Let's be honest, the bulk of those of us who inhabit this island baulk at the merest hint of self-confidence, self-assurance, poise and swaggering semi-cockiness in our average sports star (or anyone else for that matter). It's a condition that comes naturally. It's not really our fault; history and God above ordained that we be that way, and there's probably damn all we can do about it. But, even if we could, we'd resist the temptation; we're Irish, after all, and "bring 'em down to size" is our national motto.
On the whole we'd like our mega sports stars to apologise for their existence or, at the very least, insist, vehemently, that they're not really all that brilliant. If they do we'll love them and tell the world that they are really very brilliant. If they don't, we'll feel terribly uncomfortable in their presence and tell the world that they're chancers. In short, we'll disown the arrogant, know-it-all bighead who had the neck to tell us that: "Yeah, I'm fairly confident about the race, training has been going well and I'm hopeful of winning a medal." Huh, did you ever hear the like? Smug, haughty, fartoo-big-for-their-boots, self-aggrandising low-life, bringing shame on our modest, humble, unassuming, Riverdancing nation.
Example? Well, remember Eamonn Coghlan in the 1983 World Championships? He won gold. A stupendous, rousing, magnificent gold. But: remember when he was over-taking the Russian Dmitry Dmitriev in the run-in and he turned to him, grinning as he sprinted by? Well, in my living-room that was it: Coghlan was an interloper, as Irish as Vasco de Gama, unwanted and renounced by the country of his birth, reviled and loathed as much as John Denver. For years after, Dmitry was my sporting hero, and if I'd had his address I would have written to him to apologise for Eamonn. The letter would have gone something like this: "Dear Dmitry, Forgive Eamonn for he knows not what he does (and he isn't really one of us - he spent time in America, you know, and it clearly turned his head)." True, Coghlan was frazzled with emotion at the time, having come fourth in two Olympics and having suffered painful personal loss that year. He wasn't actually snarling and grinning at Dmitriev, he was looking misfortune in the eye and laughing at its efforts to dampen his spirit. When he raised his fists in triumph as he celebrated down the home straight, he wasn't laughing at Dmitry (who, if memory serves right, finished fourth), he was joyously celebrating the triumph of his courage and will. Still, he was Irish and he had no right to be carrying on like that.
Paul McGrath? Now, we're talking 110 per cent unassuming Irish legend. I had the good fortune to attend His (genuflect please) testimonial at Lansdowne Road a couple of years back and his press conference after the game.
"You're the most popular player ever to play for Ireland. Have you any explanation for that yourself," asked one journalist. McGrath very nearly looked behind him on hearing the question, paused and said, "Who, me?" Mick McCarthy had to intervene at this point, saying "probably because he was the best". McGrath shuffled in his seat and looked desperately uncomfortable. "No, I wouldn't have said that," he said. "I think a lot of people see some of the flaws that I have in themselves, and stuff like that. I keep getting forgiven for certain things that I do, probably too often. I think that's what it is, because I certainly don't see myself as being the best Irish player. Liam Brady, Ronnie Whelan, Johnny Giles . . . I think they'd be a bit insulted if you started claiming things like that." Aaah, that's why we loved him (and still do). True, that he was so damn good on a football field helped, but that he was apparently so oblivious to the fact that he was so damn good on a football field helped even more. You had to remind Paul McGrath that he was a living legend because he wouldn't have had an earthly otherwise. He genuinely didn't understand the fuss.
And they're the ones we love most. Jimmy Barry-Murphy? Now, there's another one. Most of us who are ever-so-slightly over 21 and who realise that sport is infinitely more important than life itself will have grown up watching JBM and swooning at his every gorgeous move on the hurling and football field. This week, on the occasion of his retirement as Cork hurling manager, I asked two GAA reporters what was he like, and simultaneously they said "a pet", before launching into a tribute to the man for his modesty, decency, kindness and all-round courtesy. By then they hadn't even touched on his sporting brilliance, just his personality.
That's the thing, though: these people never seem to realise what effect they have on people's lives, how they provide us with the fondest of memories and the happiest of times, moments we build our lives around and discuss forever with our friends.
This week one of these people, former Irish hockey international Jacqui Potter, died at the age of just 37. She was a god to schoolgirls who followed her path into the sport, but she was uncomfortable with the status. She always had the kindest of words and offered every ounce of encouragement she could muster to children starting out in the game and was loved for it. Jacqui like Paul McGrath and Jimmy Barry-Murphy to this day, earned her sport's affection not just for her unrivalled skills on the sporting field but also for her truly delightful inability to understand what all the fuss was about. And when you tell these people that's mainly why they are adored so much, they look at you blankly because they just don't get it. And that, of course, is part of their charm.
