtful and substantial than columns in the summer which tend to revolve around live stuff.

Shallow is as shallow does.