Not such a long way to Tipperary, research reveals
Who do you watch, or what do you watch on YouTube? For the longest time it was for me a way of listening to new music, in the early days of my very short career as a drummer I would laboriously download the clip onto my computer, lug that all into the playroom, attach a not quite long enough headphone lead and then play along until one of my sisters interrupted the session. Personally, I think 12.30 am is an ideal time to start practicing kit.
Habits change and technology adapts, and with the turn of another season, another use for Youtube appears. Christy Moore talks with a wistful fondness about when in order to learn a new song, he had to physically go and listen to a fella play it. Either scribbling down lyrics mid-tune or asking the singer afterward, the first part of the process remained the same. The modern-day Moore whoever that might be, can hop about the Tube, and learn about the revolutionary feats of Victor Jara, about how far above or below 90 the craic might be on a particular island, or discover from the comfort of their own laptop what exactly does the Biko Drum sound like. Not a mile is put on the Datsun, and the technology will even write the songs down for you.
Following my father round Ireland at different sporting occasions put us in contact with a kaleidoscope of characters, and getting into changing rooms or watching games, I always kept a note whether mental or otherwise, of who we were following. By a stroke of fortune for me, fortune that would pay dividends more in the years to follow, was Daddy’s friendship with Michael ‘Babs’ Keating. The men I will name in the next few paragraphs would be better referred to with the prefix ‘The Great’ as that crop of players in Tipperary that Babs managed would compare well with the like of Fergie’s Fledglings, both in terms of on field achievement, and managerial candidates who were formed in the Tipp Academy.
I had the youthful fortune of behind the ropes access that I could not fully appreciate until my later years. Ironically it’s the sort of opportunity say, getting on a team bus to collect autographs that isn’t afforded to those who can appreciate it. A bit like a baseball caught by an adult in the stands, he’s probably never done it before, would truly cherish the memento, but nevertheless is honour bound to hand it over to the eight year old snapping at his wrists who will probably throw it out the car window before he gets home. The apple of my eye as that eight year old waif was Nicky English. ‘The Great’ Nicky English. After a disheartening loss to Galway Dad consoled Babs while I climbed onto the coach and knew exactly what I had to do. I disregarded completely Pat Fox, Declan Ryan, Ken Hogan, straight to the man at the back left corner of the bus, with a horrible cut above his eye, roughly stitched together with a dark black line of cat gut. Again with the advantage of hindsight, experience and the reading of his memoir, I would learn that defeat combined with the crippling combination of injuries he suffered, pitched him into a dark gloomy depressive daydream to whether he had played his last game for the Premier County. And here was this little twerp with a runny nose in a blue anorak and a rain soaked programme looking for an autograph. Knowing what I know now, had I been able to express what that scribble in black permanent ink meant to me, perhaps it might have lightened his dark mood.
Nicky’s eye and hamstring were healed, and that squad had a few more days in the sun before the next generation came in. Even at that age, I was always fascinated with watching training sessions. I always found them far more interesting. There was a bit more opportunity for hoking about for a bit of free gear to take home, less security from team personnel on the balls, but it was more about exposing the architecture of the team, how it lived, breathed, hurt together. I wouldn’t pay money for a Premier League ticket, but I would shell out £50 no bother to watch a good team train, see what facilities they use, and see how those stars react to the daily grind of training.
As with Alex Ferguson’s graduates, Babs’ babes went on to great things, and few monikers in Irish sport have the brand appeal of ‘Tipperary Hurling Coach’. Perhaps Kerry ‘Football Coach’ or ‘Martin O’Neill’s assistant’. It is instant gravitas, and doubly so when that person with the whistle appears in Ulster. When I met Babs at our own club dinner a few years back, I asked him what player of his he most admired, including the suggestive ‘it must have been Nicky’. He shook his head, and instead extolled the virtues of Declan Ryan. The complete player, mastered every skill, had wonderful presence and I suppose importantly for a manager, had it for a lot longer. A new season beckons again, its technology to the rescue and the car stays in the drive. Youtube searches in January for me and I’m sure for a lot more managers and coaches of all sports are about finding new ideas and games to use in the upcoming season. I was actually sort of amazed about how much Counties put up online, that they might not be a bit more protective with Tyrone playing friendly matches behind closed doors, and great secrecy about training regimes for squads and players.
Listening to Anthony Daly at the Croke Park conference three weekends ago, he encouraged all there to go and watch Dublin train under the whistle of wouldn’t you know it, Tommy Dunne, a Tipperary Hurling Coach. The way he put it was, “throughout my time when Tommy was doing the sessions, the gates were never locked.” To me minority sports do seem to have a more encouraging and welcoming atmosphere, something I have certainly experienced since starting up playing handball after a long hiatus. Sean Digney, a top class player from the Saval club took an evening out to coach our raggle-taggle squad, the pleasure of knowing a few more lads were playing the sport he loves, was reward enough. This all despite the fact that we would be playing lads from his own club in a few weeks.
Another Tipperary coach is one to whom hurling aficionados all around the Country owe a debt of gratitude, particularly those of us in cantons of the Big Ball. He lacks the media profile of a Liam Sheedy or a Jamesy O’Connor, but show me a man more passionate about spreading the game of hurling around Ireland than Paudie Butler, and I’ll show you my trophy for winning the Slam Dunk Contest. We sent a few lads from our club to a course Paudie was running and they came back literally fizzing with enthusiasm. Listening to him and watching him work is like taking some sort of coaching steroid, it energises you, inspires you and makes you want you want to suddenly change everything you have been doing and go ‘right, this is the way we have to do it now’. Paudie had been at an event in Dublin the day previous and was going to Wicklow that evening. On the day of the next course he was coming back from Belfast. No longer in his Croke Park sanctioned role, Paudie now roams the Island, like a wild heretic, St Patrick-like, preaching the gospel to all who will listen and gathering followers by the hundred. Father, Son and jab lift.
No matter about technology, the impact of watching Paudie cannot be transmitted through a screen. It has to be heard and felt. Perhaps it’s the same for a musician seeing Simon Wragg take control of the Philarmonic, or a golfer listen to Tom Watson boil all the nonsense ever spouted about the golf swing into one simple lesson. The brilliant teachers can do, and they teach. And they are worth going to see. In this case, the Datsun needs a spin out. Watch out for one with a Tipperary reg.
